Redheaded Redemption (Redheads Book 2)

by Rebecca Royce

  It would all work out.

  If he would just say yes.

  He stared at the number and then handed me back the card. “We’re booked every night but Sundays and Mondays for dinner. I’m not asking the staff to work the nights that they’re off.”

  “Not night. Lunch. It’s the new thing.” Or it would be because I’d be making it the new thing. Everyone would want to have lunch now. “Eleven to one.”

  I might even make it brunch if I had to. I’d tell Muffy that the trend was shifting again. She was sweet but not too bright.

  He scowled at me and then ran a hand through those dark locks that I couldn’t stop staring at. I forced my attention back to his face. That wasn’t better. Why did he have to be so handsome? He was older. My internet search told me nearly forty. Maybe that was what I liked. There was something chiseled about him that said he’d lived life and it hadn’t bowed him. It was amazing, really, how little information there was about him on the Internet. He was clearly a person who valued his privacy.

  I didn’t know what that was like.

  “Anna,” he called over his shoulder. “I want to tell this woman no because I want to hate her, but this could be for Eric.”

  She came out of her office and stared at me for a second before she looked back at him. “Do it. I don’t think she’s the monster you think she is, by the way.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t expected that. “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t a monster. I just said you weren’t the monster he thinks you are. There are lots of areas of monster to get through in that direction.” She held her hand over her head. “You were pretty much up here.” She moved her hand to her waist. “And I’m saying maybe you’re there.”

  I nodded. Well, that still sucked. Not that I’d expected to make friends. “Gotcha.”

  “We’ll do it.” He nodded. From his own pocket, he pulled a card. “Email me the contract. We’ll do it.”

  Happiness flooded through some of my discomfort. “Great. I’ll do that.”

  “Yep. But this doesn’t mean anything in terms of whatever you’re doing here. You should just stop.”

  Yes, I heard him. “I’ll take care of all of that tonight.”

  He turned to leave and then stopped. “I looked up what happened to your sister. That was fucked up.”

  Well, that was one way to put it. “Seriously fucked up.”

  It was time for me to leave. Probably past time. “Your green onions are on their way.”

  He hit the wall. “Who is telling her? I’ll double whatever she’s paying you to stop.”

  “No, he won’t,” I called back as I exited. Anna walked to the door to close it behind me. I caught her gaze. “Who’s Eric?”

  She scowled, and I was pretty sure she wasn’t going to answer. “His sous chef before I took it over. They came up together in the military. Best friends. He’s my fiancé.” She looked away. “He’s sick. Needs an operation. Insurance won’t pay.”

  I almost told her I could raise money for Eric. I’d find a rich socialite in search of a cause. We could make Eric that cause. But as I stared at her proud gaze looking back at me, I knew that was too far. Anna didn’t want to be charity, even though she needed help. That also meant I couldn’t randomly offer to pay either. But I could book Max to cook at Hyperion for three hours. That was working to raise the money, and it came down to her not wanting anything she hadn’t earned.

  I’d learned to read people when I was a child. It helped when I wanted the nannies to give us what we wanted and my father’s temper to cool when it would have gotten out of hand. I was the reason he hadn’t added child abuser to his list of faults.

  Well…not physically.

  And it all made sense. It explained why Max would say yes.

  “You don’t wear a ring.” I pointed to my left ring finger that was also without jewelry.

  She shrugged. “Hard to cook with it.”

  Max poked his head out the door. “What’s the cause?”

  Took me a second to realize he meant the luncheon and not Eric, who I’d never met but spent the last minutes thinking about. “Mrs. Muffy DelMonte wants to feed the starving migrants in Slomestikan.”

  I expected a comment, but instead, he just nodded his head. “Tough situation there.”

  It was. I’d certainly raised money for worse causes.

