War and Love

by Winter Renshaw

  Clearly my head and my body are on two entirely different pages when it comes to my impending dinner with the guy across the hall.

  Here’s hoping my heart stays the hell out of this.

  Chapter Six

  Jude

  “You know she’s way too good for you, right?” Lo says, rocking Ellie on her hip as she stands in my kitchen.

  “Yep.”

  “Like … way.” She laughs through her nose, studying my outfit. “It’s weird seeing you like this.”

  “Like what?”

  Lo rolls her eyes. “You know. No ripped jeans or vintage Ramones t-shirts. Hair actually combed for once.”

  I know I look like a schmuck with my pressed slacks and cashmere sweater and shiny Italian loafers and hair parted on the side and slicked with brill cream, but this is all part of Hunter’s master plan.

  “If you want to hook Love, you have to use the right bait,” he’d said, comparing his ex-wife to a fucking fish.

  “God, this place is amazing,” Lo says, carrying Ellie from the kitchen to the living room, where she hones in on the kind of view we only ever dreamed of.

  “Sure beats our fourth floor walk-up.”

  She smirks. “Yeah. Just a little.”

  “I Venmo’d you the rent money this morning,” I said. “Next six months are covered. There’s some extra for food and Piper’s meds.”

  Lo turns to me, her smart-ass expression fading. She’s tough as rocks, but I swear I see a hint of tears brimming in her eyes. She doesn’t have to say a word. I know what this means to her. After her deadbeat ex was hauled off to prison a couple years back for running drugs (unbeknownst to all of us), she found herself a twenty-three-year-old single mother with a toddler and a newborn, no job, and no way to feed them.

  At the time, I’d been out of the Army for a few years, had just finished my plumbing apprenticeship, and landed a decent job at Premier Plumb and Supply in Brooklyn. As soon as Lo finally admitted to me that she was struggling and about to become evicted, I found a hole-in-the-wall two-bedroom above a pizza shop and moved them in, vowing to help her get on her feet.

  Now, during the day, Lo stays home with the girls. At night she waits tables at some exclusive restaurant on 67th Street, heading into the city shortly after the girls go down for the night. Tips are decent and the hours are shit, but she doesn’t complain because this has always been temporary.

  The plan was for her to start nursing school at Touro, and she was going to start this summer. But I lost my job a few months back due to cutbacks, and one of us had to make sure the rent was still being paid.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Lo asks, biting her lower lip as Ellie runs her chubby fingers through her hair.

  Piper is seated in the cognac chair across from the TV, messing with a remote that I’m pretty sure belongs to the fireplace.

  “What choice do I have?” I’d spent the last three months applying for jobs, but all the ones I could find had shitty pay, zero benefits, or shady reputations. I booked every music gig I could find, playing at any bar that would so much as take me for an hour or two at night, but it didn’t make up for the lost wages, and most of it went toward Piper’s meds anyway.

  “We could always move,” she says.

  “It costs money to move, Lo. And we don’t have that right now.” My tone is short and I don’t mean to come at her that way, but I don’t need to be reminded that what I’m doing is nothing less than heartless. “As soon as this is over, we can look into moving somewhere cheap and safe. With good people and even better schools. All this stress, this bullshit? It’s about to end.”

  Taking a seat at a kitchen bar stool, I slump my elbow on the counter and exhale.

  “She seems really nice,” Lo says. “Sweet.”

  “I know.”

  “And she just went through a divorce,” she adds. “She’s probably already heartbroken. And you’re just going to come in and—”

  Fuck. “I know.”

  Lo doesn’t manage our finances. She doesn’t see that we’re one rough month away from being out on the street, one unexpected bill away from Piper not having her EpiPen or inhaler when she needs it.

  A million dollars and a record deal.

