by Regina Kyle
“I’ll deal with Paige. And I couldn’t care less what you tell Simon. Tell him I’m at a monastery in Tibet. On a sailboat in the Caribbean. Hiking the Appalachian Trail.”
“Fine,” Ginny huffed. “I’ll come up with a suitable cover story on my own. How long will you be in hiding?”
He shrugged. “A few weeks. A few months. However long it takes to figure out who’s doing this.”
Someone—most likely Simon, unless his partner had shot off his mouth and told someone else about the East Harlem project—was fucking with his livelihood. With the business he’d built with his blood, sweat, and tears. And once he smoked them out, they were going down.
Hard.
Chapter Three
“All right, everyone. Take a seat.” Brooke raised her voice a notch so Mr. Feingold, who was notorious for forgetting to wear his hearing aids, could hear her at the back of the room. “I call this meeting of the Candy Court Tenants’ Association to order.”
“I don’t understand why we’re still meeting if we’re not going to be living here much longer,” protested Charise, the hairdresser who lived across the hall with her infant son. Little Jaden must be with his grandmother, since he wasn’t where he usually was during their meetings—strapped to his mother’s chest.
“We don’t know how long it will take the building to sell,” Brooke explained. “Or what the new owner will do. Until then, it’s business as usual.”
“What’s going to happen to our community garden?” asked David. The concert pianist lived downstairs from Brooke with his partner, Chris, a professional ballet dancer—the two hottest guys in a ten-mile radius, with the exception of a certain sexy, scotch-drinking stranger.
Her encounter, for lack of a better word, with Eli had been a blip on the radar screen of her sex life. A hell of a pleasurable blip. She’d lived in a sort of sensual stupor for days afterward. Now it was back to normal. Which for her meant work, work, more work, and wrangling the Candy Court residents for their monthly meeting.
“We’ll get to the garden.” She held up a sheet of paper. “It’s number two on the agenda. First, I’d like to hear about any maintenance issues you’re having.”
“Looks like chicken scratch to me,” Mr. Feingold grumbled, causing his wife, sitting next to him on the repurposed sofa Brooke had rescued from the curb and restored, to jab him in the ribs. He glared at her and rubbed his side. “Ouch.”
Brooke flipped the paper over so she could read it. Not chicken scratch, thank you very much. Her most recent artwork for the graphic novel she’d been perfecting for the better part of the last six months. With any luck, her agent would give this latest round of edits a thumbs-up and start sending it out to publishers. Brooke exchanged it for the computer-generated agenda on her drafting table. “Sorry. Wrong one.”
“What’s the point of listing our grievances?” Chris set a plate of spring rolls on the counter that separated the kitchen and dining area from the living area, next to the chips, dip, and salsa from the other tenants. He and David always brought the best food. And booze, she thought as David added a growler of craft beer from the brewery around the corner. “Who’s going to fix anything? We’ve got no super.”
True. Floyd had been lucky enough to find a new gig and new housing within weeks of the For Sale sign going up in front of Candy Court, moving on along with a bunch of the other tenants. That left only four apartments occupied—her and Charise on the third floor, Chris and David and the Feingolds on the second. Even the retail space on the first floor was vacant.
Brooke’s stomach growled, a casualty of not eating since the half a cinnamon raisin bagel she’d had for breakfast at six. David plucked a spring roll from the plate his partner had set down, placed it on a cocktail napkin, and handed it to her. She nodded her thanks. “It couldn’t hurt to present a list of demands to the landlord.”
“Couldn’t help much, either,” Mr. Feingold grumbled again, earning him another elbow jab.
“Our kitchen sink is leaking,” his wife offered. “And there’s a loose tile in the shower.”
“My washing machine is acting up again,” Charise added, snagging one of the spring rolls.
“The pilot light on our gas stove keeps going out,” Chris called from the counter, where he was pouring himself a beer.
