by Lila Monroe
“Seriously?” I look over at him with surprise. “You literally just heard the man say it’s not making any money. Why take on a losing project like that? He’s already operating on small enough margins.” I look at the pizza slice in my hand. Delicious, sure, but for four bucks a slice, you’re not exactly making any profit.
But Jase shrugs, unconcerned. “I don’t know,” he says, chewing thoughtfully. “You could spruce the place up a bit, keep him on to do what he does best, do some fun pop-ups with our bars…”
“And you still won’t be able to make the rent in this neighborhood.” I look around. “Sounds like a money pit to me.”
“Maybe.” Jase grins, cheerfully unconcerned. “But a delicious one. Some things are worth the gamble,” he adds, giving me a friendly nudge. “Like keeping my midnight snack around.
“Hey, it’s your funeral,” I laugh.
I get a cab back to my apartment, gazing out the window at the neon lights blurring by and replaying my conversation with Jase in my head. I love my cousin. I’d do anything for him. But sometimes I just don’t understand him at all. Business, numbers, the bottom line—that’s what makes sense to me. Tidy columns on the page, everything there in black and white. The numbers either add up, or they don’t, and that’s all there is to it.
No gray areas.
No emotions—or appetites—to get in the way.
I had a momentary lapse there with Eliza, I can admit that much. But now that the situation with Verity’s book is under control, it’s time to take her to bed.
I mean—put it to bed.
Damn it.
I spend the rest of my Sunday working, and working out. Your typical, productive weekend. I tell myself I’ve put Eliza firmly out of my mind once and for all. I’m determined to avoid her at the office on Monday morning, but when I get off the elevator at Sterling I find her—and Celeste—waiting in my office.
I stop so short I almost trip over the carpet. This can’t be good. “Why do I feel like I’m about to be ambushed?” I ask, acting casual as I cross to Harry’s desk.
“Don’t look at me,” Eliza says immediately—and though I try not to, I can’t help but steal quick, hungry glances at her across the room. She’s dressed in a simple blue dress today, crisp and summery. I want to take her on a picnic… And then taste her for dessert.
Down, boy.
“Celeste asked for a meeting.” Eliza adds, looking away from me. I wonder how that hot date of hers went—and then immediately scold myself for caring.
What she does outside this office is none of my concern.
“I come in peace,” Celeste assures us with a smile honed by decades of society lunches and benefit galas. She’s in her sixties, but well tended, with dark hair cut short around her ears and a sleek, sensible uniform of tailored cigarette pants and silk blouses.
“As you know, the memorial event for Harry is this evening,” she explains now. “A real barn-burner. Champagne, a ten-piece band… The kind of black-tie blowout he would have loved.” Her smile wavers, but then she pastes it back on. “Eliza, I’d love for you to join us. And Liam, I checked the guest-list this morning, but I didn’t see your RSVP.”
I clear my throat. “Well, I have so much work to do…” I say vaguely. Family or not, the last thing I want is to spend tonight munching baked brie with hundreds of strangers who all knew my father far better than I ever did. I’d rather go back to that dive bar where I met Eliza and sing Hall and Oates karaoke for all to hear.
“Still, you can take a few hours to celebrate your father, surely?” Celeste gives me that watery widow’s smile again, and my resolve slips. Dammit.
“I don’t know—”
“We’d love to come,” Eliza answers for me, jabbing me sharply in the ribs with one elbow. “In face, we’d be honored. And if there’s anything you need our help with, please, just say the word. I’m sure this is still such a difficult time for you.” She looks at me pointedly. “Isn’t that right, Liam?”
I hesitate. As much as I hate to admit it, deep down, I know Eliza is right. My relationship with Celeste and the rest of the (legitimate) Sterlings has always been awkward, but she’s never been mean to me, and I know she loved Harry very much.
“Of course,” I sigh reluctantly, the words sticking a bit in my throat. “I’ll be there.”
9
Eliza
A spur-of-the-moment black-tie memorial event with my infuriatingly hot, deeply frustrating new boss?
