by Deborah Camp
Zaney’s toes curled in her sneakers at the deep, rumbling sound emanating from his chest. Everything about him was swoon worthy.
“We’re friends now? Good.” He rubbed Frito’s folded-over ears and angled a glance up at Zaney. “What did you mean when you said, ‘Oh, it’s you’?”
“Uh.” She knitted her brows and tried to look puzzled. “Did I say that? Huh.” Then she shrugged. “I’m your neighbor.”
“Yes, I know. I’m Matt.” He stroked the wiggly dog’s head again. “And this is?”
“Frito Pie. We haven’t actually met. Formally, I mean. I live across the hall in 1-B. I’m Zaney.”
He straightened to tower over her. Now that he was close enough, she realized that his eyes weren’t sky blue, but aquamarine. They glimmered with – what? Amusement?
“Zaney. Is that your clown name?”
She blinked and then chuckled at his audacity. “My clown name? No! That’s a new one. Most people think it’s fake.” She flipped a strand of her hair. “Zaney, redhead cliché and all that. Actually, it’s Zandra, but my mother started calling me Zaney when I was a baby. Nothing fake about me.” She gestured down her body and almost laughed again when Birdsong’s gaze followed and lingered on her boobs. “I don’t need a stage name because I’m not an actress.”
His gaze bounced back up to her face. “Oh. I assumed you were.”
“Why?”
He looked at her – really looked at her – and a tingle raced up her spine. “You’re pretty and I could see you on stage.”
Her mind went blank for a moment and then she felt delight burst through in a huge smile. “Thanks. And might I say that there’s nothing hotter than a man in a beautifully turned out suit who reads novels and pets dogs.”
He blinked those greenish/bluish eyes slowly and a grin kicked up one corner of his mouth, making her study his lips. Everything about him was pretty or handsome. Even his mouth. Wide, but not too wide, with a slightly curvy upper lip and a plump lower one. Oh, and his lashes! Good God, they were long and thick. Long and thick. She jerked her mind away from there by reminding herself of the many, many women who had paraded in and out of his apartment.
“Ummm, well, thank you for sharing that observation, Zaney.”
“No prob.” Had she said too much at the wrong time? She had a bad habit of that. “Just being honest.”
Chuckling and shaking his head a little, he pulled his keys from his trouser pocket as he stepped toward his apartment. “And might I say that’s an admirable trait.”
“And speaking of crazy names.” She glanced sideways at his mailbox slot. “Birdsong? Were your ancestors early members of the Audubon Society or Native Americans?”
He grinned. “Heck if I know. My best guess is that at Ellis Island they couldn’t get anyone to understand how to pronounce, much less spell, their Swedish or Norwegian name, so someone made a wild guess and wrote in Birdsong. I don’t think any Indian tribe would claim us.”
He was friendlier than she’d expected and she could see why he had no shortage of available pillow partners. “Well, I like it. It sings to me.”
He tipped his head and curiosity was evident in his expression. Something else, too. Interest? “Good to meet you, Zaney.” At his apartment door, he glanced at her again, giving her another grin before he went inside.
Zaney opened the street door for Frito Pie and he scrambled through as if he’d been a prisoner for a hundred years and was finally free. She let him steer as she reviewed the snippets of conversation she’d enjoyed with none other than M. Birdsong himself. It had only taken her a year to speak to him. Normally, she was the friendly sort. She knew her other neighbors in the building. Mrs. Ella Winters lived on the second floor and Kris and Angela Farmington lived on the third floor. Mrs. Winters was divorced and had a yorkie named Ribbons. The Farmingtons married two months ago, making it “official” after living together for five years.
Why she’d waited for so long to say anything to Birdsong baffled her. Was she intimidated by his swinging bachelor lifestyle? She discarded that notion and decided that she had treated him like a “man of mystery,” spying on him, wondering about him, imagining what was going on in his life simply because it had entertained her.
Now that she’d met him and knew a little about his past, she was even more intrigued. That comment about honesty was more than an offhanded remark. It was a lynchpin to his core values, to who he was and what he wanted most in life. It had everything to do with his divorce.
