Stealing Hearts

by Rachel Shane

  Colby watches with his mouth parted as I toss the napkin and drop the cube into the glass with the orange.

  “Ah, my weapon of choice.” I slide a long bar spoon out of the liquor cabinet. “It’s the perfect size.” I wink as I muddle the bitters, sugar cube, and just the fruit of the orange into the bottom of the glass, careful to avoid mashing the pith. The sugar crunches as I press the back of the spoon against the crystals. A few ice cubes join the mashed bitters, and I add a splash of the bourbon into the glass, just enough to get everything wet.

  Colby’s eyes follow every gentle revolution of the bar spoon as I stir. I may not have any actual culinary skills but mixing drinks are my specialty. Besides for running con jobs, that is. Bartending pays my bills. Small cons pay my debts.

  I add a few more ice cubes and follow with more bourbon. My spoon clinks against the sides of the glass, disappearing in the foggy orange color. “After a few years,” I continue, “I transferred to Blue Water Grill in New York City as their lead chef.”

  His eyes widen. “Did you work with Taylor Spitz?”

  A bolt of panic shoots through me. My spoon stops in the middle of a whirlpool of orange liquid. “No, she wasn’t there.” I debate adding “yet” or “anymore” but I don’t know which direction to go in.

  “He,” Colby corrects.

  Fuck. My heart begins to beat loudly, but I cover the sound with a strained laugh. “Like I said, I never met him.”

  A good con artist doesn’t just spew words as fact and not have any way to back it up. Liliana Grandy, my alias for this job, has a Facebook profile, a LinkedIn resume, and a past I made up for her that fits with my story. Always my real first name, always a fake last name. Helps me avoid slipping up somehow. If he checks up on me, he’ll find the answers he’s seeking.

  I slide the Old Fashioned over to him. “Drink up.”

  Colby lifts the glass in cheers and brings it to his nose, his eyes fluttering back at the scent. He sips tentatively, like he doesn’t quite trust me yet. I’ll have to change that immediately. I hold my breath as he audibly swallows.

  His eyes widen. “Holy shit. I think this is the best drink I’ve ever had.”

  I give him a triumphant smile. “It is. You can trust me on that.”

  He takes another gulp. “Well, now I can’t wait to see what you do with the eggs.”

  Ugh. Me too.

  I turn my attention to the stove and hope he sucks that drink down good and fast. It won’t get him drunk enough to forget all semblance of the eggs I’m about to cook, but maybe it’ll be enough to loosen him up so I can talk my way into this job I’m not at all qualified for.

  Colby has an impressive selection of pots and pans, and I bite my lip, trying to decide which one is best for eggs. Sleek and silver? Non-stick with a little red emblem in the center? Large, small, fucking hell. I choose the smallest one: a gleaming silver pan that looks like it’s never ever been used. I set it on the stove and turn up the heat to the highest level. Warmth coats my face and amps the sweat pooling in the crooks of my elbows.

  In the fridge, I grab three eggs and some butter. He mentioned everyone has their own method and I guess mine is slapping a pat of butter into the pan, cracking the eggs directly into the bubbling grease, and then sliding a silicon spatula around and hoping for the best. Steam and smoke rise fast and heavy, making me cough.

  Colby clears his throat and a bolt of panic zips through me.

  The eggs sizzle and harden before I can fully mix them. My pulse races as I twist the heat way down, but it’s too late. When I scrape the eggs onto a plate, they’re littered with burn marks. Half of them stick to the pan in a hopeless mess of goo. I don’t dare glance back at him, but I can feel his gaze weighing heavy on my back. I can’t throw these out and start over, that would just prove to him that I’m a hack. A fake. A liar. There’s only one thing to do: act like this was purposeful. So I sprinkle salt and twist some pepper onto the eggs, then grab chives from the fridge and chop a few as garnish.

  I pass it to him along with a fork and put on my best smile, leaning forward on the countertop to make sure my breasts crest the edge. If he’s going to eat this crap, at least he could have a good view.

