Slip of the Tongue Read online

  SLIP OF THE TONGUE

  JESSICA HAWKINS

  Sadie Hunt isn’t perfect—but her husband is. Nathan Hunt has her coffee waiting every morning. He holds her hand until the last second. He worships the Manhattan sidewalk she walks on. Until one day, he just . . . stops. And Sadie finds herself in the last place she ever expected to be. Lonely in her marriage.

  When rugged and sexy Finn Cohen moves into the apartment across the hall, he and Sadie share an immediate spark. Finn reveals dreams for a different life. Sadie wants to save her marriage. Their secrets should keep them apart, not ignite a blistering affair. But while Sadie’s marriage runs colder by the day, she and Finn burn hotter.

  Her husband doesn’t want her anymore. The man next door would give up everything to have her.

  * * * * *

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  © 2016 Jessica Hawkins

  www.jessicahawkins.net

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  Copyright info.

  Editing by Elizabeth London Editing

  Proofreading/2nd edit by Underline This Editing

  Cover Design © OkayCreations.

  Cover Photo © Tyler Seielstad Photography

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  Fourteen

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  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

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  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

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  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Mailing List

  Acknowledgments

  Titles by Jessica Hawkins

  Audiobooks

  Come Undone – Chapter One

  About the Author

  Connect with Jessica Hawkins

  Copyright

  ONE

  The man who just stepped out of 6A doesn’t notice me staring. He shakes out his honeyed-brown hair like a boy after a bath and wipes his temple with his sleeve. He rolls his neck. Watching him, I feel like an intruder in my own apartment building.

  It’s the jingle of Ginger’s dog tags that makes him look over. He tilts his head, studying me. “Hello again.”

  I squint. The sixth floor has never been well lit. Warm light bathes the beige walls and a carpet the color of dead leaves. I let Ginger pull me down and across the hall. She wants to smell this new person, and I want a better look. When we make eye contact, my heartbeat snags as it might for a new lover. Because he isn’t familiar. I don’t know him. “Sorry, have we met?” I ask.

  He doesn’t respond, as if he’s waiting for me to go on, but it’s a pretty straightforward question. I’m not sure where to look—his soulful green eyes, or a bottom lip that sticks out like his default expression is a pout. He licks it with an easy smile and once again, I’m staring. “I must’ve mistaken you for another neighbor,” he says. “Just moved in yesterday. You’re 6B?” He points to his chest. “6A.”

  I stick my coffee thermos under my arm and shake his paw of a hand. He then ruffles Ginger’s polished-penny red fur but watches me. And I forget that just moments ago, I was sad. Lonely. Confused. Now, I’m still a little confused, but not in the way that makes my brain and chest hurt.

  “Welcome to the building.” Since I’m already behind schedule thanks to this unplanned dog walk, I tug the leash. “Let’s go, Ginger.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” he says as I continue to the elevator, “can you point me in the direction of a good breakfast spot? Something hearty.”

  I glance back. His back is arched, his large hand spread over his stomach. The corner of his mouth is quirked. He’s kind of a hunk, and I think he knows it. I contain my smile, even when I realize it’s my first genuine one in days. “There’s a diner on the corner.” I begin to sweat, my hands in my gloves, my neck under my scarf. I hadn’t planned to be indoors this long. His expression is eager, though, like he’s asking an old friend for help. “Don’t be scared off by the smell. It’s good.”

  “Which corner?”

  “Lexington.” Ginger whines. I shouldn’t even be standing here. I’m verging on late for work. Suddenly, though, that seems less important than welcoming a new neighbor. “We’re headed downstairs. I’ll show you.”

  “That’d be great.” He heads past me down the hall to get to the elevator first, where he pushes the button. Ginger and I catch up as it arrives, and he holds the door open for us. The space feels small with him in it. He’s big, one of those guys who could jump and knock his head on the ceiling of the subway. One of those guys who can make the whole city feel small.

  He glances up at the digital numbers, his hands stuck in the pockets of his hoodie.

  “Won’t you be cold?” I ask, eyeing the thin material.

  “Nah. My heater’s busted. It won’t turn off. It has to be over eighty degrees in my apartment.”

  I had the opposite problem when I moved in. It shouldn’t make me smile to remember that, but trying to stay warm can be fun when it involves a ridiculous amount of cozy blankets and endless, stovetop hot chocolate.

  “I can deal with the cold,” he continues, then groans, “the heat, though—Jesus. I could not sleep. I’ve been up for hours, moving boxes around the apartment. Finally, I had to come out for fresh air. You can only remove so much clothing, you know?”

  Heat creeps up my chest. I scold myself. So what if he’s naked in his own apartment? I try to think of a witty response to cover the fact that I’m blushing, but I come up short. I sip my coffee instead. We exit the elevator with his last comment hanging between us.

  “So, these are the mailboxes,” I say with flourish, breaking the silence, as we cross the small lobby. “Yours is next to mine.”

  He smiles politely and gets the door. We’re blasted by cold air. I try to pull my collar up around my neck, but my hands are full.