  Four times. That was how many I locked and unlocked the door before I could leave it alone. I was really on the edge for needing to seek some help. My therapist and psychiatrist understood my personal limits. I wasn’t sure they agreed with them, but everyone understood I would call if I hit six lock-unlock events or if I couldn’t sleep for three nights in a row. Also, a whole slew of other things, but those were the bordering events.

  I leaned my head up against the door. “Pull it together. Nothing is wrong. You did something bad. You can’t fix it, but you can try to make it right. That’s the best anyone can do.” I put my hand on the door. “Taking personal responsibility. You’re not a terrible person.” I hit the door with my open hand. It burned. “You should find a way to get a pet. It would be nice to come home to some kind of pet.”

  Stepping from the door, I went to my kitchen and poured myself some cereal. That was all I could manage tonight. If I’d been Bridget, I would have found something funny to say back to him when he’d made the sex joke or stared him down so he exploded into ash right in front of her.

  If I’d been Layla, he wouldn’t have said it. By now, he’d have understood, because she wore her heart on her sleeve, that she never meant to hurt him. All would be forgiven.

  But I was Hope. Absolutely hopeless Hope, so lost in her string of self-worth issues and secrets that I could barely stand myself.

  “Enough.”

  I sat down at my table and ate my cereal. I would not think about the smells coming from Max’s kitchen that I’d distinctly ignored when I was there. What had that been? Something with garlic.

  Nope, I wasn’t thinking about it. Not at all. No.

  Later that night, lying in my bed, I was just about asleep when my phone dinged.

  Do they even eat?

  Did who even eat? I had no idea who had just texted me. Sorry. Who is this?

  Max Broadley. Have you forgotten me already? You’re harassing me with your helpfulness.

  I rolled my eyes. How did you get this number? I didn’t give out my personal one on the website. I had a business cell phone number public.

  His texts were fast. You handed me your card.

  That was right. I’d written on the special cards printed with my private line. It was more like a social card, for people I either wanted to be friends with or friendly acquaintances I could invite to things like Muffy’s events. It was sort of awful, but we all did it. I used person A, they used person B. Such was life.

  You gave it back. In like three seconds, if I remembered correctly. In fact, I was pretty sure I still had the card in the pocket of my pants.

  I can always remember numbers. It’s a gift and a curse. He paused before he texted back as I digested that information. Max Broadley. Rememberer of numbers. Restaurant owner. Veteran. So do they eat?

  I rolled onto my stomach. Everyone eats. If you don’t eat, you die.

  Do they actually eat a reasonable amount of food, or should I just make finger foods for them to pick at?

  I thought about it. I’d never had a chef or a caterer ask me that question before. Usually, they just handed me a menu. Depending on my client, I either chose the food or asked them to do it. The second. They’ll never notice because it’s lunch that you didn’t do a whole sit down.

  The phone rang, and I answered. He didn’t say hello and neither did I. We just had a few moments of silence on the line before he spoke. “I hate texting.”

  It wasn’t my favorite thing either. “I don’t blame you.”

  “I was thinking of eggs. Specialty eggs. And maybe some finger foods. With gluten free, dairy f
ree options.”

  Rolling onto my back, I stared at the ceiling. “Shouldn’t you be cooking?” It was only ten o’clock. His restaurant would be open a lot later than that.

  “Anna’s got it.” His voice was low. I liked the sound. “Do you like the menu?”

  “I do. I was just thinking how good your restaurant smelled tonight. Like garlic.”

  He was quiet. “You like garlic?”

  “I like all food. It’s my favorite thing in the world to do—to eat.” I sighed. “And garlic is one of those great treats.”

  Max didn’t answer right away. “Everything? Everyone has something they don’t like to eat.”

  That was true. I absolutely detested pesto, but I wasn’t going to tell him that because he’d probably figure out where I lived and have loads of foods that I loved delivered here—only they’d be covered in pesto. No, actually he wouldn’t. That would require him to give a shit, and it was clear that other than disdain, Max didn’t care at all about me. Why should he?