Carin had been right. She’d done a number on her ex, but a man who read Prince of Tides had a beating heart and tender feelings.
“He can be salvaged,” Zaney murmured as she waited for Frito to thoroughly sniff a flowerpot on her neighbor’s stoop before lifting his leg to leave his calling card. All Birdsong needed was a bit more time to heal and a woman he felt he could trust.
Chapter 3
Coffee Clash
Keno’s Coffee Shop appeared one day on 38th and Park Avenue like a mushroom after a hard rain. Matthew noticed it, wondered how long it had been there, and ducked in. That was three months ago and it had become one of his favorite places to grab a seat and a cup of Joe.
He liked sitting in the front window like he was now. Eight stools lined the bright yellow bar and he was the only one seated there this afternoon. Facing the street window, with his book open before him and a steaming cup of regular, old coffee with half-and-half stirred in, he propped his head in his palm and sank deep into the world Pat Conroy had laid out for him. He was nearing the end of the novel, totally immersed in it, when someone rapped smartly on the window, ripping him from the fictive world and plunking him back into Keno’s. He stared at a young woman with a blazingly sunny smile and fiery hair that curled at the shoulders of her striped mini dress. Wait. He knew her. His neighbor. He lifted a hand in a half-hearted wave. She made some hand signals he couldn’t decipher and then bounded toward the door. Looked like she was joining him.
“Hey!” She was beside him in a millisecond. “I was on my way to grab some groceries and I saw you in here.” Glancing over her shoulder, she held up a finger to ward off a response he wasn’t going to make. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”
She went to the counter and ordered something. Her blue and white striped skirt ended halfway between her butt and her knees. She had good legs. In fact, she was good all over. Kind of short, but stacked nicely. If he remembered correctly, her eyes were green. Or maybe gray. When she turned around with a paper cup of coffee in hand, he grinned back at her. She had one of those smiles that was like a yawn. When you saw it, you had to do it, too.
Hitching herself up onto the stool beside him, she wiggled about until she was comfortable, then plucked at the front of her dress, before sipping the coffee. “Ahhh! Perfect.” She eyed his cup. “What’s in yours?”
“Coffee with half-and-half.”
Her eyes widened. Yes. They were green. Not grass green, but more like jade green. “Mine, too! We’re twinsies! People make fun of me because I just want coffee. Not latte or pumpkin spice. The real brew.” She touched his cup with hers like they were wine glasses. “You’re almost finished with the book.”
He rested his free hand on the open volume, giving himself a few seconds to catch up with her. “I am. It’s a great story.”
“Unforgettable. If you aren’t moved by that book, then you’re a statue and deserve to have pigeons poop all over you.”
He chuckled, then wondered if she’d followed him. Would she do that? He didn’t know because he didn’t know her. God, what if she were a stalker girl? One of his college buddies had met a woman in a bar and she’d followed him for a month! Everywhere he went, she was there. He’d finally had to threaten her with a restraining order before she’d left him alone. He realized that the redhead had gone quiet and was waiting for him to say something.
“I . . . um. Sorry. What were you saying?”
“You went man-deaf, didn�
��t you? The guys where I work do that sometimes. They zone out and let you talk to yourself.” She shrugged and drank some of her coffee.
“I didn’t mean to. I was thinking . . .” About stalkers. Are you one?
“I was rambling on about how I had to dart out to buy a few groceries. Mainly dog food. My little monster is particular about his vittles. It’s got to be either Mighty Dog or Little Cesar. I’ve bought more expensive brands and he won’t touch them. You have a cat, right?”
He nodded, then froze. Stalker! “How do you know I have a cat? She never goes out.”
She smiled, but this one lacked power. “Oh. I . . . um . . . I met your ex-wife and she mentioned it.”
“My ex . . .” Warning flags waved before his eyes. Crazy redhead stalker girl! Her name’s Zaney. A moniker the police had given her? He leaned away from her. “Are you following me? If you are, I want you to stop.”
