by Jenn Hughes
Ronnie, the soda jerk who worked the evening rush, knew her by name. Every time she popped in for a quick treat after work, he’d ask her if she wanted her usual and she’d reply, “Sure, on the rocks.”
That meant a heaping scoop of Rocky Road topped with pistachio ice cream.
But she needed something a tad stronger than pistachio or black cherry frozen yogurt, and so Neptune’s Chocolate Comet Swirl won the contest with ease. Lillian swiped it from the freezer and then turned to grab a spoon from the drawer before—
“Ice cream contains approximately one hundred thirty-seven calories per half-cup serving. At 8:16 p.m. a more appropriate snack would be a bowl of berries,” interrupted her talking refrigerator.
Lillian groaned. It had been a massive mistake to tell the building manager to turn on the fridge’s computerized weight-loss program. It hounded her daily. Nothing made it happy. If she chose a bottle of water, it ordered her to drink juice because her blood sugar might be low.
“Shut up,” she told it in a stern whisper.
“Or fresh veggies and dip.”
“Stop it.”
“Or—”
“System off!” she yelled at it.
A quick chime and the fridge left her alone to return to her diet-killing decision without an ounce of remorse. She headed back into the living room, dropped onto the sofa, and then wrapped herself in her most wickedly cozy blanket. Lillian stuck a heaping spoonful of chocolate ice cream in her mouth. Delicious, though it didn’t diminish her guilt over the coffee table of incomplete items in front of her.
On the table lay a ball of teal ombre yarn pierced by her knitting needles. Next to it sat a stack of back issues of the North Atlantic Law Journal she still hadn’t read. And then there was the birthday card for her former assistant in Boston, whose birthday had been three weeks earlier.
But then she spotted the ScreenIt remote. All the worry fell away when her TV came on, and the online movie queue popped up. After a brief scroll through the sizeable list, she landed on an old black-and-white holiday movie about Santa trying to return a lost girl home for Christmas.
The reviews had been good, but as the movie played Lillian grew increasingly offended. Santa mainly used the little girl as child labor to help him deliver gifts. By the time the poor girl got stuck in a chimney while working holiday overtime, Lillian had designed an airtight case to send that Santa to prison. Dramatic opening statement, witnesses, cross-examinations, closing arguments—
The doorbell rang and Lillian flinched. She hurried to the door, squinted through the peephole . . .
“Oh, God.”
She opened the door, and there stood her baby sister in all her boho-chic glory. “Don’t give me that look. I wanted to surprise you,” Tessa said with a grin.
Then she stepped in and bear-hugged Lillian. Literally. To be so tall and thin, Tessa hugged like a Russian powerlifter. The squeeze left Lillian gasping for breath when finally released. Tessa strolled right into the apartment, never one to wait for an invitation.
Lillian shook her head as she closed the door. “I love you, but you know I hate surprises.”
Tessa tossed her stylish crimson puffer coat onto the back of the couch and then started the process of unwrapping a large, Lillian-knitted ombre scarf from around her neck. “I know. But I thought if I caught you off guard you’d be more likely to spill the beans on your mystery Sam.”
“He isn’t a mystery. In fact, he’s pretty predictable . . . No. No, first you’re going to tell me what’s wrong. Is something wrong with Mom? Or Dad? Are they behind on the payments—”
“There’s nothing wrong with Mom or Dad, for the millionth time. And you know they never tell me anything about bills, but I’m pretty sure they’re fine. You could call them, you know.”
The last remark stung and Lillian went on the defensive. “I did call them—yesterday. A lot can happen in a day, but I can’t check in with them as much as I did in Boston. Sometimes I don’t even make it home from work until nine at night, and I can’t call them that late. They’re in bed by eight, like always. Did you come all this way to make me feel terrible?”
Tessa struck a pose, putting her hands on her slender hips. “No. Did you open the door to make me feel terrible?”