  “What do you not like to eat?” There, I changed the subject. Turned his question back on him. People loved to talk about themselves. That was universally true. I never had to say a word about myself to anyone if I didn’t want to. It was easy.

  “I don’t like chocolate.”

  I sat up. “What?”

  “You heard me. I know it’s sacrilege, but it’s true. I don’t like chocolate. I like all kinds of other desserts but not that. Now, your turn. You don’t get off that easy. I want to know what the Hope Radford—who once found my cooking so disgusting, she puked on Fifth Avenue in front of cameras—doesn’t like to eat.”

  I closed my eyes. I was on the phone with the most attractive man I’d ever seen, yet that moment would always be between us. One sentence, and I was sure I could make that whole thing go away. I could tell him the truth. Yet…I couldn’t tell him, because I was sure I would die someday with this secret never having told to another soul. It was mine to live with, mine to endure. No amount of therapy had fixed that.

  “I…I hate pesto.” I was sure the next time I saw him, there would be pesto all over everything.

  “A lot of people do. I don’t cook it because it’s not my favorite thing either. I don’t hate it. My mother makes a good one, but I don’t cook it in the restaurants, so it wasn’t that.”

  I opened my eyes. “Wasn’t what?”

  “I’ve wondered all these years what you ordered that made you sick.”

  I couldn’t remember anything about that night. “I really am sorry, Max.” I couldn’t help the hitch in my voice. I was alone in the dark. My defenses were down, and the persona I carried around was shed by this point at night. It was just me here, alone with myself. “If I could go back, I would…” Not get drunk with Shawn and black out from whatever he gave me so that I wouldn’t get raped and pregnant. Not go out too soon after that when I should have stayed home. Not destroy my already shattered psyche so that I had to be hospitalized. Not mess up this man’s life so that he lost his dream and hated me. “Never do that. I can’t really explain it more. I am so sorry.” It bore repeating the last part.

  He was quiet. My answer would never be good enough, but it was all I could give him.

  “Okay, Hope.” He sighed. “I’ll call if I have any other questions.”

  He hung up.

  I rolled onto my pillow and buried my face in it. This was the trick I’d learned as a girl, so no one knew exactly how much I cried. If they’d really understood the amount of time I used to spend in tears, they’d probably have addressed it. I never wanted to be the one who had to have things examined too closely. We’d been rich but always moving. Turned out Dad stayed on the run a lot. So we’d shared a room, the three of us, and Justin had been in another one. Three bedrooms plus one for the nanny. Four. Never more than four. My sisters would worry. I couldn’t have that.

  So I learned to hide myself. Cry just enough they thought I was sensitive but not sick. Then after Shawn and his… No, I hated that word. I’d thought it once tonight. Wouldn’t even think it again. Didn’t want to. I didn’t cry about that anymore. I forced it to stop. I stared at the ceiling.

  My phone dinged.

  I got the onions. There was such a long pause, I was about to put the phone down. Thank you.

  It was like the best gift I’d ever been given. Those two words. You’re welcome.

  I didn’t feel like crying anymore. Instead, I put on the television and found the mini-series for Dune. I loved it. Couldn’t watch it enough. Late night TV was filled with science fiction and great for insomnia.

  Still, I fell asleep with the TV on and only woke up to shut it off at three a.m. I rolled back over, found the colder side of my pillow, and drifted back into my dreams.

  Only they weren’t easy or happy.

  No, it was me walking down a NYC sidewalk with the Brooklyn Bridge ahead of me. I was alone, no one there, and even though I knew I was being chased, I couldn’t run. My feet would only take slow steps, one and then the next. My pursuer had no such problem. He or she ran at me and would catch me soon.

  When whoever it was got to me, I woke up in a cold sweat, bringing my knees to my forehead. I didn’t care what time it was, I needed someone in the dark. A pet. I had to get one. And soon.

