by Brill Harper
“I was hoping you were a psychotic episode. Yet, here you are.”
I send him a small smile, hoping I can start off on a better foot. “Here I am.”
Two men come in wearing BBFD t-shirts. Firefighters. Is that normal here? For first responders to hang out in a bar just past noon?
“How was your shift?” Nash asks them in a friendly tone, obviously used to the regulars.
“Quiet. Cap is still out on injury, and his replacement doesn’t work us as hard on drills.”
“Don’t tell Leo that or he’ll come back to work too soon.”
“We’re going to practice darts—send us a pitcher, yeah?”
Nash nods and looks at me hiding in the shadows. “You ready for your first lesson?”
“Aren’t they working? Should they be drinking?”
“They’re off shift. They’re all good guys who work hard. We don’t give people a hard time for having a beer after work. That’s how we make our living, remember?”
I nod. “I apologize. I haven’t spent much time in a bar before.”
“Really?” he asks dryly. “You ready to learn how to pour?”
“Even I can handle that. Don’t you just pull the lever?”
He scoffs. “It’s an art. If you do it wrong, it will over- or under-foam. Come here.”
I set Fifi’s carrier down and let him position me in front of the tap. He puts a glass in my hand but holds his hand over mine. “You want this glass at a forty-five-degree angle about an inch below the tap.” He’s standing behind me, and I can feel the heat of him, his breath at my temple as he adjusts my wrist to the correct angle. My belly quivers as I try to concentrate on his words and not his potent masculine power. He takes my other hand in his and moves it to the tap handle. “We’re going to quickly pull it forward to open the flow of beer. Never open it only partway.”
“Why?”
“It will over-foam. It’s either on or off. Never between. Got that?”
I nod and find myself sucking in my stomach. This is ridiculous.
“Once it’s open, we're going to let the beer flow down the side of the glass until it’s half full. Keep the glass at forty-five-degrees and don’t let the spout touch the glass. Once it’s half full, continue pouring while you gently tilt the glass upright and pour down the center to create about one inch of head.”
His low voice in my ear is vibrating in places that make me tingle. I have to resist the urge to lean back against his chest. It would feel so good, all that strength supporting me for a change. I need to get it together.
“So I can start?”
“No. Don’t be impatient.” Did he just sniff me? I think he just sniffed me. “Once the pour is done with the right amount of foam, quickly turn the tap off. Now you can try it.”
It didn’t look hard, but the beer foams more than one inch. My shoulders slump. “I screwed it up. Do I pour the foam off?”
“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself. Just let it rest until the head calms down and finish your pour. It will be fine.”
While I wait, I angle my head so I can talk to him. “Thank you for not yelling or getting mad. I promise I’ll figure it out.”
His brow wrinkles up. “It’s just beer, Dickinson.”
I nod, and duck my head, afraid I’ll show that my eyes are starting to well up.
“Hey.” He nudges my temple with his nose. “I’d be better off letting you be afraid of me, but I don’t sweat the small stuff. And I don’t yell at people when they are learning a new skill. Now let’s finish this beer.”
I swallow hard and nod again. He’s actually been really nice considering I’ve just turned his life upside down.
When he’s satisfied that I can fill a couple glasses, he gives me a pitcher and steers me to a different tap, one with more expensive beer in it. “Never let the tap come in contact with the glass or the beer.” He takes his hand off mine holding the glass and settles it on my hip. I draw in a shocked breath but pour a flawless pitcher and even take it to the guys playing darts.
A woman wearing a navy-blue dress dotted with white anchors comes in holding a paper bag with grease stains on it, already talking as if in mid-conversation. “They were out of onions, Nash. Tell your patrons they can thank me later when you breathe on them...” She gets to the bar and cocks her head, examining me, then examining Nash. “New employee?” she asks Nash, setting down a heavenly smelling lunch. “Hi, I’m Stella.”
I open my mouth to introduce myself and Fifi yips. Probably smelling the food.
