Fic: "Living In the Red" - Chapter 3
DISCLAIMER: "Once Upon a Time" and all its wonderful characters belong to ABC and Adam Horowitz and Edward Kitsis, etc.. I borrow them only with love.
TITLE: Living In the Red
PAIRINGS: Outlaw Queen (AU)
RATING: Mature
SUMMARY: Regina Rossi is an internationally successful fashion designer. She has it all, right? Or maybe she doesn't realize how broken she has become until a stranger appears in the night and flips her world upside down. Outlaw Queen AU.
Major beta gratitude to helenhighwater7 and shinewithalltheuntold.
Massive thanks to MaraKara for research help! Any mistakes remain mine alone. She can only offer me correct information, not assure that I use it correctly.:)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: So sorry for the delay! First I was sick, then a migraine, then a bunch of family stuff happened for which my presence was essential, and I've been trying to claw my way back to my keyboard amid the chaos. I hope the next chapter will come sooner! Fear not, I am completely determined to see this monster through to the end, however long it might take!
LIVING IN THE RED
by
Rowan Darkstar
Copyright (c) 2015
Chapter 3
"Jesus Christ, that's a pretty face
The kind you'd find on someone I could save
If they don't put me away
Well, it'll be a miracle"
--Brand New, 'Jesus Christ'
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK. What the hell is he doing? What the HELL?? What is he thinking asking Regina Rossi to coffee? The Regina Rossi. Asking her out?? What the fuck!? Doesn't she stand for everything he is against? Isn't he putting his safety and future at huge risk? Is he insane?
Well, obviously, he crossed that line when he put his number into her phone.
And why on earth did she say 'yes'? The Queen Bitch of the fashion industry. Arrogance and self-involvement and materialism personified. And when he looked at her on that balcony, shaking and confused and flushed, eyes wide and raw, and she seemed so... human and...reachable...why did he want to put her by a warm fire and wrap her up in a blanket and give her chamomile tea? And then when she was warmer, pry a few of those insanely expensive garments off her ridiculously well-toned and curvaceous body, and run his hands and lips over the shapes and lines of --DAMMIT!! What the fuck? He met her for no more than five minutes. What has happened to his brain?
This past week has brought an unstoppable series of some of the stupidest actions of Robin's entire life. This morning he had awoken with the hope of reconstructing his path, and now here he is continuing down yesterday's misbegotten road.
"Did you plan to knock, or..." The familiar voice nearly startles Robin out of his shoes, and he realizes he has been standing in front of Belle Charron's apartment door for the last several seconds (could it have been minutes?), cell phone still in his hand, but he has yet to knock.
"Belle. Oh, good heavens. Yes, sorry, I...but clearly that wouldn't have done any good, since you weren't home."
"Clearly," Belle offers with an indulgent smile and a light chuckle. She is holding a pair of grocery bags, foot tipped back on her impractically high heel, carefully painted fingernails curled through her apartment keys.
Robin has known Belle for nearly three years. She moved into the apartment below him, fresh off the plane from Melbourne with a student visa and an American boyfriend awaiting her arrival. She has since blossomed into quite the woman, now working part time at the local library while she makes her way through a graduate degree in literature, engaged to that boyfriend, and the short blond bob with which she arrived has transformed into a long mass of dark red curls.
The girl has been a Godsend as far as Robin is concerned, acting as a regular babysitter/part-time Nanny to his son, Roland, from nearly the day she arrived.
Robin reaches out and takes one of the bags from Belle's hand, and she edges past him to unlock her door.
"Did you need something?" Her tone is pleasant enough as she glances over her shoulder. The locks in this building border on ancient, and they often require more sweet-talk and cajoling than simple 'working'.
Robin cringes at her easy words. "I feel as though I should ask after your day, first. Seems I only ever come down here to ask favors of you."
Belle shrugs as she pushes her way into her living room, holding the door open with her back to let Robin pass in front of her. He takes another of the bags from her arms as he passes. "You're a single father, Robin," she says simply. "I think that's a hazard of the role."
"Perhaps." His reply lacks conviction. He sets the bags on the kitchenette counter and turns to face his friend. Her apartment is even smaller than his, but she has given it a good deal of literary charm. Books overflow from packed bookcases and line the walls in neatly constructed stacks on the floor. Comfortable chairs and hand-knit blankets make for a welcoming oasis. Her little dinner table is decorated like it belongs in an elegant French café, and he thinks perhaps these groceries are aimed at cooking a special meal. "Seems unfair all the same," he adds softly.
Belle just slips out of her over-blouse and hangs it from the brass coat tree by the door. "What do you need?" she repeats with a forgiving smile.
Robin lets go a heavy sigh. "I'm afraid I agreed to--well, I asked someone to meet for coffee in about...well, now. Without first assuring I had a plan for Roland. It was all rather spur of the moment. And it's in the Village. And I was just hoping by some random chance..."
Belle wrinkles her nose. "Toss the little bugger my way, he can help me make dinner."
Robin sighs with a strange mix of relief and apology. "Oh, that would be so wonderful, but are you certain?"
"Adam won't be here until six. I'm assuming you plan to be back by then?"
"Yes, yes, it's just coffee. I'll make certain I'm back."
"Then off you go." She flicks a hand in the air, sending him on his way as though he were the four year old.
Just as Robin is passing through the door, once again repeating his thanks, Belle says with a quirk of her eyebrow. "Is this a date type of coffee thing?"
Robin hesitates, the hand still holding his phone braced against the door frame. He draws a controlled breath. "I think it might be. The situation is just a little unclear to everyone involved."
Belle gives a light chuckle. "Well, let me know if today clears it up, at all."
He nods and gives her a playful smile. "Will do. I'll have Roland right down."
*****
Regina chose the location. And Robin was more than happy to let her set the meeting on her familiar ground. The truth is he has no idea how she lives, the places she goes, her idea of recreation or comfortable ground, or what she might be expecting of this particular encounter. Still, he is a bit surprised when her choice turns out to be an independent, artsy coffee shop on a busy corner in the Village. He was expecting some upper crust and posh cafe, perhaps something on the Upper East Side. But as he follows his phone's GPS from the L train stop to the door of his destination, he finds himself gazing upon a cluttered and inviting entrance adorned with braided cloth and flyers for local Indy bands.
Gentle chimes sound as Robin pulls open the door and steps inside. The shop is a little stuffy and warm for this June day, though he imagines this place would be a welcome haven on a brutal December night. The crowd is pleasantly vibrant but not cramped or cloying. The interior of the shop is decorated wall to wall with crafts and paintings and brightly-colored adornments from an eclectic mix of cultures and themes. At the far end of the shop he spies a raised area he imagines is sometimes used as a sort of stage for local music acts or perhaps book lecturers.