  Colby looks horrified as he scoops up a bite and gooey drops of uncooked eggs drip onto the rubber hard mounds that wiggle on his plate. He sets the fork down without biting. There’s a hard set of his chin. “You didn’t work at Blue Water Grill.” He pushes the clear evidence away and breathes a sigh of relief now that he no longer has to wallow in the burnt smell. “Tell me who you are and why you’re here.”

  Apprehension knots in the base of my throat. I grip the edges of the counter top with white knuckles and hunch my shoulders defensively. His gaze is so intense, so invasive, it’s almost as if he can see right through me. My cooking failed. My words are my only hope of doing damage control. “Okay.” I inhale a shaky breath. “Here’s the truth,” I lie. “I have no formal training. Well, except in cocktails.” I jut my chin toward his empty glass. “But it’s always been my dream to go to culinary school. Turns out though, culinary school is expensive.” I let out a strained, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m so broke, I can’t even afford rent. I’m living out of a motel where there’s no kitchen, no opportunity for me to improve my skills.” At least this last part is true. It’s a small offering I can give him among all the lies. “I need this job. It’s the only way I might have a shot at turning my situation around. Working as a fry cook at Applebee’s is not going to impress any culinary schools and the salary won’t cover tuition.”

  He runs one hand over the short stubble of his jaw. The line of his gorgeous mouth is tight and thin. “Fuck.”

  There’s a moment of silence, which I cling to, a brief respite from the inevitable rejection that will kick me swiftly out the door with little chance to get back the family heirloom that should be rightfully mine, but now resides in his possession.

  “I can’t believe I’m going to say this.” He shakes his head to himself and lets out a private little laugh. “But I’m going to give you the job.”

  I have to fight to keep my jaw from falling to the floor.

  His blue eyes meet mine. “I came from nothing too. So I get it.”

  I blink in surprise. “You—you did?” All the articles just detailed his current state: single, wealthy, and hot as fuck.

  “Three years ago, I was evicted from my apartment because I couldn’t pay my bills. I worked hard to get where I am and I think everyone deserves a chance to better themselves.”

  Under the table, I pinch my forearm to be one hundred percent sure this isn’t a dream and I didn’t pass out in his kitchen moments ago. It wouldn’t be the first time I stalled a con job gone wrong that way.

  “You’ll cook three meals a day for me Monday through Friday using recipes I’ll select for you.”

  I flinch at his words. Three meals a day for him… “So you work from home?”

  He laughs. “I’m an app developer. My dev team is in India, my quality assurance team is in Romania, and my new marketing team is in New York. This is my office.” He outstretches his hand at the expanse of the house.

  “How often do you go visit those places?”

  “Just got back from New York last week and I have no plans to go to India or Romania any time soon.”

  I stiffen. If he’s here all the time, that will certainly make finding the brooch nearly impossible. But still. It’s a chance.

  A chance to rob him blind.

  I hold out my hand to shake on it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When I show up for my first day of work, the housekeeper arrives only moments before me. She gives me a harrumph instead of a hello and lumbers toward the back door without a word. Dark bags hang under her eyes, encased in severe wrinkles. Wisps of gray hairs stick out from her bun. I bite my lip, glancing toward the front door where I was planning to go. With a sigh, I amp my pace and fly across the lawn, blades of damp grass ticklin
g my ankles. I catch up to her just as she drags herself up the stone back door steps. A keypad awaits and her arm stretches toward it lazily, propelled by muscle memory.

  I hold my breath, tuning my ears toward the sound of the numbers and not even daring to blink.

  But before she presses a single number of the entry code, she glances back at me with eyes narrowed. Then, she cups her hand over the keypad, shielding all view of the numbers, and sings loudly to herself in Spanish to conceal with the digital tone of the numbers. My hands curl into fists at my sides, but I keep a polite smile etched on my face.

  She swings the door open and lets it slam shut in my face before I can even take a step toward it. When I twist the knob, it’s already locked. I let out a frustrated scream and then haul ass back to the front door. I ring the doorbell, and the same housekeeper pulls it open for me. There’s a slight glint in her eye that hints at triumph.

  I brush past her and ignore the thump in my gut at losing to her power play.

