Her suspicions were confirmed when he shook his head. “My mom’s been really busy with school and work. And my Big Brother Carl’s moving away, so he won’t get to pick me up from school anymore.”
Davon had a brother? What bad timing for a move with their mom in the thick of third-year law school. “But you’ll still get to see Carl at holidays and stuff, right?”
“Naw, Carl’s not my real brother. He’s just a guy from an agency. He has a kid my age and everything. But he was real cool.”
“It’ll be okay, Davon.” Sloane stifled a wince. “Your mom’s almost finished with school, and I know you’re going to get a new Big Brother soon.” She hated how lame those words sounded, too aware of the emptiness behind the platitude.
For a moment, Sloane could picture the faces of the people she’d known her whole life looking at her like she was a stranger after the accident, some with pity, but most fidgety and uncomfortable. Everything’s going to be okay, they’d placated her, probably to make sure she stayed quiet. We’re here for you. And then they’d avoided her.
His eyes widened as his aunt appeared in the doorway. “Don’t tell anyone I said anything, okay?”
“Okay.” Sloane waved at Davon’s aunt, who picked him up most days while his mom was in class.
“See you next time, Miss Sloane. And, uh, thanks.”
Her heart broke for Davon as she watched his aunt hurry him along. He was such a good kid. His mom had done a great job with him as she worked hard to build a better life for them after her husband’s death.
As Sloane’s hands worked to finish the dishes, she made a mental note to ask around about Davon getting a new City on a Hill Big Brother. Because if things weren’t okay in her little friend’s world, things weren’t okay in hers.
* * *
“WHAT KIND OF salad could possibly be so good that you’ve disturbed my reading?” Sloane’s neighbor stomped across the hall to her apartment that evening.
“Trust me, Mrs. Melone.” Sloane let the older woman in. “It’s life changing.”
This was their thing. Mrs. Melone pretended to be a crotchety old woman. Sloane played the sort of neighbor with lots of excuses that required the older woman’s presence. But in reality, they were doing each other a favor.
They both needed someone, anyone, to check in every once in a while.
Mrs. Melone was the wife of some sort of Old Hollywood producer who was always in LA. She was way too stylish to be crotchety. And if she were half as grumpy as she made herself out to be, she never would have agreed to try the salad that spun Sloane into a dancing fit that could rival the cheesiest of touchdown celebrations.
Never mind that it took Sloane three tries and ten minutes of coercing to get Mrs. Melone here. When she finally said the word bacon, Mrs. Melone was sold and grabbed her purse faster than Sloane had ever seen the woman move. Way faster than a woman working on her second hip replacement should ever move.
Sloane took her laptop from its usual spot on the dining room table and guided Mrs. Melone to the chair where the salad was still perfectly posed from its earlier photo shoot, complete with a bud vase of gerbera daisies that made the fresh greens pop.
The older woman made a big ceremony of shaking her head, dangle earrings clinking as she assembled a bite with the best proportion of romaine lettuce, bacon, bleu cheese, lemon-herb chicken and the creamy date and Dijon vinaigrette, then stuffed it in her mouth. Her eyes lit up.
Case. In. Point.
“Good, isn’t it?”
“This is...so flavorful.” Mrs. Melone shoveled in another bite.
Sloane grinned and leaned her elbows on the table beside her neighbor. “See, aren’t you glad I made you come over to try it?”
Mrs. Melone’s stylish silver bob snapped in Sloane’s direction, the scowl on her lined face churning as she chewed her salad. Then her lips curved in the slightest hint of a smile and she took another bite.
Victory!
“Did you get this recipe from the Cooper boy?”
The triumphant sound track came to a screeching halt. “What?” How did she know?
“Graham Cooper. The restaurant you’re working with.” Mrs. Melone made a clicking sound. “Oh, don’t act surprised. You’ve advertised it to the world on your website.”
“I didn’t know you read my website.” Sloane crossed her arms, pulling the ends of her cardigan tighter around her waist. As if that was going to help her feel any less exposed.
“Yes. Ever since Mitzi Mason from the country club told us about a feature they did on you in the Sunday paper. So about—” Mrs. Melone’s eyes shifted in thought “—two years or more.”
“And you’re just now saying something to me?”
“It never came up!” Her expression went from stubborn to sly. “Are all the stories about him true?”
“No.” This had to stop right there. “And to be honest, I don’t want to hear the stories about him.” Grace and Levi had told her enough. At every opportunity.
Mrs. Melone nodded and took another bite as if it was no big thing. “This is divine. You’ll have to make this for my Bunco club. You’re all they talk about, you know.”
Mise en Place had page views from countries all over the world. But somehow knowing her neighbor’s inner circle of socialites were among those readers pried open the tight disparity Sloane had created between her real life and her website.
“Do you want to take a picture of me for your website?” Mrs. Melone had already put down her fork and was applying a raspberry lipstick that only she could have pulled off. “You know, so your mother won’t worry?”
“I...” She stood and busied herself with packing up the salad leftovers to mask her shock. What, was the woman combing through her website comments or something? “What do you mean?”