“Of course not. But something is wrong. A six-hour drive from New York through snow and ice isn’t one you’d make unless you have a problem. I’ll make some tea, and then you’re going to tell me what’s going on.”
Minutes later, and with two piping hot cups of chamomile tea on the coffee table in front of them, Lillian studied her sister’s face for some indication of a problem. Tessa tried to keep her cover, staring back without blinking or squirming, but Lillian always read her like a book.
A drapey, flower-child book with an embroidered purple bell-sleeve blouse and knee-high tan suede boots. She might have looked the part of a seventies rock goddess, but Tessa didn’t intimidate like one. It took no more than thirty seconds of calm and silent examination for Lillian to break her. As usual. Tessa twisted a few strands of fringe on her boots. Then she bit her lip. Finally, she rolled her eyes.
“Ugh, okay, you win. Your stare is like being waterboarded.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere. Now tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong. Travis went on tour with his band for a few weeks, and I don’t have another job until Wednesday so I thought I’d visit. I was . . . I don’t know. Worried.”
Lillian smiled and picked up her cup for a victory sip of tea. “Oh, well, at least Travis is off your couch and maybe earning some money for the first time in, what? Three months?”
Tessa held up her hand. “Don’t. Travis is a musician. You know how that is. He can’t guarantee when he’ll have a gig. You’re trying to change the subject. I’m not here to talk about my love life. I’m here to talk about yours.”
“I don’t have a love life, so you’ll have a short visit.”
“Liar. You’re avoiding my calls, and you know that drives me crazy. You forced me to drive up here, so now you owe me. Fess. Up.”
The light caught Tessa’s hair, and the gleam distracted Lillian. Every time she saw Tessa, her sister had dyed her hair a different color. Or colors, in this case. The natural brown on top transformed to a vibrant, fiery auburn midway down her wavy locks. With her lithe frame and flawless makeup, Tessa should have been the model instead of making models look gorgeous with expertly applied makeup.
“I love your hair. I wish I could do that to mine.”
“You could. We could. Let me have a hold of you. Please! Please! Please!”
Lillian laughed. Makeovers, Tessa’s favorite childhood activity, had involved putting Lillian’s hair in pigtails and smearing lipstick and baby blue eyeshadow all over her face. Too bad they weren’t kids anymore.
“I’m too old for that look.”
Tessa huffed and fell back against the sofa. “That’s not true. You don’t even look thirty-nine . . . ” She trailed off and narrowed her eyes. “Oh, you’re good, Lilly-Beth. But changing the subject won’t work. Tell me what’s going on with Sam. And please tell me that bastard Richard Bryant hasn’t dragged you into anything stupid.”
Lie like you’ve never lied before. Lillian tried not to twist her mouth into a telling frown. “I’m not involved in some stupid scheme with Richard. That’s ludicrous. Why even suggest it?”
“Because whenever he called, you came running to help. Flat tires. Exam questions. Is this time any different?”
“Of course it’s different. My eyes are wide open now, and I see Richard for exactly what he is—a dick. Happy?”
On the whole, the exchange had been at least partially correct. Sure, Lillian had come to Richard’s rescue again in the help-win-Emily-back plan. But this time there was more
to the story. Her eyes were wide open and fixed on a target. Only the target wasn’t Richard Bryant.
Tessa smiled broadly. “Very happy. Thank you. Finally. And you’re okay? I know he has to get to you after everything that happened.”
“He gets to me in a good way now. He’s a reminder of a painful lesson not to be repeated. I’m okay. I’m so okay I’m even helping him win back his wife.”
Whoops.
Tessa’s smile faded like a late-summer rose. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
“No, totally sane. It’s all about moving on and letting go. If I hold onto a grudge, it doesn’t do anything to Richard. It hurts me. It’s kept me from experiencing the one thing I wanted—something serious. Serious as a heart attack, and I’m ready for resuscitation.”
Mouth-to-mouth with Sam Owens any day of the week.