“Oh, hell,” Nash mutters as Stella’s face transforms into what I can only describe as pure joy. “You got a dog!” She rounds the bar and zeroes in on Fifi’s carrier. “Oh my God, Nash. It’s about time. Oh, he’s adorable.”
“Not my dog,” he says, but I don’t think she heard him as she gets down on the floor and starts making baby talk to my dog.
“Who’s a good baby? Look at you.”
Nash reaches a beleaguered arm down to bring Stella back up. “Not my dog. And no, you can’t have one in the apartment either.”
Her face falls and she brushes off her dress. I wish I could pull off that kind of style. The neckline looks like she stepped out of a Hollywood movie set in the ‘50s. Bombshell starlet. Matching shoes. Ruby red lipstick.
So this is his type? It makes sense, I guess. A woman would have to be sure of herself and filled to the brim with je ne sais quoi to keep up with him.
I’m trying to figure out why he didn’t tell me a woman lived with him when he introduces me to her. She’s going to be a little upset, I’m sure. Even if she does like dogs. Maybe sleeping in my car isn’t so bad after all.
The niggle of disappointment surprises me even more than the woman, though. Why had I assumed he was single? Why do I want him to be single? I don’t, do I?
“Stella, meet my business partner, Gertrude Finnegan.”
“Tru Stanhope,” I correct, holding out my hand.
She shakes it briskly and smiles so genuinely I feel warm all over. Which makes me feel even worse that I was even minutely attracted to her boyfriend. “Hi, Tru. Nash told me his silent partner was a little old woman in New York.”
“I’ve been told I’m mature for my age.”
“So you’re my landlady.”
“I...am I?”
Nash is watching my face closely. Too closely. Like he senses my near brush with jealousy. Which is impossible. “Stella rents the apartment across the hall from us.”
“Us?” Stella asks, clearly surprised. “There’s an us?” She points to me, then to Nash, then makes some gesture with her hands poking one finger into a hole she made with the other.
Nash grimaces and grabs her hands to stop the lewd gesture. “Just for that, I’m raising your rent.” She laughs, and he tries to regain his cool. “Tru is utilizing the guest room at my place while she learns a little more about the business. She won’t be staying long.”
God willing.
“Tru, can I meet your dog, please? I work for the vet down the block and run a foster program for rescue animals.”
Nash exhales loudly and sort of stomps away while I get Fifi out. She goes right to Stella like they are old friends. “Nash, your lunch is getting cold,” she yells at him across the bar, but he growls at her and does something to the dartboard to reset it.
“Actually, I already heard you were here. My dad called me at work after he left this morning and filled me in. I was just hoping to get more gossip.”
“Your dad...”
“The assless chaps one from the band. Nash’s dad just wore leather pants and spandex. Mine also had a perm. He taught me how to do eyeliner in the seventh grade because my mom is hopeless with makeup and my sister thinks eyeliner is trashy and wouldn’t help me.”
I’m at a loss for how to reply to that. Assless chaps? I was just going to ask her if her dad was the one Nash called Jake. “Your dad seemed pretty conservative this morning.”
“Oh, y
eah. He only ever wears dad clothes these days. So how long are you staying upstairs?”
“I’m going to start business school this fall, so just long enough to learn the ins and outs. I thought it would be prudent to take a more hands-on approach with some of my investments.”
She worries her bottom lip and glances at Nash, nodding. “Well, we’re happy to have a city girl in town. You can give us some sorely needed cosmopolitan culture.”
I look down at my bland outfit, the way it makes me look boxy and sixty. “I think you probably have a better handle on that than I do. I really like your dress.”
She beams at me and kisses my dog’s head. “Thank you! It has pockets.”
Nash joins us at the bar, grumpily, but opens the bag. “Do you like grinders, Gertrude?”
“I don’t want to intrude on your lunch.”
“Sure you do,” Stella answers. “You can have half mine.”