  A full array of cookbooks rests on a brand new short stack bookshelf stationed next to the kitchen entryway. A twinge flutters in my chest as I imagine Colby dragging himself out to Barnes and Noble after work last night and buying out the entire cookbook aisle, then straddling on the floor to nail together a bookshelf plucked from the first furniture store to have one in stock. My interview was only yesterday.

  On the granite counter, there are three books propped open, each to a specific recipe. Attached to a recipe for simple poached eggs, a post-it note reads: I thought we could start off easy today. Just bring them in when they’re ready. Galina can lead you or you can follow the sound of me cursing out people in the IST time zone.

  His note puts a chuckle on my face. Seeing as he’s holed up in a room somewhere, I slide out of the killer stilettos I brought to keep his mind focused on anything besides my snooping. Flats feel like heaven on my feet and—bonus!—they’re silent when I pad from the kitchen through the hallway. Colby’s waiting for his breakfast but an extra few minutes won’t kill him. Those stolen seconds might be all I need.

  I press my ear against the first closed door, holding my breath to listen for a voice or typing or anything. When only silence greets me, I twist the handle and swing it open to reveal a cozy man cave complete with a pool table in the center, pinball machines lining the walls, and every video game console that ever existed in a row attached to separate flat screens. My gaze sweeps over the closet doors, and then lingers on a locked cabinet in the corner. My heart thumps. A locked cabinet could mean jackpot.

  I place one foot on the chevron rug, but a scraping sound from just behind me makes me flinch. I spin around, goose bumps popping on my skin, only to come face to face with Galina. She purses her lips, crinkling her peach lipstick that cracks at the creases, and shakes her head at me.

  “I was just—” I start to say. My rapid pulse beats in my neck. “Looking for torch?” It comes out more of a question than a statement. “I thought I’d make crème brûlée later.”

  Galina keeps staring at me with the kind of gaze a witch might use to put a hex on someone.

  Blood rushes to my face. “Clearly it’s not in here.”

  She makes no effort to move, squarely blocking the doorframe. I tilt my body to the side and scoot past her, making a grand show of pressing a finger to my lips to appear confused…and not appear as if I’d just gotten caught.

  I grip the countertop with white knuckles and focus on keeping my exhales even before I shift gears to Colby’s breakfast, reading the recipe three times before it makes sense. I follow the steps exactly by boiling water, adding vinegar as specified and cracking the eggs into a whirlpool. The white part runs in streaks before curling up around the yolk. I set the kitchen timer and let out a breath. With a recipe, I can break each step into a rhythm. It’s exactly like making a cocktail, only with the heat coming from the stove and not the alcohol content.

  I grind and scoop coffee beans into a pour over coffee carafe. A nutty aroma fills the kitchen. As I’m setting everything onto a tray, Galina grabs her purse and stands in front of me, glaring. In Spanish, she tells me she’s heading to the store for more cleaning products. Then she taps the side of her eye and points at me with a menacing look on her face, the universal sign for: I’m still watching you. A shudder runs through me.

  With shaky fingers, I carry the tray toward the sound of Colby’s voice coming from a room at the very end of the downstairs hallway. He cups his hand over his headset and mouths a quick thank you before gesturing me to set the tray down beside his computer. Three giant monitors line the edge of his desk, each displaying a different spreadsheet. One contains Brady Bunch-like squares of talking heads, including Colby’s. From the waist up, he looks prim and proper with a button down shirt and neatly combed hair, but below the waist he’s wearing pajama pants and cozy brown slippers. When he catches me looking, his cheeks turn red and he winks, placing a finger against his smirking lips.

  I shut the door and lean against it, grinning to myself.

  After a moment, I straighten. Colby’s occupied on a call. Galina left me high and dry. Her threat hangs over me, making my spine shudder. My eyes scan the wall for the security cameras that are surely lurking, watching my every move. But this is my one chance. I discard the heels and creep upstairs because the man cave is too close to him right now, cringing at the creak of the hardwood floor on the second stair. I keep my breath shallow, my steps light, and my pace slow and steady.

  My heart begins to beat louder as I take in the closed doors ringing the long hallway and the secrets they might conceal inside. My best chance is Colby’s bedroom, and I take an educated guess as to which door it is. A long breath slips from my lips when I swing open the correct door.

