by Julia Kent
“That’s quick,” I tell him as he hands me a pen.
“I’m working on showing Papá that maybe I’m not a six-year-old with skinned knees anymore.” He puffs up a bit. “I’m getting my MBA online, you know.”
“Really.”
A self-deprecating look crosses his face. “Nothing like what you do, of course, but—”
“Hey,” I say, reaching for his hand, pressing mine against the back of his. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t minimize what you’re accomplishing.”
My spine tingles, a hot spot between my shoulder blades. Burke did that. Minimized what I did. My deals were never as good as his. My strategy was never as resilient as his. The dollar signs affixed to my deals were never in the same arena as what he was bringing in.
That deal the night I was arrested, the nine-figure deal-of-a-lifetime for me, was the apex. It was the pinnacle of accomplishment. And it was a big middle finger to my own husband.
I can see that now.
I couldn’t see it then.
Raul looks at our hands. He makes eye contact, with an expression that says he understands I’m not coming on to him.
“Thank you,” he says, glancing over my shoulder. “Why don’t you sign? Let’s make it official.”
“Let’s make what official?” says a deep voice behind me.
That prickly feeling in my spine? It intensifies, shooting between my legs, down the backs of my calves to the ends of my toes and up to the crown of my head. My shoulders tighten, the pen gripped hard in my hand as I sign quickly, as if the deal were about to be taken away from me.
I lay the pen down and turn around, placing my hands on the edge of the counter, this time leaning. The small of my back tightens, my legs bracing with bent knees.
“Ian,” I say. “Good to see you.”
“You’re making a deal with Beanerino?”
“I am.”
“What’s she selling you?” he asks Raul.
Those topaz eyes flecked with dark chocolate meet mine. He gives me a shrug, as if to say, This is your game.
I turn to Ian. “Cheese.”
“Excuse me?”
“Cheese. I’m selling cheese.”
“Cheese?”
“Yes, cheese. It’s made from the milk of a mammal.”
“I know what cheese is, Hastings. You’re brokering a deal? Are you working with the Dairy Association now?”
“Something like that,” I reply.
“Either you are or you’re not,” he says. “There is no ‘something like that.’ Is this a side deal? Are you consulting now?”
“It’s more of a hobby.”
“You have hobbies?”
“I have hobbies.”
“Like what?”
“Like making cheese.”
“Making cheese isn’t a hobby, Hastings.”
“It is for me.”
“Macchiato,” he says to Raul, who grabs one of the ever-present bar towels near the big espresso machine and wipes something down before a hissing sound cuts through the air.
“Tell me about your other hobbies.” Ian crosses his arms and leans his hip against the wide counter. There’s a natural indentation in the thick piece of wood that was used to make it, an uneven spot that seems to invite his ass to snuggle in and stay awhile.
“Tell me about your hobbies, Ian.”
“Is that how this is going to be?”
I stare him down, crossing my arms over my chest. I feel something damp on my forearms, and realize the area under my breasts is soaked with sweat from my run.
I wait him out.
“I like money,” he declares.
I snort. “Who doesn’t?”
“No. I mean, I literally like money. I collect coins.”
“Coins?”
“And bills. It started with my grandfather. I have his collection, inherited it when he died. My dad was into it, too.”
“Do you collect stamps, too?” I snark.
“No. Just coins. Want to see my coin collection sometime?”
“Is that like inviting me to check out your etchings in your bedroom?”
Raul slides the macchiato Ian ordered across the thick counter and laughs openly. Ian cuts him a look intended to shut him up, but Raul doesn’t care.
I really like Raul.
Sensing an opening, I reach into my bra and pull out my debit card, sliding it to Raul, who quietly takes it.
“What’re you doing?” Ian asks.
“I’m paying for your coffee.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s on me.”
A booming laugh fills the empty coffee shop. “You’re buying my coffee?”
I bite my lip. “Why not?”
“Does that make this a date?” he challenges as Raul hands my card and the receipt back to me.
“No need for a tip,” Raul says, eyes jumping to my bra. “I don’t want to know where it’s been.”
Ian reaches in his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and throws a twenty in the tip jar. Raul’s eyebrows shoot up.
“You don’t need to do that,” I tell him.
“Shh!” Raul jumps in, waving me away.
“What other hobbies do you have, Hastings? You never answered me.” Ian takes a sip. His hand goes to that very spot between my shoulder blades that just tingled.
Guiding me over to a table, he gestures for me to sit. Waving at Raul, he gets his attention instantly. “Bring her favorite.”
“I think she already has it,” Raul says softly.
“Thank you, but I’m good,” I say to Raul, shooting him a look designed to kill. I stand and walk over to the small water container filled with slices of cucumber. I pour myself a small cup and turn around to find Ian’s eyes exactly where my ass just was.
I tap the table and point to my face. “Eyes up here,” I say.
He just grins, charming his way out of it. “Cheese,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. “You make cheese.”
“I do.”
“How did you get into this cheese-making thing?”