The corner positioning of the shop on the street allows for plenty of windows and ample light, even through the draping curtains tied in inconsistent patterns around the two outer walls.
Definitely not the place he had expected, but he quite likes it.
He sees her before she sees him. She has chosen a high table by the side windows. Her legs are gracefully crossed and her gaze is focused out through the broad glass. Dark hair falls loose and graceful behind her shoulder, the line of her jaw elegant in profile. She really is simply striking. Delicate fingers cradle a wide ceramic coffee mug, sunglasses folded on the table beside the same phone he held in his hand the previous night. He is surprisingly amused by the fact she did not wait for his arrival to place her order.
Naturally, she is dressed down a bit from last night's party attire, but her outfit is still upscale from the average woman on the street. Her sundress is deliciously revealing, her skirt inching up her thigh in her perched posture. The blue is vibrant against her golden skin. She sits poised, but not rigid. Her make-up is lighter and softer than he has seen, but her apple-red lipstick is still doing things to him he would prefer it did not. Or prefer it did more of.
Realizing he has not yet moved from the shop's threshold (another disturbing trend in his day), Robin is surprised to recognize the rush of nerves burning its way through his stomach as he contemplates his approach. Meeting women has not been a source of anxiety for him in a long time. Likely because he has not really cared enough about the outcome of such encounters. He cannot fathom why he suddenly seems to care so much about this one, but there it is, in the numbness in his fingers and the tension in his back.
The momentary paralysis is broken when Ms. Rossi turns and spots him at his post by the door. Perhaps he imagines it, but he thinks he sees a trace of similar nerves flit across her countenance before she neatly composes her expression and offers a small smirk of a smile. He is fairly certain he does not imagine the quick down and up sweep of her gaze, but he cannot interpret the results of her appraisal. He feels the movement of her gaze tickling his skin, and he wonders if he should have buffed up his clothing choice in the rush to meet her on time. Not that it would have changed a great deal. He is who he is; the variety of his wardrobe is not particularly vast. It is not as though he were going to arrive in Prada. He wonders if she has.
"Ms. Rossi," Robin says, holding out a hand as he approaches her table. "A pleasure to properly make your acquaintance."
"You mean by invitation, this time," she quips, as she slips her hand into his. Her skin is soft, but her grip is firm, and she carries all the confidence in the gesture of an experienced businesswoman.
Robin indulges a soft chuckle. "I told you, I was invited along to your party by a friend."
Robins climbs up onto the stool across from her and is pleased to find she has chosen the perfect place in the room to take in the refreshing breeze from the single lazy ceiling fan circling above.
Regina narrows her gaze as Robin settles his forearms onto the table. "And which friend was that?" she prods.
"Hmm? Oh...William," he replies lightly. For God's sake, there had to be a single William somewhere at that party.
"William," Regina repeats, frowning in thought. "Oh, Will Summers?"
"Yes, Yes, Will."
Regina shakes her head, "I didn't even invite him."
The panic is quick and painful and he is fairly certain this is all over before it began.
Right up until she says, "Rocco must be dating him, again. God, will he never learn?"
"Hey, there," Robin says, recovering without a stumble, jumping in and selling the lie as best he can. It is a little unnerving how easily this all comes back to him. He doesn't know whether to be proud or ashamed. "Will is my friend."
"Really?" Regina seems genuinely concerned by this, and it is clearly time for a back pedal.
He gives an easy shrug. "Well, no, not really. He's a useful acquaintance, I guess you would say. For things like, oh, party invitations," he finishes with a kind smile.
Robin sees only a moment's hesitation before she carefully returns the smile. The shared expression lingers between them an extra beat and the mood shifts to something a little more intimate before she says, "Hello, Robin Archer," and her voice is ridiculously innocent and sweet and throaty, and he is so royally fucked by this enigma of a woman.
"Hello, Ms. Rossi."
"Did you have any trouble finding the place?"
He shakes his head. "No, not at all. I see why you like it, it's quite charming."
"Well, it's got more character than a Starbucks, at least." She takes a sip of her coffee. Takes a moment to swallow and ready her throat to speak. "No poetry slams or anything, but I like that people come here to actually talk and work on creative projects and not just stare at their phones. And the vanilla roast is delightful." She tips her mug in reference.
"Perhaps I should give it a try."
"Go right ahead."
Robin glances toward the front counter, but the line is a bit daunting and the idea of leaving Regina at the table alone with her coffee while he slogs through the wait is not particularly appealing. Regina's sharp gaze takes in all of this before he can hide it, and by the time Robin has turned back to face her, she is waving her hand over her head to catch the attention of the girl behind the counter, the tall one with the red streak in her dark hair. When the two women have locked gazes, Regina points to her own lifted mug and signals for "one more" with a subtle gesture toward Robin. Robin turns to see the girl behind the counter give a discrete nod. Just enough to confirm Regina's order without drawing the attention of the patrons lined up before her.
Robin gazes across at Regina with quiet curiosity.
She gives an easy shrug and takes another sip of her own vanilla roast. "I'm a long-time regular." Her words hold an air of dismissal.
Robin narrows his gaze and studies her a moment before replying, "A famous regular," he clarifies.
"Nominally,"
He ignores the self-depreciation. "Interesting to observe how the other half lives, even in coffee shops."
Regina barks out a laugh. "The other half of what? The job comes with a few perks at restaurants, end of story."
Robin shakes his head. "Oh, no. There is far more to your story than that."
"You keep saying things like that."
"Am I wrong?"
Regina draws a deep breath, chest rising visibly, pulling at her tailored dress, and Robin makes a concerted and sincere effort to Keep His Gaze From Dipping. She tilts her head, tails of her hair brushing enticingly along the sculpture of her collarbone. "And what about your story? You no doubt know at least the bare bones of who I am. Who are you, Robin Archer? What do you do?"
"Mmm, two different questions, wouldn't you say?"
Regina's eyebrow lifts, but she gives a single allowing nod. "Sometimes."
"Well, as for what I do, I work in a youth center in Alphabet City. We are a sort of multipurpose place that has expanded in various directions in the years since my partner John and I took the reins. We offer a fairly basic place of refuge, somewhere we take in teens from the street, give them a place to sleep, clothes, resources. We also run an afterschool activity center where we offer enrichment classes, guidance, information...a chance to see a few possible paths in life they might not otherwise see. And a couple of times a year we run a camp outside the city. Two or three weeks of cookouts and swim classes and hikes and the like. I even teach a bit of archery," he finishes with a playful sparkle in his gaze.