Sure! Why not? Not like it’s a recipe for awkwardness and humiliation worthy of the Great British Bake Off or anything. All I need is Paul Hollywood following me around all night, negging me for my soggy bottom.
This calls for reinforcements, so Maddie meets me at my apartment after work with half a dozen garment bags slung over her shoulder—and, thank goodness, a bottle of wine in her other hand. “Mark and I went to eleven weddings this summer,” she explains, yanking the dresses off their hangers and shoving them at me to try on. “I could open a boutique.”
“My heroine,” I tell her, as I wriggle out of my work clothes. She’s been dating Mark for forever, and the two of them are boringly, enviously stable and happy.
“Verity should put me in a novel,” she agrees, then frowns at a pale pink midi dress. “Oh, you know what, don’t even bother trying that one. You can’t wear a bra with it, and I didn’t realize until way too late that it’s basically see-through. I’m pretty sure all Keith’s fraternity brothers could now describe my nipples in great detail.” She considers for a moment. “Although, if you’re really looking to get Liam’s attention…”
I shoot her a look. “Didn’t you say you brought wine?”
Maddie nods. “Right.” She runs into the kitchen and grabs a couple of jam jar glasses while I wriggle in and out of various options, digging through my underwear drawer for a strapless bra. “So, let me get this straight,” she says, handing me a drink once I’ve decided on a floor length emerald green number. “You’re his plus-one… to a funeral?”
“It’s not a funeral,” I correct, “It’s a memorial gathering. Celeste is trying to give Harry the kind of big, glamorous send-off he would have liked.”
“From what you’ve told me, the man did enjoy his expensive parties,” Maddie concedes. “And you and Liam are… What, keeping things professional?” She raises her eyebrows. “Assuming you’re not going to show him your nipples, of course.”
“I didn’t say I’d never show him,” I counter with a grin. “I’d just prefer not to be fully dressed at his father’s memorial service if and when the special moment occurs.”
“Right, right.” We laugh.
“Anyway, I’m pretty sure my nipples are the least of Liam’s concerns right now,” I say, digging through my closet until I find a pair of gold metallic heels. “The guy should be bringing a therapist as his date, not me. Or a TSA agent.”
Maddie looks at me blankly.
“You know…” I explain. “For all the baggage. He’s the scandalous love child, remember? Not exactly someone you want around reminding the family of Harry’s big mistake.”
“Ah, yes,” she says, nodding slowly. “Of course.”
“Oh come on!” I frown. “That was funny!”
“It was funny-adjacent, maybe,” Maddie admits with a smile, “though I feel like it’s possible you’re using that razor-sharp wit to deflect from the matter at hand.”
I eye her across the bedroom. “The matter at hand being…?”
“How bad you want to make out with your hot boss again.”
“Uh-uh,” I say firmly, though secretly there’s a tiny part of me that’s not quite convinced. “Not tonight. I don’t need that kind of family drama in my life.”
“In that case, why don’t you just approach the whole thing as an editor?” Maddie asks. “Watch the story unfold, stay out of any awkwardness, and if it gets weird…” She holds up her jam jar. “There’s always wine.”
“Truer words were
never spoken,” I say, and we clink. I follow her into the bathroom, where she twists my hair up into an elegant chignon and gives me a perfect cat eye with a tiny stub of eye pencil she finds at the back of my makeup drawer. “Looking good, QT,” she says, stepping back to survey her handiwork. “Even without any visible nip.”
“Okay,” I say, plucking the mostly-empty glass of wine from her hand and steering her toward the doorway. “Let’s get this soapy show on the road!”
Maddie’s only been gone a few minutes when the bell rings. Liam. I swallow down the hive of bees in my chest and make myself count to five before hitting the buzzer to let him in. When I swing the door to my apartment open a moment later, Liam is standing on the other side in a perfectly fitted tux, his dark hair slicked back off his forehead and his shoes shined to gleaming.
I gape at him for a moment, I can’t help it.
He looks good.