The bell above the door dings. We both look up. It’s Perky, although whether she’s here to work a shift or just hang out is not clear. She waves at us, walking over behind the counter where the employees enter, huddling with Raul. I can hear them whispering, my name being bandied about.
Perky is about as subtle as a jackhammer.
“I learned in middle school,” I tell Ian. “I went to farm camp.”
“You went to farm camp?”
I nod. “It’s a thing around here.”
“Is that how you knew what to do with birthing the calf?”
“Hell, no. Eric just needed the right arm for the right vagina.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Raul's hands halt, mid-swipe on the counter. He winces, then moves as far away from us as possible.
“Who knew? Hastings Monahan does something for fun. Not for profit, not for the thrill of the hunt, not for the joy of going in for the kill.”
“When have I ever been that way?”
One eyebrow goes up, his mouth moving in a tight manner that makes me want to kiss it loose. “When have you ever not been that way, Hastings?”
“In the last few months, since I’ve been working for you. Since my whole life got unraveled by the mess my ex-not-husband created.”
He looks at his coffee, running his finger along the rim of the ceramic mug. “Fair enough,” he admits, nodding. “I wondered about you.”
“Wondered what?”
“I thought I was hiring a barracuda.”
“You’re not happy with my performance at work?”
“No, no,” he says, holding his palms up at me. “It’s not that. You’ve done a fabulous job at work. In fact, as good as I expected.”
“Not better?”
He smiles at my words. “I expected you to be phenomenal. You’re meeting that expectation.”
&nb
sp; “I consider that high praise.” I take a sip of water before I say anything more.
“But you have changed.” The smile drops from his face. “You’re more timid.”
“Timid!” Perky shouts, sputtering. “Since when is Hasty ever timid?” If eavesdropping were a sport, Perky would be regional champ.
“It’s Hastings,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
Ian and Raul look at each other with delight. I stand, pretending to stretch my legs out.
“What’s wrong, Hasty?” Perky calls. “You got a cramp?”
“No,” I say, dropping down into a lunge. “Just a pain in the ass.”
Raul and Ian chuckle. Perky gives me a look. “Don’t be mean to me. And since I ran into you, I’m supposed to tell you you’re invited over to my house for a gathering.”
“That’s how you invite me? No. The answer’s no.”
“You're really good at turning people down,” Ian mutters.
“C’mon,” Perky wheedles. “Mallory wanted me to invite you. You and Fiona. We’ll have a hot springs gathering.”
“What’s a 'hot springs gathering'?”
“Where you come over to my house and you soak in the hot spring that my mom made.” Her tone makes her sound like a sixth grader.
“You sound like you’ve been put up to this,” I say slowly.
She shrugs. “Mallory wants to talk about the wedding.” Exasperation permeates her words. She's as done as I am when it comes to this whole wedding mess.
“Is there free booze? As long as there’s plenty of free booze, I’m in.”
An extraordinary smile spreads across her face. “Of course there’s free booze. There has to be free booze when we're trapped with Mallory, talking about her OCD wedding.”
“Fine. I’ll be there.”
She laughs, but turns her back to us, moving down the line toward the area where they store baked goods.
Ian stands, crossing the space between us quickly, his hand going to my lower back as I bend into something close to warrior pose.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he says. Finishing his macchiato, he puts the cup down on the table.
I look at it. “That goes in the bus bin.”
“In the what?”
“The bus bin. You know, bussing tables?” I point to the plastic bin.
A perplexed look furrows his brow. “You are telling me to put my dirty dish away?”
“Yes.”
“Since when have you ever cared about anything so menial?”
“If you don’t do it, someone who works here has to.”
“That’s very egalitarian of you.”
“No, it’s not. It’s just…”
A slow dawning spreads over me. He’s right. I shake my head. I reach for the cup and my own water glass, walk over to the bin and place them carefully inside. I look at him.
“You’re right. I’ve never cared about anything so menial before. Suddenly I do.”
“Why?” he asks.
Hands on his hips, his body relaxes, as if the only thing he needs to do in the world is listen to me talk about dirty cups in a coffee shop.
“Because it turns out, being a human being isn’t a competition.”
“Since when?” he asks, incredulous.
“Since I’ve come to realize that kindness is a better barometer of success than being number one.”
“Depends on how you define success.”
“Semantics matter, Ian. Definitions matter. People matter. I think I lost sight of that at some point.”
“And now you feel like you found it again?” His hand goes to my shoulder. Intelligent eyes, intense and probing, meeting mine.
“Did you ever lose that feeling?” I ask him suddenly, filled with candor.
“No.”
“Is that why you helped me?”
He leans even closer. My toe presses against the soft leather of his shoe. I can smell the lime soap he used under his cologne. His breath brushes a chilled spot on my forehead, and if I stand on tiptoes and he bends one inch closer, we’ll kiss.
“I helped you, Hastings, because I could. Because I wanted to. Because you needed someone. Because—”
“Has-teeeee!” Perky calls out, interrupting the moment.