Regina watches closely as he speaks, a slight frown creasing her brow and a depth to her eyes that tells him she is really listening and perhaps surprised or confused by what she hears.
"What?" he prompts after she remains silent and contemplative for a beat too long. He catches himself holding his lower lip between his teeth.
She shakes her head. "Nothing. I just...I wasn't expecting that reply."
It's his turn to narrow his eyes. "Is that good or bad?"
Before Regina can reply, the long-haired girl from behind the counter swishes past their table and deposits a tall, steaming mug before him. His is in take-away cardboard, not Regina's ceramic. "One vanilla roast. Enjoy." And the girl is off and gone again before there is a moment for more than a quick, "Thank you, Ruby," from Regina.
Robin curls careful fingers around the warmth of the mug. "I didn't pay for this," he says.
Regina shakes her head, "Ruby will just put it on my card."
"So, you're paying for the date? I hardly think that's right for our first meeting."
Regina stretches her neck forward, tilts her head a bit and speaks with deliberately excess clarity. "It's coffee."
Robin leans in with a poorly covered grin, meeting her posture and her sass with his own. The gesture brings them just close enough to shift the feel, to make him vividly aware of the scent of her perfume and the sound of her breath. Such things make it harder to focus. "It's symbolic," he counters.
They hold the challenging gaze for another breath, and he fights the pull of the dip in her neckline as she leans. Finally, Regina softens into a smile and says, "It's good. What you do for a living. It's good."
"Ah." Robin settles back into his seat and brings his mug cautiously toward his lips. "Glad you approve."
"I do. I truly admire what you're doing. There's certainly a great deal of need for it. However..." and now she draws up straighter, clearly shifting her tone, "I'm going to have to ask about the wedding ring. I didn't see that last night."
Robin startles and draws a sharp breath, reflexively glancing down at his hand and fingering the brushed gold with his thumb. "Oh. Oh, I'm sorry, it...I'm not...my wife passed away a few years ago. I just...can't always seem to leave it off, you know?"
"I'm sorry." Her response is surprisingly even and comfortable and it crosses his mind for a brief second that this is the reply of a woman with an intimate knowledge of such loss. But, of course, she lost her husband, right? She had been married to Leopold Kingsley until his death...he should have thought...
"No, I'm sorry," Robin reiterates. "I really didn't mean to wear it today, I don't always. I honestly forgot. Does it make you uncomfortable, I can..."
"It doesn't. But...if I should happen to see you again, and if the press... You just...don't want to find yourself in that kind of headline."
He takes that in for a moment. Weighs all its implications. "Noted."
Regina gives a brisk nod, then seems to consider the topic closed.
"So, you have a son," he offers, helping her lead the subject away. He takes his first full sip of the coffee, and good God, she's right, this vanilla roast is marvelous.
Regina's red lips reveal a twist of a pure and instinctive smile that seems unintentional and infinitely telling. "I do," she says, and there is a pride and warmth in her eyes that Robin finds utterly captivating and lushly satisfying. Even better than the coffee.
"Tell me about him?"
"He's eleven. Which...doesn't seem possible. Growing right in front of my eyes, some days."
They share a soft chuckle. Robin swears Roland is inches taller this week than he was last.
"His name is Henry. He's feisty and kind and brilliant and talented and exhausting and generally my favorite person in the world."
Robin's smile is broad and unselfconscious, comfortable and content, because he is simply captivated by the glow of the woman before him. Regina Rossi is a different person when she speaks about her son, and he finds he could stare at this woman all day. "That is wonderful," he says. "Absolutely wonderful. I love to hear that. Every boy should be so lucky."
Regina shakes her head. " I'm the lucky one. He puts up with me, which is not always an easy task. Do you have kids?"
"Indeed I do. I have a son, as well."
"Do you?" There is a welcome light of something like hope in her eyes that Robin doesn't quite understand, but he is pleased by it nonetheless.
"I do."
"How old?"
"Roland has just turned four two weeks ago, and he will gladly inform you of this in no uncertain terms with pudgy little fingers to demonstrate, should you ask."
Regina grins at the image, and Robin detects the light trace of nostalgia of a mother of a growing boy for the little one she once had. "Four is a fabulous age," she says, voice selfless and warm and the diamond studs in her ears and the sparkling ring on her finger and the clutch purse that probably cost his full week's salary suddenly seem no kind of barrier when one parent is connecting with another.
"And you've raised him on your own?" she asks.
Robin shrugs. "Not much of a choice, there. We lost his mother when he was just five months old."
Her cringe is genuine and bears traces of an empathy he still cannot quite identify. "Oh, I'm sorry. I can't imagine what that was like for you."
"Oh, I'm guessing you can. You've been a single mother all along, yes?"
"Well, yes, but--"
"And you lost your husband as well?"
There is the smallest beat of hesitation; a stutter, a glitch, something disconnected or misaligned. But Robin cannot begin to quantify the miss-pitched note before the mask is neatly back in place and Regina says smoothly, "I did. But long ago, before Henry was born. I knew I would be a single parent going in."
Robin nods. "Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, and did that leave you fully prepared for the experience?"
That wins him a glimpse of that adorable smile, the one that pulls at her resistant lips and seems to magnify her pale freckles, and he finds he is becoming much too quickly addicted to eliciting that particular expression from this woman who seems to prefer a mask of solemnity. "Not in the slightest," Regina concedes. Her tone has deepened, grown slightly hoarse, and thus goes straight to his groin.
Robin tilts his coffee toward hers. "Well, there you have it. Parenting is always a fake-it-till-you-make-it proposition. Make your plans on the fly."
"Fair enough."
"This coffee really is excellent." He takes another generous swallow and wonders in passing at the caffeine level and just how late he might be awake, tonight.
"Glad you like it," she says softly. Then, apparently responding to some continued conversation she is having in her head, the privilege of which he has been denied, she tenses and shifts uncomfortably on her stool, uncrosses and re-crosses her legs and pushes at the edges of the table with the heels of her hands. "I'm sorry. It's just...this is crazy. I shouldn't even be--I should--"
Robin nods quickly, resists the irrational urge to reach out and grasp her hand (because she's shaken, internally rattled in more ways than he understands, and he wants to quiet her, needs to comfort her). He contents himself with resting his hand on the table near her coffee, fingers outstretched. He infuses his words with a depth of understanding that seems to surprise or intrigue her, at the very least halt her intent to rise from the table. "It is an admittedly unusual way to begin an acquaintance," he states clearly. "But that does not make it inherently wrong. Just a bit confusing. But there are no requirements or expectations, here."