  That’s what this deal is worth to Hunter LeGrand, that’s what he laid on the table. And before I had a chance to so much as think it over, he was elaborating on the fact that he’s “well connected” and he can “make shit happen” and he has no qualms about “blacklisting people like you” should they deserve it. He also felt the need to remind me that singer-songwriters like me were on every street corner in Manhattan, that I could always make a living busking in the subways or singing covers on YouTube if this deal didn’t pan out because he’d personally see to it that my name would never be in lights.

  “The girls are probably hungry,” I say to Lo, checking my watch. “Let’s grab something.”

  My sister moves Ellie to her other hip, her eyes snapping to the floor. “It’s okay. We should get going so we can catch the five.”

  “I thought I was taking you guys out for lunch … made us reservations at Serendipity III.”

  “I’m sorry, Jude. After seeing her … it just doesn’t feel right spending your blood money on frozen hot chocolate.”

  My sister can be so fucking dramatic sometimes.

  “It’s not blood money, Lo,” I say, half-chuckling. “No one’s getting offed.”

  “You know what I mean.” She speaks quickly and her gaze moves to mine. “Come on, Pipes. Let’s go.”

  Piper places the fireplace remote on the table where she found it and slides off the leather chair, dashing across the living room toward her mother, her dark pigtails bouncing.

  A second later, the three of them head to the door, only before they leave, Lo turns to me. “The place is great and all, Jude, but don’t get too comfortable in case this whole thing blows up in your face. Because it will. And when it does, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  They leave before I have a chance to respond, and I’m left with my kid sister’s words echoing in my head, resonating off the deepest fragments of my conscience and all the parts of me that wish I never walked into Blue Stream Records that random Tuesday in May, flash drive demo in hand, and crossed paths with the CEO himself in the elevator lobby.

  I should’ve known when Hunter said, “I don’t normally take unsolicited demos, but you seem like exactly the kind of act I’m looking for right now,” that he wasn’t talking about music.

  Not at all.

  Chapter Seven

  Love

  “What are you wearing right now?”

  I smirk at my reflection in the mirror as Tierney’s voice comes through the speakerphone.

  “Something appropriate for a business dinner,” I say, fastening a modest diamond stud into my right ear before attending to the next.

  She exhales into the phone. “Bo-ring.”

  “That’s all this is. We’re discussing how to get Agenda W off the ground. Nothing more, nothing less.” I dig through my makeup bag in search of my blush and bronzer compact.

  “You’re killing me, Love,” Tierney says. “I’m not saying you need to rush back out there and find a man, but there’s nothing wrong with having fun. Casual dating does not equal marriage.”

  The last time I casually dated anyone was in college, when I met Hunter LeGrand in Econ 101 and he asked me to study with him over pizza one night. We were inseparable after that, and there was never anyone else after him, so my dating history is akin to a blank piece of paper at this point.

  “Right. I know that,” I say, tapping my blush brush in a compact of Nars Orgasm before sweeping it across the apples of my cheeks. “And that’d be fine if this is what that was, but like I said, this is a work thing.”

  Tierney laughs. “Whatever you want to call it is fine, but I guaran-freaking-tee you he’s going to try to kiss you at some point tonight.”

  “Let him try.” I laugh
, clasping the compact shut before reaching for my mascara, ironically called Better Than Sex.

  I sense a theme here but it’s pure coincidence, I swear.

  “He’s going to be here any minute,” I say, checking the time on my phone screen.

  “Call me tomorrow,” she says. “Tell me everything.”

  Rolling my eyes, I give her my word before pressing the red button.

  Finishing my lashes, I toss everything back in my makeup drawer and head to my closet to step into my Valentino flats in basic black. Heels scream “fuck me,” especially on a Friday night, so I figured flats would send the right message. Plus, they complement my black pencil skirt and white button-down blouse. My hair is down, pressed sleek and straight and parted deep on one side, finishing off my look.

  I need to look serious, like a woman trying to launch a business operation, not like I’m looking to get a piece.

  Tucking a strand of hair behind my left ear, I give myself a final once-over in the mirror just as the knock at my door echoes down the hallway.