  “Need some help?” he offers.

  I give him Ginger’s leash and my thermos so I can bundle deeper into my coat. “The diner’s to the right,” I tell him. “I’m going that way too.”

  He gives me back the coffee but takes Ginger down the sidewalk as if she were his own.

  Despite the cold, the sun is shining. I get a better look at him. He has a five o’clock, butter-blond shadow at seven o’clock in the morning. It’s a shade lighter than his coppery lips and shows off his high cheekbones. His is the kind of face you’d see in a movie. One I might’ve gone to as a teenager just because he was on the poster.

  “Shit,” he states.

  Because I’m paying attention to him and not where I’m going, it takes me a moment to understand. Literally—shit. I hop sideways just in time, narrowly avoiding a pile of dog poop. “Ugh.”

  He grins. “Mondays.”

  “Lazy assholes is more like it.”

  “Spoken like a true city girl.” He smiles bigger. “Have you lived in the building long?”

  “Four years yesterday.” We stop so Ginger can pee on her usual tree. �
�But I went to NYU. I’ve lived on the east side for over ten years.”

  “So you hate it here.”

  I laugh, and God, does it feel good. My dry cheeks crack like they’re made of concrete and I’ve hit them with a hammer. We continue walking, Ginger looking back at us every few seconds, as if we might disappear on her. My mood has lifted. Sometimes, in this city, talking to strangers is a burden. They want something—directions, money, time. I’m glad I stopped for my new neighbor, though. He’s chasing off the dark clouds that’ve been hanging around lately.

  But then, he stops abruptly and groans. I get the sudden, intense feeling this walk is over. “I left my wallet in the apartment. Think they’ll let me open a tab?”

  “Not a chance.” We’re a few feet from the crosswalk, and I nod across the street. “There’s the diner.”

  “Okay.” He wipes his nose on his sleeve. Mine is also running a little despite the fact that the walk has warmed me up. I don’t believe he isn’t the slightest bit cold. “I better run back. I’m about to eat my hand.”

  I don’t have to think twice. He’s helped me out just by making me feel better, and I want to return the favor. “I’ll spot you,” I say, digging in my pocket for cash. I keep forty bucks in my coat in case of dog-walking emergencies. Since I can hear his stomach grumbling from here, I give him both twenties. “Get the hash browns. Trust me.”

  He takes the money. “You’re an angel. I’ll pay you back.”

  “No problem.” I nod at Ginger, who pants, giving us her signature Golden-Retriever smile. “Consider it a thanks for your services.”

  “For a ten-minute walk? Expensive pooch.” He hands me back the leash, then adds, “Unless you want to join me? My treat,” he teases.

  I’m surprised by his invitation but even more so that I’m disappointed to turn it down. Hash browns and good company sound like a great way to spend the morning. “I should get to work,” I say with some reluctance. “Not everyone can make rent walking dogs.”

  “Good point.” He grins. The walk signal begins to count down. Last chance to change my mind and play hooky from work. He holds up the money. “Thanks again.”

  He jogs across the street toward the restaurant. I wonder what his name is. And why he isn’t also on his way to work on a Monday morning.

  Except for him, the view from this corner is familiar. I’ve stood here more times than I can count. Ginger pulls on her leash. She knows this is where we turn back for the apartment. The sun is still out, but clouds edge the city. Alone again, any humor in my morning dissipates. My mood creeps back down to where it was earlier—where it’s been for months.

  TWO

  After work, I shower longer than necessary. Some days, working PR in New York City leaves a layer of grime on my skin. And the hot water just feels good. I could stand here all night. I don’t really have anything else to do. It’s already been dark an hour, and the apartment is cold. Eventually, I reach one arm beyond the shower curtain and take a handful of terrycloth. Getting out is like pulling off a Band-Aid, same as always this time of year. In studied form, I turn off the faucet and have a towel around myself the next second.

  I’m at the bathroom counter, getting out my blow dryer when Ginger barks. She doesn’t stop, so I head to the door, tying the sash of my worth-every-penny cashmere robe. It takes me a moment to figure out I’m looking at my new neighbor through the peephole. The hallway seems to shine a spotlight right on him.

  “Is this a bad time?” he asks when I open the door.

  I’m not much warmer, and my hair is wet. My nipples whisper against the inside of my robe like a secret. “For what?”

  “So, apparently you have curly hair,” he says, ignoring my question, letting his eyes wander over me. “It’s like I don’t even know you.”

  I hesitate, and then let my smile happen. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve his teasing, but I think I like it. “I wear it straight most of the time.”

  “Aha. A rare glimpse of the elegant 6B in her natural form,” he says. “Lucky me.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or blush. For a charged moment, it’s as if we’re both going to speak, but neither of us does.

  “Sorry,” he says first. “I shouldn’t have said that. I read too much National Geographic.”

  I wave a hand. “No—it was funny.”

  “I’m just trying to say I like it curly—I mean, it was nice earlier too, when you had it straight. So, just in general, it’s . . . nice.” He scratches his jaw. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here.” He produces two twenty-dollar bills from his pocket. “You saved me this morning.”