Regina holds his gaze, the intensity in her dark eyes penetrating him with an almost alarming depth. Her mouth is tucked into a contemplative frown, but she does not speak.
Robin draws a slow breath, leans into the table and says, "Perhaps we should start again. Say we meet in a more conventional manner. Maybe we bumped into each other in a quirky little coffee shop in the Village?" He slides from his stool, grabs his half-empty coffee mug in his hand and steps up beside her. "Good heavens. Excuse me, but are you...are you Regina Rossi?"
She hesitates a moment, regarding him appraisingly, apparently uncertain how to approach his antics, gauging whether he is serious about this. Then her lips curve into a mildly indulgent smirk, and she says, "Yes. I am."
He holds out his hand. "Well, I'll be. Robin Archer, so nice to make your acquaintance."
Regina slides her hand into his, then glances around the room and says impishly, "It's awfully crowded in here, today. If you'd like to share a table...?" And he finds himself bathed in a rush of pleasured warmth at seeing her jump in with both feet and play along.
"Oh, that would be awfully kind of you, but...are you sure? You're not expecting someone?"
She shakes her head. "No, I'm alone, today. It's fine."
He nods. "Thank you, kindly." And he takes his seat, once again. "I had never tried this place before, but it seems quite charming."
"I rather like it," she says. "And it's not far from where I live."
"Nice. I'm afraid it's a bit out of the way for me. But there's a small chance I'll be having reason to be out this way a bit more in the near future. We'll see. If so, I shall have to remember this place."
"Business in the neighborhood?" she asks.
He smiles at her with his eyes over the top of his coffee and says, "A personal interest," then takes a sip.
Her jaw cocks to the side, but her gaze falls to her hands with a brief expression he might almost call shy or perhaps flattered.
The conversation gets ridiculously easy, after that. Moments of inexplicable familiarity mix with newness and exploration and Robin has to keep reminding myself he has just met this woman and that he really knows nothing of her life.
They chat for a good half hour, finish another round of coffees. They cover favorite books, favorite films, turkey or salami on sub sandwiches and the best kinds of Halloween candy, their favorite places for vacations (she loves the southern coast of France, he favors the northern woods of British Columbia), then the subject circles around to age and questions of career paths taken versus where one saw oneself heading as a child.
"Success is a matter of perspectives and expectations," Regina says, voice low, fingers restlessly tracing the rim of her mug.
"You don't see yourself as successful in life? You can't be serious."
Regina merely shrugs. "I have a beautiful son."
"Come, now. You are one of the queens of the fashion world. Even I know that, and as a rule I know absolutely nothing about the fashion world."
"Yes, well..." She pulls up in her seat, shifts her hair behind her shoulder with a toss of her head that would be deliciously sensual and alluring if not tainted by an air of suppressed sadness. "Professional success only carries one so far. I love what I do, but...well it's not all quite how it looks from the outside. Sitting alone in one's empty penthouse, it's still quite possible to feel...like the queen of nothing."
A slow beat passes between them. "Is that what you were feeling yesterday, on the balcony?" The words are out before he can bite down on his recalcitrant tongue.
Regina's eyebrows shoot up and she lets go an incredulous and shaky exhale. A second later, she has snatched up her phone and caught hold of her purse. "I really have to be going."
Damn. Damn him and his stupid stupid mouth. "No, please, Ms. Rossi, wait. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I spoke out of turn. That was far too personal a question and none of my business. Forgive me, and please forget I ever asked."
She pauses mid-motion, fingers still curled around the strap of her purse. She breathes carefully and deliberately as she hovers in the shimmering echo of his request.
He is about to redouble his pleas, when she says simply, "You can call me Regina."
Gradually, he permits his frown of concern to soften into a tentative smile. "Thank you." Then to tease her, to test the warmth of the stirring waters, he wrinkles his nose over his near-empty coffee cup and says, "Not 'Gina'?" He has, after all, read a tabloid or two in the line at the neighborhood market.
But the question has the opposite effect of his intent. She stiffens and grows even more distant in her carriage. There is something serious, here, something deep she is trying to cover, but he is starting to suspect that Regina Rossi might be a lousy liar. "No," she states, low and firm. There will be no argument. "That nickname...belongs to one specific person."
"All right." His voice is a near whisper. Soft and kind. He doesn't want to push, doesn't want to ask, but he wants her to know he hears.
She seems to understand.
Ten minutes later, they are standing side by side outside the cafe, Regina in her sunglasses against the late afternoon glare, Robin squinting his sensitive blue eyes as he watches how the light brings out little highlights of auburn in her chocolate hair.
"I'd like to see you, again," he says. "Can I...can I take you to dinner? My treat, this time. Perhaps tomorrow night?"
She is quiet just long enough for his stomach to flip-flop twice over. She catches her luscious lip between elegant white teeth and holds it there (possibly just to stop his heart). Then, she says. "I can't tomorrow. I have a dinner meeting. But...what about Tuesday night?"
He nods with a warm smile, unreasonably grateful at the softness that has returned to her tone. "Tuesday works for me. Assuming, of course, I can find a sitter on shortish notice..."
"Let me know if you have a problem. I might be able to get Henry's nanny to help. I trust her like family, Roland would be in excellent hands."
"A generous offer, madam, thank you. May I see you to the train? Would you prefer a cab?"
Regina shakes her head. "I'm fine on my own, thank you." There is nothing cold in the remark, but there is a clear establishment of boundaries, and Robin accepts this as offered.
Regina glances over her shoulder, out at the traffic and to the crowded sidewalk beyond. Then she faces him with a gentle frown. "Can you do me a favor?"
"Of course, what do you need?"
"If we're going to...see each other, again...."
"Yes?"
"Don't...Google me. Don't read about my life on Wikipedia. Just...ask me."
This is the last thing he had been expecting. But he nods in earnest; intrigued, curious, full of questions, but keeping his expression as quiet and accepting as he can. "All right. Agreed."
She gives a shy, genuine smile in reply and his guts are doing that swimming, twisting thing, again, and oh, God, so royally fucked.
"Until Tuesday, then," he says, offering an answering smile.
"Until Tuesday."
On impulse, he reaches out and catches her hand, gives it a gentle squeeze between his own. He gives her all the necessary slack to pull away if she should wish. She does not. She remains slack and permissive to his touch.