I stammer and try to get out of it. But Nash suggests I pour us all an IPA and they divide their sandwiches among the three of us. Stella eats with Fifi on her lap and I can’t help but get caught up in their easy friendship. I’m a world away from Tavern on the Green and my ladies who lunch days, but I’m oddly at ease.
“Can I read your palm?” Stella asks holding out her hand for mine.
Nash pushes it away. “You don’t read palms. And you do this with every girlfriend I’ve ever had, making up some bullshit about her love line. Knock it off.”
“Girlfriend, huh?” Stella smiles and takes a bite of her sandwich.
Nash narrows his eyes at her, and she kicks him under the table.
I wish I had that kind of rapport with someone, so I don’t even mind that she’s using me to get his goat.
Chapter Four
Nash
I DON’T KNOW HOW I forget, but I walk into my apartment tonight expecting it to be the same as it always is, only just as I let the door close behind me, Tru is coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.
I no longer live alone.
My roommate turns me on.
It’s not hard to imagine her in the shower instead of out of it. Her body, sleek and wet, as soap runs down her breasts...
“Oh,” she breathes and stops abruptly. Maybe she forgot she didn’t live alone too.
I like the catch in her breath. It sounds close to a whimper, and suddenly, I’m filled with longing to hear her whimper and sigh in my arms instead of across the room. I’m pretty sure that’s not a thing that is going to happen. Even if she were on board, it would complicate things unnecessarily.
Or would it? Maybe she’d be less frustrating and troublesome if I could soften her with sex. She’s a little skittish, but it’s not like I didn’t see her watching me all night at the bar. Wanting me maybe.
She definitely gets tongue-tied when I flirt with her. Which is fascinating. Like a blushing virgin, though she was married for two years. My gaze lingers over her body a little too long, thinking about how easy it would be for that towel to flick open, and she turns a pretty pink all over.
“You’re blushing.”
“Just got out of the hot shower.” The air thickens between us. “I should get dressed, excuse me.”
She brushes past me, and I watch her all the way to the guest room before I let out a long breath. My mind goes back to teaching her how to pull a draft today. Her soft curves, the smell of her shampoo. My first impression wasn’t wrong this morning. She’s trouble.
The dog wanders past me and scratches at the door. I ignore it. It scratches again.
There’s a leash next to Tru’s keys, a little pink thing that looks like you could walk a guinea pig with it. I suppose that belongs to Fifi, who is more rodent than dog. Don’t ask me why I put the leash on it, carry it down the stairs, and wander the grass in front of my building while it does its business. I am disgusted with myself.
This is not a good way to get rid of it and its owner. Since Tru turned my life upside down this morning, I don’t think I’ve done anything right. I should have been meaner. I should have called my lawyer. I should have refused her entry to my house and my bar. Instead, I practically offered turndown service and now I’m walking her pet rat.
I carry the damn thing back up the stairs too. It’s a lot of stairs and rats have short legs. I tell myself I just didn’t want to wait while it took too long, but when it licks my face, I know I’m not fooling myself or the dog.
I open the door to a smoke-filled apartment.
“Sorry,” she yells, frantically waving a dishtowel below the alarm. “I was trying to do something nice, since you were walking my dog, and thought I’d make us something to eat, but as usual, I’m not good at much of anything.”
I shouldn’t tell her she’s good at making me hard. That’s not going to make her feel better. I can’t stop staring at the patch of skin between the bottom of her t-shirt and the pajama pants she’s wearing. It’s hardly the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen, but try telling that to my dick. “I bet you got a 4.0 in all your literature classes.”
She stops the towel and looks at me quizzically. “What does that have to do with burning food?”
“You said you weren’t good at anything. I say you’re good at poems or whatever.” I study her face before she turns away. I don’t think she likes being seen. I move in and turn on the fan above the stove. “Get the bread out, I’ll make us grilled cheese.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Just get the bread.” I make for a light tone, “So, not much of a cook, huh?”