Finally, Liam clears his throat, snapping me out of my daze—before I start drooling all over those well-shined shoes of his. “You look... Beautiful,” he says, sounding awkward. And sure, he’s just being polite, but I’m tempted to blow off the memorial altogether. Instead, I imagine taking his hand, leading him through the apartment to my bedroom, and peeling one expensive item of clothing off him at a time before falling onto the mattress and—
“We should go,” I announce, my voice coming out the tiniest bit strangled. This is a memorial service we’re going to, not a meat market!
“Right,” Liam gives me an odd look. “Of course.”
The event is being held in a gilded reception hall in the New York Public Library. It looks gorgeous, with candles glittering on linen-covered tables and a soul band playing covers of songs by The Temptations and Otis Redding. Waiters circulate with trays of mouthwatering hors d’oeuvres: fresh crabmeat and avocado, fluffy little quiches topped with caviar, puff pastry stuffed with vegetables and feta cheese. I barely resist the urge to tip a full tray of cocktail weenies into my purse—after all, who knows how much longer I’m going to have a job that pays the grocery bills? Instead I pop a beet and goat cheese puff into my mouth and trail behind Liam as he dutifully makes the rounds, chatting with the hundreds of industry and society types who’ve come to pay their respects to his late father—
And drink from a literal fountain of champagne, of course.
“I was so sorry to hear about your dad,” gushes a bespectacled agent from a tony uptown agency, his balding head gleaming in the candlelight. “You must miss him very much.”
“It’s very admirable, how you’ve stepped in to help Celeste with the business,” another says, leaning in a little too close. “Your father would be very proud.”
“Would he?” Liam asks shortly. “I suppose I wouldn’t know.”
I lift my eyebrows. On one hand, this guy has never met a social grace in his life. On the other, I can’t help but feel bad for him. It can’t be easy to stand here eating canapés and smiling gamely while well-wisher after well-wisher comes up to him singing the praises of a father he never really got to know.
“Hey,” I say quietly, nudging his arm with mine. “How do you feel about a party game? Publishing gossip charades, maybe? Musical chairs, but instead of chairs they’re bestselling celebrity tell-alls? Pin the sexual harassment scandal on the C-level executive?”
Liam looks at me a little oddly. “I, ah, think I’ll pass,” he says.
“Right,” I mutter, feeling my cheeks flame with embarrassment. This guy is a brick wall. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”
“At my father’s memorial?”
I grimace. “I mean, okay, when you put it that way—"
But Liam holds a hand up to stop me. “I understand,” he says, softening a bit. “I—Thank you. I appreciate it.”
That stops me. I’m just about to reply—to ask him how he’s really feeling, if there’s anything I can do—when we get the signal to find our seats for dinner. Celeste has us seated at the family table, which of course shouldn’t surprise me. After all, Liam is Harry’s son. Still, it’s definitely one of the more… Delicate social situations that I’ve been in lately. I glance at Liam’s face to see his reaction, but his face is a stony mask.
“Eliza!” Celeste says, kissing my cheek in greeting. She looks luminous in a long cream dress embroidered with hundreds of tiny seed pearls, her dark hair a glossy cap. “Thank you so much for coming. And you remember Betsy and Bryce?” She gestures toward her two twenty-something children.
“Of course!” I smile at them in greeting. Both of them favor their mother more than Harry. Bryce, with a crew cut and linebacker shoulders, looks like he’s late to his tryout for the New York Giants, while Betsy—who I seem to recall being some kind of rich-girl eco warrior—is sporting Tevas along with her dress. “Sterling Family Barbecue, two years ago.”
That’s what the invitation said, anyway, though the event was hardly a backyard cookout. Instead Harry had the whole staff out to their summer place on Fire Island, where he’d hired pit-masters from North Carolina to grill ribs and brisket and pulled pork—all on the company’s dime, though I don’t mention that to Liam.