One moment more, the slightest, infinitesimal stroke of her thumb against the outside of his own, then he lets her go without a word, turns and walks away into the crowd, fighting every urge within him not to look back.
*****
TITLE: Living In the Red
PAIRINGS: Outlaw Queen (AU)
RATING: Mature
SUMMARY: Regina Rossi is an internationally successful fashion designer. She has it all, right? Or maybe she doesn't realize how broken she has become until a stranger appears in the night and flips her world upside down. Outlaw Queen AU.
Major beta gratitude to helenhighwater7 and shinewithalltheuntold.
Massive thanks to MaraKara for research help! Any mistakes remain mine alone. She can only offer me correct information, not assure that I use it correctly.:)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: So sorry for the delay! First I was sick, then a migraine, then a bunch of family stuff happened for which my presence was essential, and I've been trying to claw my way back to my keyboard amid the chaos. I hope the next chapter will come sooner! Fear not, I am completely determined to see this monster through to the end, however long it might take!
LIVING IN THE RED
by
Rowan Darkstar
Copyright (c) 2015
Chapter 3
"Jesus Christ, that's a pretty face
The kind you'd find on someone I could save
If they don't put me away
Well, it'll be a miracle"
--Brand New, 'Jesus Christ'
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK. What the hell is he doing? What the HELL?? What is he thinking asking Regina Rossi to coffee? The Regina Rossi. Asking her out?? What the fuck!? Doesn't she stand for everything he is against? Isn't he putting his safety and future at huge risk? Is he insane?
Well, obviously, he crossed that line when he put his number into her phone.
And why on earth did she say 'yes'? The Queen Bitch of the fashion industry. Arrogance and self-involvement and materialism personified. And when he looked at her on that balcony, shaking and confused and flushed, eyes wide and raw, and she seemed so... human and...reachable...why did he want to put her by a warm fire and wrap her up in a blanket and give her chamomile tea? And then when she was warmer, pry a few of those insanely expensive garments off her ridiculously well-toned and curvaceous body, and run his hands and lips over the shapes and lines of --DAMMIT!! What the fuck? He met her for no more than five minutes. What has happened to his brain?
This past week has brought an unstoppable series of some of the stupidest actions of Robin's entire life. This morning he had awoken with the hope of reconstructing his path, and now here he is continuing down yesterday's misbegotten road.
"Did you plan to knock, or..." The familiar voice nearly startles Robin out of his shoes, and he realizes he has been standing in front of Belle Charron's apartment door for the last several seconds (could it have been minutes?), cell phone still in his hand, but he has yet to knock.
"Belle. Oh, good heavens. Yes, sorry, I...but clearly that wouldn't have done any good, since you weren't home."
"Clearly," Belle offers with an indulgent smile and a light chuckle. She is holding a pair of grocery bags, foot tipped back on her impractically high heel, carefully painted fingernails curled through her apartment keys.
Robin has known Belle for nearly three years. She moved into the apartment below him, fresh off the plane from Melbourne with a student visa and an American boyfriend awaiting her arrival. She has since blossomed into quite the woman, now working part time at the local library while she makes her way through a graduate degree in literature, engaged to that boyfriend, and the short blond bob with which she arrived has transformed into a long mass of dark red curls.
The girl has been a Godsend as far as Robin is concerned, acting as a regular babysitter/part-time Nanny to his son, Roland, from nearly the day she arrived.
Robin reaches out and takes one of the bags from Belle's hand, and she edges past him to unlock her door.
"Did you need something?" Her tone is pleasant enough as she glances over her shoulder. The locks in this building border on ancient, and they often require more sweet-talk and cajoling than simple 'working'.
Robin cringes at her easy words. "I feel as though I should ask after your day, first. Seems I only ever come down here to ask favors of you."
Belle shrugs as she pushes her way into her living room, holding the door open with her back to let Robin pass in front of her. He takes another of the bags from her arms as he passes. "You're a single father, Robin," she says simply. "I think that's a hazard of the role."
"Perhaps." His reply lacks conviction. He sets the bags on the kitchenette counter and turns to face his friend. Her apartment is even smaller than his, but she has given it a good deal of literary charm. Books overflow from packed bookcases and line the walls in neatly constructed stacks on the floor. Comfortable chairs and hand-knit blankets make for a welcoming oasis. Her little dinner table is decorated like it belongs in an elegant French café, and he thinks perhaps these groceries are aimed at cooking a special meal. "Seems unfair all the same," he adds softly.
Belle just slips out of her over-blouse and hangs it from the brass coat tree by the door. "What do you need?" she repeats with a forgiving smile.
Robin lets go a heavy sigh. "I'm afraid I agreed to--well, I asked someone to meet for coffee in about...well, now. Without first assuring I had a plan for Roland. It was all rather spur of the moment. And it's in the Village. And I was just hoping by some random chance..."
Belle wrinkles her nose. "Toss the little bugger my way, he can help me make dinner."
Robin sighs with a strange mix of relief and apology. "Oh, that would be so wonderful, but are you certain?"
"Adam won't be here until six. I'm assuming you plan to be back by then?"
"Yes, yes, it's just coffee. I'll make certain I'm back."
"Then off you go." She flicks a hand in the air, sending him on his way as though he were the four year old.
Just as Robin is passing through the door, once again repeating his thanks, Belle says with a quirk of her eyebrow. "Is this a date type of coffee thing?"
Robin hesitates, the hand still holding his phone braced against the door frame. He draws a controlled breath. "I think it might be. The situation is just a little unclear to everyone involved."
Belle gives a light chuckle. "Well, let me know if today clears it up, at all."
He nods and gives her a playful smile. "Will do. I'll have Roland right down."
*****
Regina chose the location. And Robin was more than happy to let her set the meeting on her familiar ground. The truth is he has no idea how she lives, the places she goes, her idea of recreation or comfortable ground, or what she might be expecting of this particular encounter. Still, he is a bit surprised when her choice turns out to be an independent, artsy coffee shop on a busy corner in the Village. He was expecting some upper crust and posh cafe, perhaps something on the Upper East Side. But as he follows his phone's GPS from the L train stop to the door of his destination, he finds himself gazing upon a cluttered and inviting entrance adorned with braided cloth and flyers for local Indy bands.
Gentle chimes sound as Robin pulls open the door and steps inside. The shop is a little stuffy and warm for this June day, though he imagines this place would be a welcome haven on a brutal December night. The crowd is pleasantly vibrant but not cramped or cloying. The interior of the shop is decorated wall to wall with crafts and paintings and brightly-colored adornments from an eclectic mix of cultures and themes. At the far end of the shop he spies a raised area he imagines is sometimes used as a sort of stage for local music acts or perhaps book lecturers.