  He’s here.

  Smoothing my hands down the front of my skirt, I take my time heading to the door, grabbing my clutch off the console in the foyer and softly clearing my throat before answering.

  “Hey.” Jude stands at my threshold, his hands resting in the pockets of slim-cut khakis that show off his runner’s legs. A crisp, fitted white button down hugs his upper body, straining against his tight chest and broad shoulders. A belt with a silver “H” buckle—Hermes—ties the look together. For a second, I almost see Hunter standing before me as this is exactly the kind of outfit he’d have worn for a casual dinner, but I force his image out of my mind. “We match.”

  He points to his shirt and then mine as he winks, which somehow immediately puts me at ease when I didn’t even realize I wasn’t at ease in the first place. My breathing slows and steadies and I laugh at his cheesy attempt at making a joke.

  “Seriously though, you look nice,” he says, eyes dragging the length of me, his intense gaze lingering in certain areas for a beat longer than necessary.

  “You aren’t supposed to say things like that when it’s a business dinner,” I remind him, stepping out of my apartment and locking the door behind me.

  “Thanks for the reminder. It must have slipped my mind.” Jude places his hand on the small of my back, sending an unanticipated quiver down my spine, and then he guides me toward his apartment door.

  “Did you forget something?”

  “Nope.” He reaches for the knob and a second later the door swings open.

  His place is dark, save for the flicker of candles set at his dining room table and the sparkle of the city lights filtering in through his living room window.

  “Jude …”

  Two silver cloches rest at two silver place settings at the table, and a chilled bottle of wine nestled in a bucket of ice sits beside the candlelit centerpiece.

  “I ordered in,” he says. “Hope that’s okay. I find restaurants can be too distracting, especially on Friday nights. It’s just not conducive to a business meeting.”

  “Were candles and wine really necessary?” I’m standing in his doorway now.

  “The catering company did all of that,” he says with a shrug. I think I believe him. Hunter used to hire a caterer sometimes for our hosted dinner parties, and they’d do the same thing with the candles and the wine. “Would’ve been the same way at the restaurant.”

  True.

  “Anyway, I hope you don’t mind. I got you the petit filet with the gunpowder crust,” he says. “Side of scallops.”

  I always used to order that exact meal from Maestros.

  “How’d you know I like those things?” I ask. I still haven’t taken a single step.

  “I didn’t.” He makes his way to his dining room table, lifting the cloche from his plate. “Figured everyone likes either seafood or steak, so I got you both just to be safe.” Jude’s green gaze lifts toward mine. “You’re not a vegetarian, right?”

  I shake my head and his mouth curls at the side. He’s so casual, so natural around me, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve known him longer than I have.

  “You going to come in and eat?” he asks. “Or you just going to stand there like I’m Hannibal Lecter about to serve you braised brain and Chianti?”

  “Sorry,” I say, finally closing the door behind me. “I guess this just wasn’t what I was expecting. A little taken aback.”

  “If you want, we can ditch this entire thing and go grab a slice of pizza?” he offers. “I’m just as comfortable talking business under fluorescent lights.”

  There’s something fascinating about Jude, something contradictory in the way he looks so high brow but speaks to me like the boy next door. He wears Gucci shoes but cracks lame jokes and doesn’t take anything seriously. He smiles at me constantly, and it isn’t a creepy smile, but one that makes my heart do the tiniest somersaults sometimes.

  The way he acts completely challenges the way he looks, and I’ve never met anyone like him. Didn’t even know guys like him existed, least of all in the Upper East Side.

  “No, this is fine.” I take a seat across from him, lifting my cloche and placing it aside. The familiar peppery scent of the seasoned steak fills my lungs and for a moment, I glance across the candlelit table and see Hunter seated across from me. My stomach knots until Jude’s face comes into focus. I’d take him up on that pizza offer, but he already put so much thought and planning into this dinner.