“I may not have children, but I had a mother once. It’s weird what they turn into with a daughter living in a strange city by herself.”
“You’ve got me on that one,” was Sloane’s weak offering as her mind pictured a younger Mrs. Melone with curls tied in a handkerchief and hat boxes stacked in the back of a classic convertible moving to Hollywood by herself. “But I’m afraid the lighting’s all wrong for a photo now.”
Mrs. Melone’s nose turned up. “Well, I wouldn’t want my internet debut to take place in bad lighting. I’d never hear the end of it from the girls.”
Without ceremony, the older woman stood and took the container of salad leftovers, quicker and more agile than Sloane had ever seen her. Maybe it wasn’t just the bacon putting a fresh spring in her step as she walked down the hallway. “I think even my husband will enjoy this when he gets in tonight. And he doesn’t do salads, no matter how I spin ’em.”
“You’ll have to let me know.” Sloane watched her neighbor walk toward her apartment. Mrs. Melone usually moved at a much more snaillike pace, leaning against her signature silver-adorned cane. Now she didn’t even have a limp. “Hey, Mrs. Melone.”
Mrs. Melone turned around, fists framing her waist.
“I noticed you’re not using your cane anymore.”
She cracked a genuine smile. “Yeah, I’ve been doing yoga for the past few months, and I’m a new woman.” She whirled around in a little circle. “I’ve been sleeping through the night for the first time in years. I guess I must have done something right when I was younger to deserve this.”
Sloane’s laugh sounded counterfeit. “You don’t really think it was something you did right that took the pain away, do you? Besides the yoga, I mean.”
Mrs. Melone shrugged, one cheek dimpling. “All that matters is that I’m pain-free.”
“I’m glad.” Sloane stifled her unspoken questions with a smile. She wasn’t going to even begin to go there with Mrs. Melone.
Sloane’s mind had b
een swirling with theories on healing for over twelve years. The silent bleed in Aaron’s brain that killed him. Her own guilt and broken thought processes and everything else that had all but imprisoned her. If some quota of right was what it took, Sloane would be a prisoner forever.
But maybe Mrs. Melone was onto something. Maybe life could trend upward when it was least expected, in a way that was unexpected—no flashes of lightning or spectacular deeds required.
“Cooking for your bridge friends—I’m sure we can work something out.” The words that tumbled from Sloane’s mouth were certainly unexpected.
“It’s Bunco.” Mrs. Melone bore an ornery grin. “Bridge is for old people.”
Sloane shook her head and watched Mrs. Melone, looking all Hollywood-on-the-down-low in her flowing gray pantsuit, unlock her apartment door. The whole exchange was still mind-blowing. Blog readers this close to home—literally. The puzzle pieces of healing that had no logical fit.
So she tried to process it, one sparkling pot and plate at a time.
CHAPTER SIX
BEATING OWEN NEVER felt as sweet as it should because, most of the time, he was a sore loser. But sometimes it was downright satisfying.
Their father’s basketball gym—borderline ridiculous with its floor-to-ceiling glass-paneled walls, mounted flat-screen TVs and built-in overhead speaker system—was warm and humid despite the morning air filtering through the retractable window they’d opened. Out of the corner of his eye, Cooper watched his brother on the opposite end of the bleachers, silent for once. But he communicated volumes in his jerky, furious movements as he unlaced the blue-and-green custom Nikes he’d been given by the leading scorer on the Dallas Mavericks.
Owen lived in downtown’s swanky Victory Park neighborhood by the arena and went to almost every basketball game. He was practically part owner of the franchise, pouring in money and enjoying the perks without the responsibility of decision-making.
But his expensive shoes hadn’t saved him this time.
“Maybe you should ask your NBA friends for some better shoes. Something with a little more...traction.” On his game-winning possession, Cooper had faked Owen so hard that his brother had eaten some serious wood floor.
Owen heaved a grumbling sigh that made Maddie’s ears perk up from her lazy position on the floor. But the half grin on his face when he looked up gave Cooper a warning twinge. “No, for once, you were better than me out there, big brother. And you know what? I got you a little something for your win. I almost forgot.”
Cooper definitely didn’t like where this was going. “The funding for a print ad campaign for Simone?”
“Oh, no.” Owen gave a creepy laugh. “Something that will last you much longer. Much more rewarding.”
“Lay it on me, Owen.”
Owen pulled his cell phone from his gym bag. “I got you a new little brother.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cooper rolled his eyes.
A glimpse at Owen’s cell phone answered Cooper’s question. There was a photo of a little boy wearing a wrinkled suit and an uncertain smile. “You’ll be spending some quality time with this guy.”
“Owen...”
“Hey, don’t complain to me. Dad’s the one who volunteered you, probably so he could boost your image in the annual report.”
The pieces clicked together in Cooper’s mind. A press release his mother had sent about an event for the City on a Hill Foundation. “No, no, no, no.”
“It’s a done deal, Coop. Mom matched you up with him herself.” The teasing demeanor slipped. “Look, this is the first thing Mom and Dad have agreed on in who knows how long.” Owen slid the phone into his pocket. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
Cooper clenched his back teeth together. He couldn’t argue with that.