“Following you?” She angled a worried look at him and rested a hand on his sleeve for a few moments. “Seriously? Get a grip, Matthew. I’m not following you. I live near here just like you do, pal. I met your ex by chance a couple of weeks ago at E Street. You know that bar? No? Well, it’s a popular hangout. Anyway, my friend saw your ex and they happened to have gone to college together. My friend remembers you, too. Lonnie O’Grady? Ring a bell? No? Well, your ex-wife came over and they caught up on old times. She needed a shoulder to cry on because of her breakup and all. You know about that.”
He had been steadily shaking his head to everything she was saying.
“You don’t? Her engagement is over. They’ve split. She wanted him to spend more time with her and help plan the wedding and he wouldn’t or couldn’t, so they had it out and it all blew up.”
Now that was funny and he stopped shaking his head and let himself laugh. Bitterly, yes, but laugh. It kind of felt like razor blades moving up this throat.
“I know it’s weird, me meeting her. I mean, we’re in freaking New York! Not Backwoods! But, it happened. I didn’t even know she was talking about you until after she’d left and Lonnie mentioned your name. Birdsong. M. Birdsong! That’s when I knew.” She smacked the bar with the flat of her hand to make her point and it make him jump a little.
“And how did my cat come into the conversation?”
“Toodles?’
Jesus! She even knows her name!
“Carin said she sees you every so often when she visits Toodles.”
“And you remembered that.”
“Again, not an ordinary name. And I’m female, so I’m not afflicted with male deafness. I listen.” She shrugged and drank some more coffee as she watched people passing by the window. “So, what do you do? Public relations?”
He wasn’t completely at ease with her or her explanation, but he heard himself answer her, nonetheless. “Yes, and advertising. I co-own a firm.”
“Good for you.” She bunched up one hand into a fist and jabbed him in the shoulder. “Initiative is a wonderful thing. That’s one thing I admire about Foster. My boss. He is driven. He dreams something and he makes it happen.”
“What do you do for Foster?”
“I’m Foster Mendoza’s dresser.”
Again, he was flummoxed. He knew the name she’d thrown out. Mendoza was a fashion designer of some repute. But, dresser? “You’re his what . . . valet?”
She very nearly did a spit take. Crushing her napkin to her mouth saved the window from being splattered. Her big, green eyes watered as she swung them around to him. “No! Valet? Oh my God.” She doubled over in giggles, making him chuckle along with her just because she was cute as hell. It’d be a damn shame if she turned out to be a weirdo stalker. “The image that brings to mind! Woohoo, how hilarious. No, no. Dresser. I dress his models at fashion shows, private showings, that sort of thing.”
“Oh.” He laughed with her. “I see. The models can’t manage that themselves?”
“They could, but, well, no. The clothes are often intricate and there are zippers in the back, snaps here and there, belts and bows that are tricky. I know what accessories go with each piece and I know how each garment is supposed to hang, to drape, to hug or not hug certain body parts.”
“I’ve heard of that kind of work in the theater,” he said, now that he’d had a few moments to think about it.
“That’s right. I used to work in the theater. My mother was a theater dresser. One of the best, and I followed in her footsteps until Foster lured me into the fashion biz.” She bobbed one shoulder and gazed out the window again. “Although I love the theater and theater people, I did not love the schedule. In the theater, you get Sunday evening after the matinee off.” She held up one forefinger. “And then you get Monday off.” Another finger. “That’s the day you get stuff done like the laundry, shopping, calling people back. And then you get free time Tuesdays until around four in the afternoon.” A third finger. “No time to really see any friends, except for Sunday evening and your friends usually spend it with family or getting ready for Monday and another workweek. And I value my relationships. What’s life without letting loose with your pals and getting love hugs from folks?”
He was used to listening to women talk. Most women had the gift of gab. But he usually wasn’t very interested in what they had to say. So, the fact that he was hanging on her every syllable impressed him. He decided she wasn’t stalking him, which was a relief and allowed him to relax.