  I grabbed my phone. There was another text message from Max.

  What about dessert? Small finger foods of cake?

  I smiled. Not chocolate. I sent back the response before I thought about the time. Fuck. I hoped I didn’t wake him.

  His message came back fast. Not sleeping either? Well, now I know who I won’t wake up when I’m up.

  I loved the idea of Max texting me when he was up. With shaking fingers, I texted him back. Anytime.

  Maybe I wasn’t the only one who hated to be alone in the dark. I didn’t suppose I could ever be friends with him. It was too rough between us, but maybe we could be those people who filled a need for each other. Text messages when it was way past the point of acceptable, even though we both hated texting.

  Chapter 4

  The Save The Whales charity event went off without a hitch, and my client ended up raising ten million dollars for her trouble. She was thrilled. It looked like she was getting her name on some kind of plaque, but that went beyond the scope of my know-how. I was the one who could throw the party and get the right people there. It wasn’t really event planning. No one would ask me to plan their wedding or business dinner.

  I could probably pull off a birthday party, if it were a who’s who kind of a thing.

  “Hope.” A woman named Drea pulled me into a hug. I’d known her for years, but we’d only seen each other in these kinds of settings. “You look so gorgeous. Who made that dress?”

  The way I answered this would determine how she treated me for the rest of the night. “It’s vintage.”

  “Oh, I love it.” She spun me around like I was her plaything, and I let her. As long as she showed up and wrote checks that kept me in business, I’d let her be as condescending as she wanted. My feet were killing me in these heels. They pinched and I was going to regret wearing them later, but they matched the short black dress that I was getting attention for right now. “But then again, when do you Redheads not dress to impress?”

  I smiled. “You know us.”

  Truth was these days, Layla wore jeans more than anything else, while Bridget was always found in business suits. I was the only one dressing fancy, and I didn’t think I was altogether that good at it. I was still trying to figure myself out in that way.

  I left Drea and headed toward the exit of the party. I never had to be at these things the whole time. It was getting louder, and people were getting drunker. I’d done my job, I’d gotten the right people there. My clients needed something from me they couldn’t get enough of on their own—attention from strangers.

  My phone dinged, and I looked down at it, surprised to see Max there. He hadn’t texted me in two days. We were weeks from the p
arty, and the details were ironed out. I’d become convinced our night of texting was a fluke. I’d sent over oranges they’d needed, but I hadn’t heard any acknowledgement of them.

  What is your favorite restaurant?

  That was a random question, considering things. I thought about what I wanted to say in answer and almost texted, Well, I’ve heard there’s this hot new restaurant downtown called Hyperion, but even after you manage to get a reservation, there’s no guarantee you’ll get to eat there. I quickly deleted that. No. Not sending that. As amusing as I might find it, we weren’t there yet and might never be.

  I like this fish place called Aqualina uptown. It’s quiet but busy, and they make the best scallops I’ve ever eaten.

  He’d asked; I’d answered. That was the way to handle it.

  I’d made it into my car, and Luke had pulled us onto the street to go back home by the time he answered me. That’s a really good one. I was getting ready to put my phone in my purse when he called. I picked it up.

  “I make better scallops.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Really? That’s remarkable. Of course, I have no way of knowing.” I winced as the words flew out of my mouth. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound, as one of my nannies used to say. “You could just be lying.”

  He laughed. It was a low sound, and not one I’d heard him make before. It was smooth like velvet, and it moved right through me. I wished I could make him laugh again and again and again. I leaned back in my seat.

  “That’s true. I could be. What are you doing right now?”

  I yawned. It wasn’t even that late. Maybe I was just old at twenty-four. Worn out. “Going home. I just worked.”

  “How did whatever event you were throwing go?”

  I watched the traffic move around us, the pedestrians on the street going about their lives. In the front seat, Theo and Luke spoke to each other in low tones. “The gathering I organized was very successful. My client was happy.”