The corner positioning of the shop on the street allows for plenty of windows and ample light, even through the draping curtains tied in inconsistent patterns around the two outer walls.
Definitely not the place he had expected, but he quite likes it.
He sees her before she sees him. She has chosen a high table by the side windows. Her legs are gracefully crossed and her gaze is focused out through the broad glass. Dark hair falls loose and graceful behind her shoulder, the line of her jaw elegant in profile. She really is simply striking. Delicate fingers cradle a wide ceramic coffee mug, sunglasses folded on the table beside the same phone he held in his hand the previous night. He is surprisingly amused by the fact she did not wait for his arrival to place her order.
Naturally, she is dressed down a bit from last night's party attire, but her outfit is still upscale from the average woman on the street. Her sundress is deliciously revealing, her skirt inching up her thigh in her perched posture. The blue is vibrant against her golden skin. She sits poised, but not rigid. Her make-up is lighter and softer than he has seen, but her apple-red lipstick is still doing things to him he would prefer it did not. Or prefer it did more of.
Realizing he has not yet moved from the shop's threshold (another disturbing trend in his day), Robin is surprised to recognize the rush of nerves burning its way through his stomach as he contemplates his approach. Meeting women has not been a source of anxiety for him in a long time. Likely because he has not really cared enough about the outcome of such encounters. He cannot fathom why he suddenly seems to care so much about this one, but there it is, in the numbness in his fingers and the tension in his back.
The momentary paralysis is broken when Ms. Rossi turns and spots him at his post by the door. Perhaps he imagines it, but he thinks he sees a trace of similar nerves flit across her countenance before she neatly composes her expression and offers a small smirk of a smile. He is fairly certain he does not imagine the quick down and up sweep of her gaze, but he cannot interpret the results of her appraisal. He feels the movement of her gaze tickling his skin, and he wonders if he should have buffed up his clothing choice in the rush to meet her on time. Not that it would have changed a great deal. He is who he is; the variety of his wardrobe is not particularly vast. It is not as though he were going to arrive in Prada. He wonders if she has.
"Ms. Rossi," Robin says, holding out a hand as he approaches her table. "A pleasure to properly make your acquaintance."
"You mean by invitation, this time," she quips, as she slips her hand into his. Her skin is soft, but her grip is firm, and she carries all the confidence in the gesture of an experienced businesswoman.
Robin indulges a soft chuckle. "I told you, I was invited along to your party by a friend."
Robins climbs up onto the stool across from her and is pleased to find she has chosen the perfect place in the room to take in the refreshing breeze from the single lazy ceiling fan circling above.
Regina narrows her gaze as Robin settles his forearms onto the table. "And which friend was that?" she prods.
"Hmm? Oh...William," he replies lightly. For God's sake, there had to be a single William somewhere at that party.
"William," Regina repeats, frowning in thought. "Oh, Will Summers?"
"Yes, Yes, Will."
Regina shakes her head, "I didn't even invite him."
The panic is quick and painful and he is fairly certain this is all over before it began.
Right up until she says, "Rocco must be dating him, again. God, will he never learn?"
"Hey, there," Robin says, recovering without a stumble, jumping in and selling the lie as best he can. It is a little unnerving how easily this all comes back to him. He doesn't know whether to be proud or ashamed. "Will is my friend."
"Really?" Regina seems genuinely concerned by this, and it is clearly time for a back pedal.
He gives an easy shrug. "Well, no, not really. He's a useful acquaintance, I guess you would say. For things like, oh, party invitations," he finishes with a kind smile.
Robin sees only a moment's hesitation before she carefully returns the smile. The shared expression lingers between them an extra beat and the mood shifts to something a little more intimate before she says, "Hello, Robin Archer," and her voice is ridiculously innocent and sweet and throaty, and he is so royally fucked by this enigma of a woman.
"Hello, Ms. Rossi."
"Did you have any trouble finding the place?"
He shakes his head. "No, not at all. I see why you like it, it's quite charming."
"Well, it's got more character than a Starbucks, at least." She takes a sip of her coffee. Takes a moment to swallow and ready her throat to speak. "No poetry slams or anything, but I like that people come here to actually talk and work on creative projects and not just stare at their phones. And the vanilla roast is delightful." She tips her mug in reference.
"Perhaps I should give it a try."
"Go right ahead."
Robin glances toward the front counter, but the line is a bit daunting and the idea of leaving Regina at the table alone with her coffee while he slogs through the wait is not particularly appealing. Regina's sharp gaze takes in all of this before he can hide it, and by the time Robin has turned back to face her, she is waving her hand over her head to catch the attention of the girl behind the counter, the tall one with the red streak in her dark hair. When the two women have locked gazes, Regina points to her own lifted mug and signals for "one more" with a subtle gesture toward Robin. Robin turns to see the girl behind the counter give a discrete nod. Just enough to confirm Regina's order without drawing the attention of the patrons lined up before her.
Robin gazes across at Regina with quiet curiosity.
She gives an easy shrug and takes another sip of her own vanilla roast. "I'm a long-time regular." Her words hold an air of dismissal.
Robin narrows his gaze and studies her a moment before replying, "A famous regular," he clarifies.
"Nominally,"
He ignores the self-depreciation. "Interesting to observe how the other half lives, even in coffee shops."
Regina barks out a laugh. "The other half of what? The job comes with a few perks at restaurants, end of story."
Robin shakes his head. "Oh, no. There is far more to your story than that."
"You keep saying things like that."
"Am I wrong?"
Regina draws a deep breath, chest rising visibly, pulling at her tailored dress, and Robin makes a concerted and sincere effort to Keep His Gaze From Dipping. She tilts her head, tails of her hair brushing enticingly along the sculpture of her collarbone. "And what about your story? You no doubt know at least the bare bones of who I am. Who are you, Robin Archer? What do you do?"
"Mmm, two different questions, wouldn't you say?"
Regina's eyebrow lifts, but she gives a single allowing nod. "Sometimes."
"Well, as for what I do, I work in a youth center in Alphabet City. We are a sort of multipurpose place that has expanded in various directions in the years since my partner John and I took the reins. We offer a fairly basic place of refuge, somewhere we take in teens from the street, give them a place to sleep, clothes, resources. We also run an afterschool activity center where we offer enrichment classes, guidance, information...a chance to see a few possible paths in life they might not otherwise see. And a couple of times a year we run a camp outside the city. Two or three weeks of cookouts and swim classes and hikes and the like. I even teach a bit of archery," he finishes with a playful sparkle in his gaze.