“Slow down, slow down.” Brooke put the agenda aside and grabbed a clipboard and pen. “Kitchen sink, shower tile, washing machine, pilot light. And the screen in my bedroom window is torn. Anything else?”
Her question was met with silence.
“Good,” David said after a few beats. “Now can we talk about the garden?”
“Okay.” Brooke tapped the clipboard with her pen. “Moving on to agenda item number two. Before the first frost, we managed to get all our planter boxes set up on the roof. Special thanks to the Feingolds for getting the lumber donated.”
“Happy to do it,” said Mrs. Feingold.
“Do what?” her husband asked, his already wrinkled brow wrinkling further. “What did you do now?”
“Not me, us,” his wife corrected. “Let this be a lesson. Maybe next time you’ll remember your hearing aids so you’ll know what people are saying about you.”
Mr. Feingold muttered something about not wanting to hear ninety percent of what people had to say, anyway. Brooke swallowed a laugh and pressed on. “Our next order of business is to decide what we’re going to grow and how much.”
“Again, I don’t understand why we’re bothering to talk about this,” Charise mumbled through a mouthful of spring roll. “Odds are whoever buys this place is going to tear it down. And even if by some miracle he doesn’t, the garden’s a goner for sure. Then all our hard work will be for nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” Brooke insisted, relieved to see the others nodding in agreement. “Until someone tells us otherwise, this is still our home. We can’t stop living because the building is on the market. Life is filled with uncertainty. We can’t let it control us.”
“Hear, hear.” Chris raised his glass in a silent toast then drank.
“Well said,” David agreed, scooping guacamole onto a paper plate with a tortilla chip.
“What did she sa—ouch.” Mr. Feingold narrowed his eyes at his wife, who had apparently jabbed him again. “I’m warning you, woman. One more jab, and I’ll…”
“So,” Brooke interrupted, her forced cheer making her sound like Carol Brady on helium. “Now that we’ve decided to move forward, what are we going to plant?”
She held a hand up to the older man, who had opened his mouth to speak. “And before you suggest it, Mr. Feingold, we are not growing medical marijuana, no matter how much it helps your glaucoma.”
“Cucumbers. I love cucumbers.”
“Bibb lettuce. And zucchini.”
“Cucumbers and zucchini take up too much room. We should start with something small, like carrots. Or bell peppers.”
“Peppers give me gas.”
“I think we should grow something pretty, like nasturtiums.”
“How about an herb garden?”
The suggestions came fast and furious. Brooke ignored the intermittent squabbling and colorful asides—TMI on the gas, Mr. Feingold—and scribbled each one down.
“I’m partial to peas myself,” a new but oddly familiar voice added to the list. The rough, sexy growl that had haunted her every waking moment—and most of her unconscious ones, too—sent pinpricks of awareness flickering down her spine. “Or hibiscus, if you’d rather go the floral route.”
Brooke’s pen slowed, and she lifted her head. Eli stood in the open door, as scrumptious as she remembered him, his chestnut hair dusted with snow that the forecasters had been predicting all week and his face as unreadable as the sphinx.
“So.” His lips curled into a half-smile, and he ruffled his hair, sending flurries fluttering to the floor. “We meet again.”
…
Fate was a fickle bitch.
Why else wo
uld the woman who’d spent the last few days running naked through Eli’s mind be standing in front of him fully clothed now, presiding over a tenants’ meeting in the very building he planned to grab up and gut?
Said woman lowered her clipboard and pen. Her emerald eyes spat darts of green fire at him. “How did you get in here? And what do you want?”
“Door was open.” He held up a canary yellow flyer. “I found this by the mailboxes. Something about an association meeting.”
“I made that.” An older woman piped up from the sofa. “On the computer. My son-in-law taught me how to use Photostop.”
“I think you mean Photoshop.” A well-dressed man holding a plate of cheese and crackers corrected her.
“Read it again.” Brooke ignored them both, her eyes, still full of flames, never leaving Eli. “It says tenants’ association. As in people who live here.”