“Of course!” Betsy says now, motioning for Liam and I to sit down. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
Betsy and Bryce are easy to talk to—more polished than Liam, which I guess makes sense, and full of stories about Harry in his off time. Remember when Dad was out in the yard with Lola and they both got sprayed by a skunk? Remember when he took us snorkeling in the Galapagos and kept saying he was going to take a turtle home and keep it in the bathtub? Remember when he insisted a real man cleans his own gutters and wound up falling off the ladder and landing in Mom’s prize roses?
It’s nice to hear all these new-to-me stories about Harry—not to mention the fact that this is a memorial, after all. The memories are sort of the point. But the more I listen to Bryce and Betsy reminisce, the clearer it becomes that while they might have an unlimited supply of charming Harry anecdotes to cushion the blow of losing their father…
Liam definitely doesn’t.
I don’t think his half-siblings are rubbing salt into the wound on purpose. I doubt they even realize it’s happening. But as we eat our steaks and drink our wine I watch as Liam retreats further and further into his stony mask until he’s basically disappeared.
“Are you okay?” I murmur, as they’re clearing the entrees.
Liam nods. “Fine,” he says tightly, but a moment later he’s standing up wordlessly and making his way toward the exit. He doesn’t look back as he goes.
Okay then. I glance around the table to see if anyone else has noticed, but Betsy has Bryce and Celeste in stiches with a story about Harry refusing to ask for directions to the Eiffel Tower on a family trip to Paris and leading them all confidently into a house of ill repute. In truth, I’m the only one who even seems to register the fact that Liam’s gone.
Which kind of proves his point.
Ouch.
I keep an eye on the door as we finish our meal, but Liam hasn’t returned by the time dessert is served, and eventually I push my chair back as unobtrusively as possible. “Excuse me,” I say, laying my napkin on the table. “I think I’ll just go powder my nose.”
I wander through the winding, ornate corridors of the library for a while, past the special collections of rare books and the reading room with its long tables and banker’s lamps shaded with deep green glass. No matter how long I’ve lived in New York, and how many times I’ve visited this library, it never stops feeling magical to me. But tonight, there’s no time for browsing, and eventually, I find Liam. He’s out on the grand stone terrace that looks out over the park, the lights and noises of the city muffled down below. He’s taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, leaning on the stone balustrade, a distant look in his eyes as he takes in the view, like he’s deep in thought.
I clear my throat, not wanting to startle him. “Hi,” I say.
Liam whirls to face me.
For a moment he looks irritated, then surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to check on you. See if you’re OK.”
“You keep asking me that,” he says shortly. “I’m fine.”
He’s not, clearly, but it’s pretty obvious he’s not about to open up to me about it. All at once I feel young and foolish—for reaching out to him when he’s clearly not interested, for being here at all. Part of me figured I could be some kind of support for him, but I should have known, he doesn’t need anything from me.
He’s made that perfectly clear.
“OK,” I reply quietly. “Well, I think I’ll call it a night then. I’ll see you at the office.”
Liam lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry,” he says, before I can leave. “I just… I don’t know what to say to these people. He’s a total stranger to me.”
Liam’s voice is so quiet that at first I think I’ve misheard him, or possibly imagined it altogether. “Harry?” I ask.
Liam nods, leaning back against the railing. “This person that everyone is describing. This boss that everyone loved, this father who’d dress up in costumes and never missed a dance recital… I didn’t know him.” His shoulders slump. “And now… I never will.”
“That must be hard,” I tell him honestly. It’s hard to reconcile even for me, that the great man I knew and loved was also kind of a shitty dad to one of his kids. I can’t imagine how it feels for Liam himself.
“I didn’t have much of a relationship with my dad either,” I confess, moving across the terrace to stand beside him. “It was always just my mom and me.”
Liam glances at me sidelong. “And your romance-loving granny,” he reminds me.
“Exactly.” I smile. “And I would never say it doesn’t hurt—and nobody has ever made me come to a fancy party and listen to everyone talk about how wonderful he is. But I try to remind myself that him not being in my life? That was his loss. And it was Harry’s loss, too, not being there for you.”