Regina watches closely as he speaks, a slight frown creasing her brow and a depth to her eyes that tells him she is really listening and perhaps surprised or confused by what she hears.
"What?" he prompts after she remains silent and contemplative for a beat too long. He catches himself holding his lower lip between his teeth.
She shakes her head. "Nothing. I just...I wasn't expecting that reply."
It's his turn to narrow his eyes. "Is that good or bad?"
Before Regina can reply, the long-haired girl from behind the counter swishes past their table and deposits a tall, steaming mug before him. His is in take-away cardboard, not Regina's ceramic. "One vanilla roast. Enjoy." And the girl is off and gone again before there is a moment for more than a quick, "Thank you, Ruby," from Regina.
Robin curls careful fingers around the warmth of the mug. "I didn't pay for this," he says.
Regina shakes her head, "Ruby will just put it on my card."
"So, you're paying for the date? I hardly think that's right for our first meeting."
Regina stretches her neck forward, tilts her head a bit and speaks with deliberately excess clarity. "It's coffee."
Robin leans in with a poorly covered grin, meeting her posture and her sass with his own. The gesture brings them just close enough to shift the feel, to make him vividly aware of the scent of her perfume and the sound of her breath. Such things make it harder to focus. "It's symbolic," he counters.
They hold the challenging gaze for another breath, and he fights the pull of the dip in her neckline as she leans. Finally, Regina softens into a smile and says, "It's good. What you do for a living. It's good."
"Ah." Robin settles back into his seat and brings his mug cautiously toward his lips. "Glad you approve."
"I do. I truly admire what you're doing. There's certainly a great deal of need for it. However..." and now she draws up straighter, clearly shifting her tone, "I'm going to have to ask about the wedding ring. I didn't see that last night."
Robin startles and draws a sharp breath, reflexively glancing down at his hand and fingering the brushed gold with his thumb. "Oh. Oh, I'm sorry, it...I'm not...my wife passed away a few years ago. I just...can't always seem to leave it off, you know?"
"I'm sorry." Her response is surprisingly even and comfortable and it crosses his mind for a brief second that this is the reply of a woman with an intimate knowledge of such loss. But, of course, she lost her husband, right? She had been married to Leopold Kingsley until his death...he should have thought...
"No, I'm sorry," Robin reiterates. "I really didn't mean to wear it today, I don't always. I honestly forgot. Does it make you uncomfortable, I can..."
"It doesn't. But...if I should happen to see you again, and if the press... You just...don't want to find yourself in that kind of headline."
He takes that in for a moment. Weighs all its implications. "Noted."
Regina gives a brisk nod, then seems to consider the topic closed.
"So, you have a son," he offers, helping her lead the subject away. He takes his first full sip of the coffee, and good God, she's right, this vanilla roast is marvelous.
Regina's red lips reveal a twist of a pure and instinctive smile that seems unintentional and infinitely telling. "I do," she says, and there is a pride and warmth in her eyes that Robin finds utterly captivating and lushly satisfying. Even better than the coffee.
"Tell me about him?"
"He's eleven. Which...doesn't seem possible. Growing right in front of my eyes, some days."
They share a soft chuckle. Robin swears Roland is inches taller this week than he was last.
"His name is Henry. He's feisty and kind and brilliant and talented and exhausting and generally my favorite person in the world."
Robin's smile is broad and unselfconscious, comfortable and content, because he is simply captivated by the glow of the woman before him. Regina Rossi is a different person when she speaks about her son, and he finds he could stare at this woman all day. "That is wonderful," he says. "Absolutely wonderful. I love to hear that. Every boy should be so lucky."
Regina shakes her head. " I'm the lucky one. He puts up with me, which is not always an easy task. Do you have kids?"
"Indeed I do. I have a son, as well."
"Do you?" There is a welcome light of something like hope in her eyes that Robin doesn't quite understand, but he is pleased by it nonetheless.
"I do."
"How old?"
"Roland has just turned four two weeks ago, and he will gladly inform you of this in no uncertain terms with pudgy little fingers to demonstrate, should you ask."
Regina grins at the image, and Robin detects the light trace of nostalgia of a mother of a growing boy for the little one she once had. "Four is a fabulous age," she says, voice selfless and warm and the diamond studs in her ears and the sparkling ring on her finger and the clutch purse that probably cost his full week's salary suddenly seem no kind of barrier when one parent is connecting with another.
"And you've raised him on your own?" she asks.
Robin shrugs. "Not much of a choice, there. We lost his mother when he was just five months old."
Her cringe is genuine and bears traces of an empathy he still cannot quite identify. "Oh, I'm sorry. I can't imagine what that was like for you."
"Oh, I'm guessing you can. You've been a single mother all along, yes?"
"Well, yes, but--"
"And you lost your husband as well?"
There is the smallest beat of hesitation; a stutter, a glitch, something disconnected or misaligned. But Robin cannot begin to quantify the miss-pitched note before the mask is neatly back in place and Regina says smoothly, "I did. But long ago, before Henry was born. I knew I would be a single parent going in."
Robin nods. "Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, and did that leave you fully prepared for the experience?"
That wins him a glimpse of that adorable smile, the one that pulls at her resistant lips and seems to magnify her pale freckles, and he finds he is becoming much too quickly addicted to eliciting that particular expression from this woman who seems to prefer a mask of solemnity. "Not in the slightest," Regina concedes. Her tone has deepened, grown slightly hoarse, and thus goes straight to his groin.
Robin tilts his coffee toward hers. "Well, there you have it. Parenting is always a fake-it-till-you-make-it proposition. Make your plans on the fly."
"Fair enough."
"This coffee really is excellent." He takes another generous swallow and wonders in passing at the caffeine level and just how late he might be awake, tonight.
"Glad you like it," she says softly. Then, apparently responding to some continued conversation she is having in her head, the privilege of which he has been denied, she tenses and shifts uncomfortably on her stool, uncrosses and re-crosses her legs and pushes at the edges of the table with the heels of her hands. "I'm sorry. It's just...this is crazy. I shouldn't even be--I should--"
Robin nods quickly, resists the irrational urge to reach out and grasp her hand (because she's shaken, internally rattled in more ways than he understands, and he wants to quiet her, needs to comfort her). He contents himself with resting his hand on the table near her coffee, fingers outstretched. He infuses his words with a depth of understanding that seems to surprise or intrigue her, at the very least halt her intent to rise from the table. "It is an admittedly unusual way to begin an acquaintance," he states clearly. "But that does not make it inherently wrong. Just a bit confusing. But there are no requirements or expectations, here."