“Meet the new resident of 3-C.” He jingled a ring of keys. “Howdy, neighbor.”
“You know this place is for sale, right?” a stunning young African-American woman asked. “We could get booted out of here with barely any notice.”
Eli flashed what he hoped was a charm-their-pants-off smile. Brooke was clearly none too happy to see him. He couldn’t afford to have the rest of the tenants ganging up on him before he had a chance to get the lay of the land. “I like to live dangerously.”
And he couldn’t think of anything more dangerous than sharing a residence with the star of all his new favorite fantasies.
“What’s the matter?” Brooke set her clipboard and pen on an antique wooden drafting table. Was she an architect as well as a bartender? Or maybe an artist? With her boho chic vibe he could totally picture her standing before an easel, deep in concentration, a brush in her mouth and streaks of paint in her hair and on her cheeks. He imagined coming up behind her and turning her in his arms, removing the paintbrush from her between her ripe, rosy lips so he could…
“Things not dangerous enough for you in Manhattan?” she asked, jolting him out of his erotic daydream.
“Manhattan?”
His stomach lurched, and he tightened his grip on the strap of the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Did she know who he was? Or why he was there? Was that why she was less than thrilled to see him? “What makes you think I’m a city boy?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re like a walking advertisement for Fifth Avenue.”
Shit. He did a mental tally of the contents of his duffel. Designer shirts. Custom-tailored pants. Cashmere sweaters. Hell, even his underwear had a designer label. He’d have to send Ginny on a shopping spree if he didn’t want to blow his cover. Where did regular guys buy clothes, anyway? Target? Wal-Mart? Paige and her postdoc pals swore by Goodwill. Not that his sister wanted for money. He made sure of that, had ever since their parents were killed in a car accident when he was finishing up at Wharton and she was still in high school. She said it was all about the thrill of the hunt, finding an elusive diamond among the cubic zirconia.
Struck by sudden inspiration, he flashed his charming smile again, this time directing its full wattage at Brooke. “You’d be surprised what you can find at Goodwill if you’re persistent enough.”
She studied him for a few seconds, then shrugged and popped a piece of cheese into her mouth. Eli relaxed his white-knuckle grip on the bag, and the knot in his stomach loosened, too. He’d dodged a bullet and managed to throw her off the track for the time being. But he’d have to be a damn sight more careful in the future if he wanted to stay on the down low. He made a mental note to text Ginny.
“I take it you two know each other, but the rest of us haven’t had the pleasure.” Cheese and crackers guy held out his free hand. Eli could have kissed him for changing the topic, if he didn’t think it would send the wrong message. “I’m Chris. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“And I’m David.” A slightly shorter but equally good-looking man came up beside Chris, slipping an arm around his waist. “Chris’s partner. We’re in 2-A.”
Eli nodded to David and shook Chris’s hand. “Eli Ward.”
At least he could use his name without setting off any alarm bells. Real estate developers weren’t exactly rock stars.
“I’m Charise. 3-D. Here.” She handed him a red Solo cup. “Have a beer.”
“Thanks.” He took it and drank, more for the sake of being polite than being thirsty. Cheap beer, like cheap scotch, wasn’t exactly his drink of choice. But instead of being assaulted by stale, cardboard crap, his taste buds were awash with flavors. He took another sip, savoring this time instead of slugging. Smooth and heavy-bodied, with great coffee notes throughout and a hint of something else on the back end he couldn’t quite identify. “Not bad.”
“Vanilla coffee stout.” Vanilla. That was the mystery ingredient. David lifted his own cup. “From the brewery around the corner.”
A brewery. Eli added that nugget to his mental checklist of reasons to invest in Sunset Park.
Brooke cleared her throat for attention. “Okay, people. As exciting as our new addition is, we’re still in the middle of a meeting here.”
“We can deal with the garden later. I want to hear more about Eli.” An older woman eyed him appraisingly from the sofa. The gray-haired man next to her blew a loud raspberry, but she continued, undeterred. “I don’t see a ring on your finger. Tell me, young man, do you have a girlfriend?”