He liked to watch her talk. Her face was expressive. Pinpoints of light sparkled in her big eyes. They were a lovely color. Green/gray. Her smile was megawatt. She beamed. And her nose crinkled a little when she grinned. Shallow dimples winked in her freckled cheeks. Her skin was alabaster with a fine scattering of red dots. He liked her hair a lot. It looked natural and soft as if she didn’t put a lot of product in it, but let it fall in gentle waves to her shoulders. She parted it on the side and had feathery bangs.
“Carin mentioned that you’re a hard worker. You love what you do, huh?”
The utterance of his ex-wife’s name shattered his relaxation and he flexed his shoulders and drew in a big breath. “I do like to work, yes.” Of course, Carin would say that about him every fucking chance she got. Like it was a venereal disease she was afraid he’d give her.
“I’m glad we’re on speaking terms now. Wouldn’t hurt you to get to know all your neighbors. Some nice people live in our building.”
“I know.”
“You do?” She arched a disbelieving brow. “Who lives on the second floor?”
“Ella Winters.”
She closed her mouth, making her teeth click. “Third floor?”
“The Farmingtons.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Very interesting. He knows his neighbors, but he kept far, far away from me! Why is this?”
He squinted back at her. “He knew your name and he had glimpsed you, but hadn’t had the opportunity to actually meet you until the other day. And everyone’s name is on their mailboxes.”
She beamed again. “You live in the triplex. We’re all jealous of you, you know, in our simple one-levels. We hear that your place is very fancy.”
“It’s not that fancy. But it is nice.”
“How’d you get it? Did you inherit it? Do you know someone in real estate? Or are you loaded?”
“I refurbished it and made it a triplex. I’m not what you would call ‘loaded.’ But I do own the building.”
Her smile froze and then slowly melted. “You own it?”
He nodded, secretly pleased to have knocked her for a loop.
“I write my rent check to ABC Holdings.” She covered her gasping mouth with her hand. “Are you ‘B’?”
“I am B,” he confessed with a grin. She really was cute.
“Who are A and C? Your brothers? Your dad and your brother?”
“A is Anderson. Seth Anderson is my business partner. C is corporation. A separate holding from our other business. Our ad agency is ABCreations.” He made a ‘c’ in the air wi
th his forefinger to illustrate.
“Ohhhh.” She stared outside a few moments. “I’ve heard of that company. So, you’re my landlord.”
“That’s right.”
“I can call you when my toilet backs up or my faucet leaks.”
“No, please don’t,” he said, laughing a little under his breath at her teasing. “You call the number we gave you. It’s a real estate company that handles those things for me. I’m not a handyman.”
“Aw, shucks. I kind of wanted to see you in bib overalls. Or in low-slung jeans that ride a little too low when you’re bent double under the sink.”
“Crack of dawn?” he supplied, nearly provoking another spit take from her.
She dabbed at her mouth again with the napkin, then tipped up her cup and drained it. “This has been quite enlightening, wouldn’t you say? You’re an interesting guy.”
“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.”
Patting his hand in a consoling way, she gave him a sympathetic look. “Need to work some on your return compliments there, Matthew. You’re supposed to have better game than that.”
“I’m supposed to? By whose measure?”
“By the parade of lovelies entering and leaving your triplex. You’re handsome, but I’ve known many handsome men who wouldn’t come close to racking up a sleep-over score card like yours. I mean, if you say, ‘you’re not so bad yourself’ to the ladies who just complimented you on your – ” she cleared her throat – “mattress mojo, word would get around quickly that you’re an arrogant, thoughtless prick.”
Amazed at the words coming out of her mouth, he chuckled and shifted his gaze to the window. “You’ve kept score, have you?”
“Not really.” She shrugged off his implication. “It just so happens that when I’m leaving for work, your guests are often emerging from your place. The proverbial walk of shame, if you will. Wearing the same dress they had on last night, usually holding their shoes in their hands and sometimes their shoes and their bras, and trying to slip out and grab a taxi as quickly as possible.”