The heat on her cheeks told Lillian to get back on subject. “Besides, Richard and Emily are perfect together and misery apart. I’m doing my civic duty. The world will be a better place if their crazy is confined to one another.”
Flashbulb smile back on. “It’s convoluted, but it’s growth. I’m proud.” Tessa’s smile went from satisfied to devilish as she asked in a coy little voice, “So, speaking of growth and not being alone, what about Sam?”
Lillian sighed. What about Sam?
Her glimpse of the real Sam made it impossible to keep thoughts of him out of her head. And after learning Preston Lavery had stolen Sam’s game and built Mythos on a foundation of lies, her job no longer seemed like a good excuse to keep her distance. In fact, her resignation was typed and ready to fire off.
But Lillian couldn’t pull the trigger. She wanted to pull it. Ethically it was the right thing to do. But quitting Mythos had suddenly become twisted up with a possible relationship with Sam—and she would not leave a job she’d worked for her entire professional life so she could jump into bed with a gorgeous, sexy, butt-so-tight-she-could-bounce-a-quarter-off-it type of . . .
“Sam has to be kept at arm’s length.”
“Oh, my God—you just said you weren’t going to do that anymore!”
“I know but . . . It’s complicated.”
“Spill it, Lil. We’ve got all night.”
Tessa put the Galaxy Trek Blorg queen to shame. Resistance wasn’t an option. So, Lillian spilled it. All of it. All the dirty little details of The Electric and flirting and Sam’s secret life and the nonfraternization policy and Richard’s warnings about Sam. It flowed out like wine from an uncorked bottle. In the end, Lillian felt so much better letting go of the pressure of holding it all in.
Tessa processed the information and pinched her lower lip. Scrunched nose, too. Her concentration pose.
“So your Sam is Sam Owens? The Origin CEO Sam Owens?”
Lillian let her head roll back and groaned. “After all that, all you can come back with is Sam Mr. Origin Money-Bags Software?”
Tessa raised her hand again. “It’s a small world, that’s all. You know he dated Jacinda Shields, and I did her makeup for the Met while they were dating. She was crazy about him. Yakked on about how smart he was and how handsome and how much fun they had. But I don’t think they lasted long. I remember even after they officially split she still talked about him in glowing terms.”
Lillian’s throat suddenly felt like someone had sprayed starch in it. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“I’m arriving at a point here, Lil. I mean, even with his reputation, he must be a great guy. His exes still like him after they break up. Either that or it’s not serious enough to be a big deal. Probably the latter, knowing Jacinda. Monogamy is not her thing. So do you see what I’m saying?”
“Um, no.”
“Okay, do any of those women have any idea Sam is a gaming-obsessed, action figure-collecting geek?”
“No. That’s where the whole ‘two different people’ part came in.”
“Exactly. So what woman does know the secret identity behind the superhero?”
Lillian pressed her lips together. “Me. But that’s only because I showed up at his apartment in the middle of the night like a lunatic.”
Tessa groaned and smacked herself on the forehead. “C’mon, sis. He didn’t have to let you in—he wanted to let you in. You’re not Jacinda Shields or some hot up-and-coming actress.”
“Right. Thank God for that. I’m going stick my head in the oven for about fifteen or twenty minutes. Ignore the thud you hear when my lifeless body hits the kitchen floor.”
“Stop being so dramatic. That’s my thing. Okay, so, you’re not a supermodel. You’re a hot attorney who is way cooler. He’s definitely interested. And he’s opened up to you. So at some point, you’re going to have to decide whether or not he’s worth the risk.”
Lillian fell back against the sofa with a sigh. “I know, Tessa. But I’m not at that point yet. I’m still weighing the evidence.”
Tessa smiled. “Always the attorney, never the average woman who tosses caution to the wind and makes stupid but fun mistakes with gorgeous guys.”
“I could never be that woman. Even if I tried.”