“Or a boyfriend?” asked David, the arm around Chris tightening.
“I’m straight,” Eli assured him, then directed his gaze at Brooke. “And single.”
She ignored him and started in on the bean dip.
“Oh, what a pity.” The older woman tsked her disapproval. “A handsome young man like you should have someone to come home to.”
“Get a dog,” the man next to her suggested. “Less expensive than a woman, and they never talk back.”
“Or cook dinner,” said the woman next to him, who Eli had figured out must be his wife. “Or do your laundry. Or…”
“See what I mean about talking back?” Her husband pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Dog’s definitely the way to go.”
“About the garden…” Brooke tried again.
“Is it true, what Chris said?” Charise piped up. “Do you and Eli really know each other?”
“Were you two an item?” David asked, jumping on the way-too-personal bandwagon.
“Despite what you all seem to think, this is not Melrose Place.” Brooke adopted a Wonder Woman power pose, hands balled into fists on her hips and feet planted firmly apart. “And I am not sharing the details of my private life at a tenants’ meeting.”
“How about you, Eli?” Chris needled. “Care to enlighten us?”
Not in a trillion years. A gentleman didn’t kiss and tell. Or fuck and tell, as the case may be. He looked to Brooke, his eyes pleading for assistance.
With an exasperated sigh, she took a piece of paper from the drafting table, crumpled it up and tossed it over her shoulder. “Since no one seems interested in discussing anything on the agenda, I declare this meeting adjourned.”
Chapter Four
What part of one-night stand did this guy not get?
Brooke’s steps slowed as she approached her apartment door. Eli lounged against the frame, balancing two paper cups that bore the logo of the coffee shop on the next block.
She’d successfully avoided running into him for two full days since he crashed the tenants’ meeting. No small feat considering he lived down the hall, his door only a few feet from hers.
It helped that she hadn’t had to go to work at the bar. She’d asked for some time off and spent it chained to her drafting table, trying to meet a self-imposed deadline. Maybe this would be the year she finally sold her novel. The year her father finally saw her as more than a flighty dreamer who spent her days doodling and her nights doling out alcohol.
Eli held one of the cups out to
her, looking hotter than any man had a right to in tight jeans and a Metallica T-shirt. More casual than his usual GQ style, but it totally worked on him. Of course, he’d probably look as mouth-watering in a burlap sack. He was the kind of guy who could wear pretty much anything well. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” she asked, feigning ignorance. She took the cup from his outstretched hand and sipped. Hot, strong, and dark, just the way she liked it. Apparently mind reading was one of Eli’s many skills, along with charming his way into month-to-month leases and giving world-class orgasms.
“You sure you want to get into it out here?” He glanced at Charise’s door.
Damn. He had a point. As much as she didn’t trust herself to be alone with him in the close quarters of her studio apartment without jumping his bones, she didn’t want all of Candy Court knowing the intimate details of her until recently nonexistent sex life.
“Fine.” She juggled the coffee cup in one hand and dug her keys out of her purse with the other. “You can come in. But only for a few minutes. I’ve got work to do.”
She opened the door, and he followed her in. “Charise says you’re some sort of cartoonist.”
“Graphic novelist,” Brooke corrected, tossing her pocketbook onto an overstuffed chair and stripping off her coat. “And Charise has a big mouth.”
“Graphic novels, eh? You mean like comic books?”
Eli made himself right at home, lowering himself onto the couch with an easy grace befitting a man of leisure or a member of the British royal family. She wondered, not for the first time, exactly who this guy was and what he did for a living, then she smacked down the flicker of curiosity. It didn’t matter who he was or how the hell he made ends meet, because she was not—repeat, not—getting involved with him. Relationships were for other people, ones who wanted stuff like marriage. Kids. A brick colonial with a picket fence and two rowdy Labs with a special fondness for the mailman. Things that weren’t even glimmers on her horizon.