  Several elegant dark wood dressers surround a manly king sized bed made with a crisp white comforter. Only a neat stack of hard drives lines the tops of his bureaus. The tick of a clock on his wall marks my beating heart. A lemony fresh Lysol scent lingers in the air and sunlight streams in through the open curtains. There are hardly any signs of life in the room. Galina already cleaned and destroyed them all. But I have to start somewhere.

  If I bought a multi-million dollar diamond brooch, where would I keep it?

  I heave his mattress up, my elbows locking under the hefty weight, and peer beneath at the prized hiding spot for most sixteen-year-old girls trying to keep their stash of condoms away from the prying eyes of their parents. But the only thing beneath the mattress is a sturdy box spring.

  I pull open the bottom drawer of his long dresser, marveling at the neatly folded Polo shirts with perfect creases as if a Gap retail worker set up the display just for him. I run my fingers over the scratchy fabric, slipping my hand between each in case he decided to be sneaky and hide the brooch between two shirts.

  With a sigh, I move onto the next one. Just as my fingers close around the cold metal handle, the faint vibration of footsteps ricochets through the floor. I scramble away from the drawer, my stomach winding up like a fist. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I fly to his bathroom and conceal myself behind the door. I lean against it, squeezing my eyes shut as the bedroom door flies open.

  Colby’s footsteps grow closer, the hardwood floor squeaking beneath his feet. “Liliana?”

  A flush of the toilet and twist of the water faucet buys me enough time to find my composure. I wipe sweat from my brow before I open the bathroom and greet him with a smile. “Hey. What’s up?” I tilt my head at him as if I’m the one confused by his presence in the bedroom.

  He squints at me, a muscle in his jaw feathering. “What are you doing up here?”

  I force a little indent to furrow in my brow to really sell this. And then I let out a laugh as if I just got the joke. “You were on a call and I had to pee.” I shrug. “I went up here to avoid disrupting you.”

  Colby’s scowl deepens. “The upstairs is off limits. You got that?”

  His harsh tone startles us both. I stumble bac
kward a step, nodding. So not the locked cabinet then. His prized possessions are up here.

  He watches me intently, expectantly. I duck my head to prevent him from seeing the redness creeping across my cheeks.

  “You know, you look really familiar?” His voice goes lighter but there’s something rigid about it, as though he’s speaking through clenched teeth. “Have we met before?”

  A cold crackling sensation races down my spine. Shit. “Yes.” I lift my chin, meeting his eyes head on. It’s the oldest trick in the book: when you lie to someone, lie like you mean it. “Yesterday.” My lips crack a smile, coaxing him to laugh as well and join in on this joke even though the joke’s on him.

  He massages his jaw. “No, I don’t think that was it.”

  I shrug in the most nonchalant way I can muster. “I mean, we live in the same town,” I say even though until yesterday, I lived three hours away. “Maybe you’ve seen me around.”

  He purses his lips. “Maybe.”

  “Well, I should get back to it. How were the eggs by the way?” When lying doesn’t work, distraction is the next best substitute.

  This time he cracks a genuine smile. “Better than yesterday’s.”

  I leave him in his bedroom, mumbling a silent prayer to the universe that he believes me. That the first time we met was yesterday…and not three weeks ago, back when the only person who screwed me over was my own flesh and blood and not a stranger.

  If my paternal grandmother hadn’t passed away a month and a half ago, I wouldn’t be here right now. When she died, the heirloom diamond and ruby brooch that dates back to Charlotte, Queen Consort of the United Kingdom back in the seventeen hundreds, should have been passed down to me. King George III gave the collection of royal jewels to Charlotte upon their marriage and her Will left the precious items to successors of the House of Hanover. Nearly all the jewels became part of the crown jewels, except one: a diamond and ruby brooch she bequeathed to a friend she worked with at Kew Gardens, where she volunteered as an amateur botanist. That friend took a cue from Charlotte herself and willed the brooch down the family line, woman to woman, with each one vowing to keep it safe and never sell it. Since my grandmother only had sons, the brooch should have gone directly to me, and my grandmother had all but given it to me already.