“What?” I scream, shattered by the sudden intrusion.
“Mallory says we’re starting in an hour.”
“Don’t you have to work?” I shout back.
Raul throws his hands up in frustration. “She’s just here to manage some musician bookings. You could have done it from home,” he says to her with a glare.
I turn back to Ian, but his eyes are on his phone now, which is in his hand as he taps away.
Moment lost.
He gives me a polite smile. “Gotta go. Good to see you.”
As he walks out the door with a confident stride, a man intent on going somewhere, to a place where he’s considered important, he waves to Raul with a two-finger salute. “Great coffee.”
“Thanks.”
And as the door jingles with his departure, I wonder exactly how much booze Perky has at her house.
And why Ian McCrory keeps popping up wherever I go.
12
Perky has been holding out on me.
Not that we’re friends or anything, so there’s no reason why I should know about this amazing hot spring that exists in the subterranean wonderland beneath her parents’ estate. All I know is, I’m soaking in the water, wearing a bikini, holding a perfect sangria, and wondering if my sister’s hair can curl any tighter in this humidity.
“Chris wants me to work with him at the gym part time,” Fiona says, making her way through her second large glass of alcohol. She’s got sangria in one hand and a huge plastic glass of water in the other as she leans against the jagged rock wall. Steam rises in irregular patterns, blocking faces. I close my eyes and just listen, the lapping of the water against the rock lulling me.
“Do it,” Mallory says to Fiona. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t have time,” Fiona says, as if the question irritates her, like someone’s asked it multiple times and she’s sick of hearing it.
“You teach four-year-olds during the day. You have your evenings free,” Perky says.
I open my eyes, knowing full well I’m going to see Fiona glaring at her friend. The dynamics between the three of them completely escape me. They have been buddies since before they were all in A-cup bras, and the only reason I know that is because I was in a C-cup and they kept stealing mine and stuffing them with balled-up rainbow toe socks whenever there was a sleepover.
Perky ruined my jellies back in the nineties, and even though I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing anything like that now, it meant something back then.
It meant she was an annoying little brat.
Still is, even on the cusp of thirty.
“Some of us don’t work part time, remember?” Fiona says to Perky. I can hear her teeth grit from across the hot spring.
“Just because I only work twenty hours a week at Beanerino doesn’t mean I’m not putting in hours elsewhere,” she says in a snappy tone. “I’m plenty busy with Parker and with coffee initiatives, and with fair trade and—”
Fiona cuts her off. Her hand moves like a puppet talking. That just makes Perky’s face get redder. Either that, or the sangria is hitting her.
“Ooh, it’s getting hot in here,” I murmur.
I grab the giant glass of water that Fiona carefully set next to me, and I drink half of it.
As the three of them banter back and forth, the words nothing but a salad of nonsense that flows through my brain, I smile. I never had friends the way that my sister has. Not that I’m jealous. It’s more anthropological.
Watching the way they interact makes me see that I don’t know their language. I can observe it. I’ve tried to imitate it, but Mallory’s explained that I just come across as bitchy, which I know is wrong.
I’m just in command.
But as
I listen to them, something digs at me, a sense of unease. They can talk to each other this way because they’ve spent almost two decades hanging out together. Other than my mom and dad, I don’t have anyone like that.
Or at least I don’t anymore.
I spent a decade with Burke, and look where that got me.
I stand, the water stopping dead at my nipple line. The sangria is a more enticing drink than the water, so I finish it first. A giant bubble builds in my chest, pushing hard against my heart, nudging it toward something I can’t define.
“What about you?” Perky snaps at me, making me startle and nearly drop the glass of water in my hand.
“What about me?”
“We’re talking about business over here.”
“We are not talking about business,” Fiona says.
“Yes, we are. We’re talking about you investing your time and possibly money in Chris’s boxing studio, and about me and my business.”
“Your business is pulling espresso shots,” I say to her.
“My business is advocating for workers' rights and fair trade,” she corrects me.
I wave her off. “Oh, right. That thing Parker does for you.”
Mal shoots me a look that says, This is exactly what I was talking about. Before Perky can answer, I let the alcohol loosen me up enough to be a little vulnerable.
“Did that sound bitchy?” I ask.
Perky narrows her eyes and just stares at me, breathing through long, intense breaths that I don’t really care about anymore, because man, this sangria tastes really good.
“You always sound bitchy.”
“I do not!”
“You absolutely do,” Fiona says slowly, as if the words are on a string that needs to be unraveled.
“I'm being blunt.”
“No. Blunt doesn't involve innuendo,” Mallory interjects.
“Innuendo?”
“You're implying that Perky doesn't do what she says she does. That she is taking the credit but Parker is doing the work.”
“Because Parker is a well-connected U.S. congressman,” I elaborate. “Surely, that's obvious?”
“WHOOP! WHOOP! BITCH ALERT!” Perky intones.
“What's bitchy about that?”
“Now you're implying we're all stupid. That 'obvious' comment sealed it.”