  “All right, so tell me about your business,” he says, rising over the table to pour our wines.

  Sitting straight, I say, “It’s a not-for-profit organization called Agenda W. We’re aimed at helping women get on their feet and find financial independence.”

  His lips press together and he nods. “All right. I like that. Continue.”

  “We’ll offer scholarships, resources and referrals, childcare for women attending job interviews,” I say. “We’ll have a clothes closet for women needing professional wardrobes as they look for jobs. Basically, in my mind, it’s a one-stop shop where we can help women rise up, find freedom in their independence, and take care of themselves and their families without relying on anyone or anything else.” I pull in a deep breath as the candlelight flickers against his face, lighting a glint in his green eyes. “I know places like this exist all over the city and I know I’m not bringing anything new to the table, but I don’t think it’s possible to have too many of these. One more is one more, and that’s a good thing.”

  “Agree,” he says, brows meeting. “And how are you funding this? Donations?”

  “It’ll be fully self-funded,” I say, not wanting to get into specifics. I’ve already spoken with my accountant, who confirmed that the interest from the first year of my alimony alone would more than cover start-up costs and should sustain us for the foreseeable future.

  He doesn’t act surprised, doesn’t show a hint of disbelief. “And what about staffing?”

  “We’ll start with the basics,” I say. “A front desk person, a counselor, a social worker, an education advisor, a childcare provider. We’ll add as we grow.”

  Jude slices into his steak. “It sounds like you have it all figured out.”

  “I know,” I say, “but I keep feeling like I’m missing something. Kind of just winging this thing.”

  “You’ll need liability insurance, payroll,” he says, pointing his fork. “And a marketing plan. Some PR, too. But this isn’t really what I do, Love. Typically, I guide companies toward decisions that help place them above their competition and optimize their profitability. You’re not-for-profit. Competition isn’t a thing for you. Your biggest hurdle will be spreading the word and making sure everyone knows who Agenda W is and what they do.”

  He speaks with confidence, shedding his boy-next-door-ness and switching into the skin of a businessman with the unstoppable ability to make difficult decisions and get results.

  I’d be lying
to myself if I ignored how sexy that is.

  “I really appreciate this,” I tell him, forking a tender scallop. “I know this isn’t your area of expertise, but just knowing I have someone to talk to about this takes a little bit of the pressure off. I mean, I have Tierney and she runs her own business, but she inherited it from her aunt. She knows nothing about starting from scratch, you know?”

  He nods, reaching for his wine glass. “I’m happy to help anyway I can, Love.”

  Jude smiles before taking a sip, and I relish the way he says my name, so soft, so natural, like it belongs right there on his tongue and on that full mouth of his.

  He’s disarming me like a bomb technician dismantles an explosive, with the kind of skill and patience that make it seem natural and easy.

  I need a deep breath.

  I need to look away.

  I need to harden my resolve and stay strong and not get swept up in this man’s charms.

  “Anyway,” I say, “I’ve got a meeting with a graphic designer next week to go over logo mockups …”

  I take the wheel of the conversation, ensuring we’re headed in the right direction, not stopping for any non-business-related detours, and by the time we finished dinner, I’ve managed to bring us safely to our final destination.

  I’m not sure what time it is, but the city view from his window is aglow with a full moon, cherry-colored traffic taillights, and Central Park street lamps. Rising, I take my wine glass and head toward the picturesque view, the same one I have from my bedroom as our apartments must intersect, wrapping around this corner of the building.

  “We share this view, you know,” I say, only he wouldn’t know. He’s only been in my place once, and I had my bedroom curtains drawn. “Isn’t it incredible?”

  Hunter always wanted to live in the trendier neighborhoods with the younger crowd. Once when I brought up living uptown, he scoffed at me and told me I had terrible taste in locations. So of course, as soon as the divorce papers were served, I called up my real estate agent and had her find me the perfect place with a view of Central Park.