“Don’t try. I love you exactly the way you are. So will the right guy when he comes along. If you think Sam’s that guy, keep doing what you’re doing. Screw Mythos. Keep seeing him and be patient because it doesn’t have to be Richard all over again. Give him time to get comfortable with having a serious relationship, and he might surprise you . . . God, I sound like a talk show host, but it’s the truth.”
Lillian took another sip of tea. “Okay. But when did our roles reverse? I’m supposed to be the big sister looking out for you.”
“You do look out for me.” Tessa leaned over and patted her knee. “Now it’s my turn to help you. You deserve real love. Maybe Sam’s the one good enough to give it to you. Give him a chance.”
A soft smile crept across Lillian’s tea-coated lips as she stared at her melted bowl of ice cream on the coffee table. A brown mess. Kind of like her on occasion. So it almost hurt to imagine a happy ending for herself, but Tessa had a point. Lillian knew how to protect her heart this time. Never fall too far, too fast. And if it didn’t progress, then she’d keep her job, and nothing would change.
That has kind of a dull ring to it.
The debate over whether or not to continue working at Mythos could wait. Lillian had to give Sam a chance to prove he was a mature adult legitimately interested in a relationship. It seemed only fair. They could take it slow. Like learning to swim in shallow waters. No deep end whatsoever . . .
Easier said than done. One particular memory popped into her head and suddenly kicked her libido headfirst into the Mariana Trench—Sam Owens in his sexy brown Koowiee robe.
Chapter 17
Slippery Slopes of Seagull Snot
The windows of the gleaming all-white and satin nickel-accented restaurant at the top of Endicott Tower, currently the second tallest building in Port Bristol, were streaked with seagull snot. At first, Lillian thought the marks were nose and fingerprint smudges. Patrons pressing their faces and hands up against the glass as they enjoyed the stunning 360-degree view of the city.
Then a hefty Great Black-Backed Gull smacked into the glass no more than a foot above her head. Tabula Rasa’s windows weren’t quite as blank as the name implied.
Lillian gasped. The bird slid down the glass, fell onto the ledge, and then stumbled around before flying off into the night.
“Oh. My. God.”
“Tell me about it. The price of wine by the glass here is ridiculous,” Richard muttered from across the table, his eyes focused on the wine list.
“No! That poor bird . . . How could you not notice that?”
Richard looked up, eyebrows raised. “What? Oh, yeah. Sorry. Forgot to warn you. It happe
ns a lot here. The way the architect designed the roof makes it appealing to gulls looking to build their nests, so they’re constantly hitting the windows. They’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
Lillian peered out the window again, her nerves on edge as she waited for another kamikaze gull. She didn’t even notice the view, too busy straining to see through the darkness. But after several minutes and with no further incidents, she relaxed back against her chair and took a sip of her wine.
Her expensive wine, Richard had emphasized. She deserved every drop. She was, after all, starving. Tired. Stressed. Hungry like a wolf for her plate of pumpkin ravioli with enough broccoli rabe to fill—
The waiter delicately placed a white stretched canvas in front of her. Not a plate. Not even a shovel, which would have been nice at that point. A canvas. For painting. And in the middle of the canvas were four precisely positioned squares of ravioli, surrounded by a thin ring of sautéed greenery. Enough to fill a thimble.
Lillian looked up at Richard, who grinned like an idiot at his coq au vin while the red wine sauce came dangerously close to dripping off the side of his canvas.
“You cannot actually be okay with this.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were complaining about the price of wine, but we were just served snack-size entrées on canvases, Richard.”
He continued grinning. “It’s all part of the presentation. This is an experience. It’s about more than the food—”
“How can a restaurant be about more than the food? That’s the entire reason we’re here.”
He took his spoon and, with incredible accuracy, corralled the wine sauce. Then he pushed it back behind a dam of polenta. Took forever. It was maddening to watch.
“Not the entire reason,” he said, subtly pointing behind him. “Emily’s sister and her husband are two tables back. This is going great.”