Regina holds his gaze, the intensity in her dark eyes penetrating him with an almost alarming depth. Her mouth is tucked into a contemplative frown, but she does not speak.
Robin draws a slow breath, leans into the table and says, "Perhaps we should start again. Say we meet in a more conventional manner. Maybe we bumped into each other in a quirky little coffee shop in the Village?" He slides from his stool, grabs his half-empty coffee mug in his hand and steps up beside her. "Good heavens. Excuse me, but are you...are you Regina Rossi?"
She hesitates a moment, regarding him appraisingly, apparently uncertain how to approach his antics, gauging whether he is serious about this. Then her lips curve into a mildly indulgent smirk, and she says, "Yes. I am."
He holds out his hand. "Well, I'll be. Robin Archer, so nice to make your acquaintance."
Regina slides her hand into his, then glances around the room and says impishly, "It's awfully crowded in here, today. If you'd like to share a table...?" And he finds himself bathed in a rush of pleasured warmth at seeing her jump in with both feet and play along.
"Oh, that would be awfully kind of you, but...are you sure? You're not expecting someone?"
She shakes her head. "No, I'm alone, today. It's fine."
He nods. "Thank you, kindly." And he takes his seat, once again. "I had never tried this place before, but it seems quite charming."
"I rather like it," she says. "And it's not far from where I live."
"Nice. I'm afraid it's a bit out of the way for me. But there's a small chance I'll be having reason to be out this way a bit more in the near future. We'll see. If so, I shall have to remember this place."
"Business in the neighborhood?" she asks.
He smiles at her with his eyes over the top of his coffee and says, "A personal interest," then takes a sip.
Her jaw cocks to the side, but her gaze falls to her hands with a brief expression he might almost call shy or perhaps flattered.
The conversation gets ridiculously easy, after that. Moments of inexplicable familiarity mix with newness and exploration and Robin has to keep reminding myself he has just met this woman and that he really knows nothing of her life.
They chat for a good half hour, finish another round of coffees. They cover favorite books, favorite films, turkey or salami on sub sandwiches and the best kinds of Halloween candy, their favorite places for vacations (she loves the southern coast of France, he favors the northern woods of British Columbia), then the subject circles around to age and questions of career paths taken versus where one saw oneself heading as a child.
"Success is a matter of perspectives and expectations," Regina says, voice low, fingers restlessly tracing the rim of her mug.
"You don't see yourself as successful in life? You can't be serious."
Regina merely shrugs. "I have a beautiful son."
"Come, now. You are one of the queens of the fashion world. Even I know that, and as a rule I know absolutely nothing about the fashion world."
"Yes, well..." She pulls up in her seat, shifts her hair behind her shoulder with a toss of her head that would be deliciously sensual and alluring if not tainted by an air of suppressed sadness. "Professional success only carries one so far. I love what I do, but...well it's not all quite how it looks from the outside. Sitting alone in one's empty penthouse, it's still quite possible to feel...like the queen of nothing."
A slow beat passes between them. "Is that what you were feeling yesterday, on the balcony?" The words are out before he can bite down on his recalcitrant tongue.
Regina's eyebrows shoot up and she lets go an incredulous and shaky exhale. A second later, she has snatched up her phone and caught hold of her purse. "I really have to be going."
Damn. Damn him and his stupid stupid mouth. "No, please, Ms. Rossi, wait. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I spoke out of turn. That was far too personal a question and none of my business. Forgive me, and please forget I ever asked."
She pauses mid-motion, fingers still curled around the strap of her purse. She breathes carefully and deliberately as she hovers in the shimmering echo of his request.
He is about to redouble his pleas, when she says simply, "You can call me Regina."
Gradually, he permits his frown of concern to soften into a tentative smile. "Thank you." Then to tease her, to test the warmth of the stirring waters, he wrinkles his nose over his near-empty coffee cup and says, "Not 'Gina'?" He has, after all, read a tabloid or two in the line at the neighborhood market.
But the question has the opposite effect of his intent. She stiffens and grows even more distant in her carriage. There is something serious, here, something deep she is trying to cover, but he is starting to suspect that Regina Rossi might be a lousy liar. "No," she states, low and firm. There will be no argument. "That nickname...belongs to one specific person."
"All right." His voice is a near whisper. Soft and kind. He doesn't want to push, doesn't want to ask, but he wants her to know he hears.
She seems to understand.
Ten minutes later, they are standing side by side outside the cafe, Regina in her sunglasses against the late afternoon glare, Robin squinting his sensitive blue eyes as he watches how the light brings out little highlights of auburn in her chocolate hair.
"I'd like to see you, again," he says. "Can I...can I take you to dinner? My treat, this time. Perhaps tomorrow night?"
She is quiet just long enough for his stomach to flip-flop twice over. She catches her luscious lip between elegant white teeth and holds it there (possibly just to stop his heart). Then, she says. "I can't tomorrow. I have a dinner meeting. But...what about Tuesday night?"
He nods with a warm smile, unreasonably grateful at the softness that has returned to her tone. "Tuesday works for me. Assuming, of course, I can find a sitter on shortish notice..."
"Let me know if you have a problem. I might be able to get Henry's nanny to help. I trust her like family, Roland would be in excellent hands."
"A generous offer, madam, thank you. May I see you to the train? Would you prefer a cab?"
Regina shakes her head. "I'm fine on my own, thank you." There is nothing cold in the remark, but there is a clear establishment of boundaries, and Robin accepts this as offered.
Regina glances over her shoulder, out at the traffic and to the crowded sidewalk beyond. Then she faces him with a gentle frown. "Can you do me a favor?"
"Of course, what do you need?"
"If we're going to...see each other, again...."
"Yes?"
"Don't...Google me. Don't read about my life on Wikipedia. Just...ask me."
This is the last thing he had been expecting. But he nods in earnest; intrigued, curious, full of questions, but keeping his expression as quiet and accepting as he can. "All right. Agreed."
She gives a shy, genuine smile in reply and his guts are doing that swimming, twisting thing, again, and oh, God, so royally fucked.
"Until Tuesday, then," he says, offering an answering smile.
"Until Tuesday."
On impulse, he reaches out and catches her hand, gives it a gentle squeeze between his own. He gives her all the necessary slack to pull away if she should wish. She does not. She remains slack and permissive to his touch.
One moment more, the slightest, infinitesimal stroke of her thumb against the outside of his own, then he lets her go without a word, turns and walks away into the crowd, fighting every urge within him not to look back.
*****