  I thank him and stick the money in my robe. “How was it?”

  “Words can’t describe.”

  “What’d you have?”

  “All the breakfast,” he says.

  “Did you get the hash browns like I said?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “I’m not exaggerating. I ordered every breakfast item they had.”

  I gape at him. “Seriously?”

  “Toast, oatmeal, fruit, orange juice . . .” He pats his stomach. “And while it was mostly good, I can now definitively say, hash browns are the best thing on the menu. Dipped in egg yolk—”

  I bounce on the balls of my feet. “I do the same thing.”

  “You’re a sunny-side-up girl?” he asks.

  I nod. “If I wanted my eggs scrambled, I’d go to a tanning booth.”

  He has the decency to laugh at my obscure joke before his expression turns serious. “Don’t even get me started on over easy.”

  “Never trust anyone who orders their eggs over easy.”

  This time, we both laugh. Ginger’s tags clink as she sticks her nose between us. Water drips from my hair. “Do you want to come in? I’m about to start dinner.”

  It’s not entirely true. Monday nights, I usually raid the freezer or heat up leftovers from the weekend. Cooking for myself feels decadent, but tonight, I’m not cooking for myself. My neighbor is here.

  He glances down the hallway, toward his apartment, and sticks his hands in his pockets. “I, ah . . . I really shouldn’t,” he says. “I still have a lot of unpacking to do.”

  “Oh. All right.” I try not to let the sting of his rejection show on my face. I barely know him. Surely, he has friends of his own to eat dinner with. I pull Ginger out of the doorway by her collar. “Okay, then. Thanks for paying me back so fast.”

  He smiles. “Sure.”

  I shut the door and return to the bathroom, but I only dry my hair until it’s no longer dripping. It’s been a while since I wore it curly. It’ll be a nice change. I mentally list what’s saved on the DVR. Even though I watch plenty of TV, there’s a lot to choose from. I should probably find a hobby of my own, but sometimes, nothing beats staying in. Especially on a cold Monday night.

  Once I’m in my sweats, I pour myself a glass of red wine and open the fridge. I could make something nutritious, but now all I can think of is breakfast food. Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Sunny-side-up eggs. Hash browns. I wonder gleefully about the look on my favorite waitress’s face when the man across the hall ordered everything on the menu.

  Ginger perks up from where she’s lying in the middle of the kitchen floor. A second later, there’s another knock at the door. She barks once and leaves the room.

  I react the same way. Straighten up. Get wary. I don’t know the neighbors very well. At thirty-one, everyone on this floor is nearly twice my age anyway. We say hello, and that’s it. It’s intentional.

  Except for this man, who’s on my doorstep for the second time in twenty minutes. It’s possible I’ve said more words to him than anyone else in the building. I don’t open up all the way since I’m not wearing a bra. Yes, I decide—he is a hunk. It’s a good word to describe him. “Hello again, 6A.”

  “So,” he says, “I thought it over. I haven’t unpacked the kitchen yet. It’s not really my domain. Plus, my heater is still blowing like I’m made of plastic a
nd it wants to melt me.” He billows his t-shirt, the same one from earlier. He looks ready for summer.

  “Mine’s off,” I warn. “It’s cold in here.”

  He groans. “You might as well be talking dirty to me.”

  I arch an eyebrow and invite him in. “I’m making stir-fry.” I hadn’t planned on it, but there are vegetables in the fridge and leftover Thai ginger chicken from last night. “Are you a vegetarian?”

  “Babe, no.”

  I suppress a smile at his deadpan response. I wouldn’t have believed him if he’d said yes. “I didn’t think so.”

  “Good old-fashioned carnivore here. Hunting, gathering, bring it back to the cave—” He puts one foot in the apartment before he enters, as if the floor is water and he’s testing the temperature.

  “I get the idea.” Ginger’s happy to have him here, but she’d wag her tail for an axe murderer. I close the door behind him.

  “Nice place,” he says when we’re out of the entryway. “Like mine but livable.”

  “Thanks.” I point to the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.” I go into the bedroom, shut the door, and throw on a bra under my sweatshirt.

  When I come out, he’s flipping through Vogue magazine, his long legs spread out in front of him. He wrinkles his forehead. “Some of these outfits . . .”

  “I work in fashion and beauty PR,” I explain. “My clients are on the beauty side—make up, skin cream, that kind of thing—but I have to keep up with the trends.”

  He shuts the magazine and replaces it under the coffee table. “I won’t pretend to understand it.”

  I walk into the kitchen, and he follows. Some of the vegetables in the fridge look questionable. I take out a bag of wilting spinach. He won’t know the difference. “Can I get you some Pinot Noir?”

  “Not much of a wine drinker,” he says from behind me. “I wouldn’t turn down one of those, though.” He points to a six-pack of Sorachi Ace on the shelf.

  I hesitate a second. They don’t belong to me, but I don’t think it matters. I pull one out and hand it to him. “Opener’s in the drawer left of the sink.”