She shakes her head, watching me very carefully like she’s going to have to take a test on grilled cheese later. “Growing up, we had a cook. After my grandfather died, I found someone who would come once a week and prepare meals for the whole week.”
She grew up with a cook. She’s richer than I thought. I just don’t understand where her money went. If she came from that kind of background, why is she sniffing around my bar? “And your husband?”
“Ex-husband.” She looks down, her lashes sweeping low. “I don’t think he cooks, but I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did.”
There’s a story there. One that makes her shoulders round and her voice go soft. She’s vulnerable and hates it. It makes a man want to step up and fix things for her.
Where the hell did that come from? The very last thing I want to do is be some woman’s knight in shining armor. I learned what happens to that guy from watching my mom roll over my dad too many times.
But I don’t think she has anyone to talk to, and my whole life, I’ve never not had anyone to talk to. Whether I wanted to talk or not.
“What happened?” I ask casually, looking at the pan and not her. I learned that from my dad too. He told me after I was grown that the key to getting your kids to talk was not looking directly at them during a big discussion. Which explains why he used to take me for long drives when I hit puberty. It worked. I spilled a lot of shit to my dad over the years while sitting in the passenger seat.
“Do you need any help?” she asks, avoiding my question.
I flip the sandwich. “No, I got this.” She’s trembling. Fuck. I set the spatula down, suddenly filled with a dangerous rage. “Did he hurt you?”
Tru looks up, surprised. “Not that way.” She gets out a couple of plates. “We just weren’t a good fit.”
There’s more. Keep talking, sweetheart.
“Is he the reason you don’t have any money?”
She bites her lip, and I stifle a groan. Why is that sexy?
“That’s really none of your business.”
I plate the sandwiches and try not to take offense, but it’s hard not to. “I think you owe me some answers.”
That lower lip trembles, but then she straightens her spine and carries her plate to the couch. “I don’t want you to know how pathetic I am.”
“Why do you think you’re pathetic?”
“Because I am! Richard was a con artist. He got close to my gr
andfather while he was dying and then...got close to me. He never loved me. He was actually never even married to me. He’s in the Caymans now, probably with his real wife and my inheritance. The only thing left after selling everything to pay the back taxes and debt was Ironwing.”
I set my plate down on the coffee table so I don’t throw it. “That fucker.”
She blinks her surprise at me. “I’m the stupid one who married him.”
“Tru, it doesn’t take long in your presence to realize you have a kind of...innocence.”
“Stupidity.”
“Innocence. You’re trusting, and I’m sure you’re very book smart, but I’m guessing your time in the stacks of your ivy league school didn’t really prepare you for some of the stuff life has thrown at you. Your ex is a dick. He took advantage of you.”
“Well, it won’t happen again. I thought...the way he took care of me...all my life, I thought men would take care of me. That’s how I was raised. My grandparents loved me, but they brought me up in a way that I would always rely on someone else. But there is no one else. There is only me.”
I think about my mom and how she thought men were there to take care of her too.
“So why business school? Why is that so important to you?”
“Isn’t that what men do to show they’re serious? The world respects businesspeople. They don’t respect poets.”
“And that’s what you want? Respect?”
“I want never to be taken for a fool again. Yes, I want respect.” She’s practically grinding her teeth. “Tomorrow, I’m looking at the books.”
Now she’s set my teeth on edge. “Respect goes both ways, Robert Frost. Try to remember I’m not the asshole who took you for every penny you had while you pull the rug out from under my life, yeah?”
I slam the door of my bedroom like a sullen teenage girl. She makes me crazy and I’ve known her for less than a day. I make it a practice to never be angry or emotional about things—life is easier when you just take it as it comes. This poet with more control of my business than I have is going to have to go.
Tru
I’VE BEEN HERE FOR three weeks now, meshing myself into the rhythm of Nash’s life whether he likes it or not. Every day, I’m surprised not to find my things on the curb. Every day, he tells me something about having his lawyer look over things, or we’ll work on fixing the place up later, or he’s thinking of a way to buy me out.