“And you know what? I wasn’t going to bring it up because I know you’ve been dealing with a lot, but does the name Martin Cadell mean anything to you?”
Panic twisted in Cooper’s chest.
“Lunch and golf at the club?”
He couldn’t have.
“He showed up to the office at our designated meeting time, and when you were nowhere to be found, I told him you had an emergency and took him out myself. Gave him the whole spiel.”
Cooper threw his head back and grabbed fistfuls of hair. How could he have forgotten?
“Luckily his file was on the very top of the mountain that’s been living on your desk.”
“Oh, my gosh.” Cooper had no words, no way to possibly weed intelligence from the tension knotting his brain and body.
Owen grabbed the strap of his bag and pulled it over his head, walking backward to the door. “Yeah, well, Dad doesn’t know about it, and I think Cadell’s in, no thanks to you. But you need to get it together. Maybe this kid will help.”
Cooper nodded, mumbling thanks as his brother left. Never in his professional life had he bailed on a potential client pitch like that. He was lucky his father hadn’t intercepted the man—and unlucky that Owen now had the upper hand on him. Who knew when this would come up again? Who knew what else Cooper would space out on if he could forget something this important?
The second the doors closed, he picked up the basketball on the bleacher next to him and hurled it across the gym. But the sound of rubber slamming against the wall wasn’t as satisfying as he’d hoped.
No sound or gesture or act of destruction could make a dent in the hollow feeling that could only be filled by one thing.
* * *
COOPER PRACTICALLY JOGGED from the gym to his car, chilly morning air wicking the sweat from his bare chest and stomach. All logic and reason were still muted after the infuriating reminder from his brother. And he wanted to keep it that way before he could change his mind.
No one would ever have to know. It would just be a one-time thing.
The phantom memory of a chilled bottle in his hand took him past his father’s security gate. The smooth amber pouring into a bar glass sped him well over the speed limit down the highway, to a store where he knew nobody, winding through the streets of downtown Dallas with fifty dollars of liquid fire seemingly burning a hole through glass and paper from the passenger seat to get to him.
His hands were shaking by the time he parked his car. And he almost didn’t see her as he fumbled the key to his restaurant.
It was Sloane, peering into the café through the front window, one hand clutching a ribbed gray cardigan in front of her and the other cupped over her eyes to shield out the morning sunlight. Smooth black yoga pants clung to slender, elegant legs and hugged her sleek silhouette.
With the rigid lines of her buttoned-up professionalism dissolved and her hair let down, Sloane was actually kind of...
No.
He ripped his gaze away from her as she turned to face him.
Hands off. Eyes, too. He switched the bag from his right hand to his left behind his back, the bottle suddenly weighing much more.
“Oh, Cooper. You scared me.” Her gaze darted up and down his frame. In his hurry, he’d forgotten to put on a shirt. “I’d apologize for showing up in my workout clothes, but...”
A rosy blush spread across Sloane’s cheeks—from the autumn morning air or embarrassment, Cooper didn’t know. But her smile warmed him to the bone. “I was hoping you’d be here. I mean, I thought you might be. You’re pretty much always here or at the office, right?”
“Close enough.” He unlocked the front door and let her in. “To what do I, uh, owe the pleasure?”
Sloane paused, rocking on clean white tennis shoes as he closed the door. Keeping her narrowed gaze on anything but his unclothed upper body. “I have that presentation this week and wanted to borrow your memory card with the images we took.”
Memory card. Memory card. “I think it’s
in the back. Wait here a sec.” As he turned, the bag in his hand bumped the door, almost falling from his grasp. But gone was the itch of old, memorized habits, replaced by the pit of guilt.
Sure, he’d almost cost the company a massive amount of money, but was it worth it? Was he still this out of control?
He pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen and threw the bag in the trash before retrieving it, smashing the nose from it, and pouring the contents down the sink. Rinsing every last drop of temptation down the drain as he breathed through his mouth.
With the bottle no longer a threat, he pulled the black sweatshirt he kept at the restaurant over his head and began rifling through a pile of forms and instruction manuals until he found the envelope with the tiny memory card.
Saved by the memory card. If Sloane hadn’t shown up, he’d probably be sweating and sloppy, halfway through the bottle by now.
“Here are the pictures.”
Sloane’s fingers, sliding some rusty nuts and bolts he’d left on one of the tables into neat piles, caught Cooper’s attention. For some reason, he couldn’t meet her eyes. Something about her made him feel raw. Like he should be so much better—that he could be so much better. Maybe it was her review, full of a hope that he’d been starting to lose. But that wasn’t all that long hours and stress had chipped away.
With his dreams in the balance, Cooper’s guard had slipped. He needed to get things under control. To carve himself away from work and the restaurant to make sure he could stay healthy.
“Hey, is everything okay?”
Cooper pushed through the fog of his thoughts to the high-definition clarity of Sloane’s eyes. His gaze slipped down to the thin black strap separating the ivory curve of her neck and her bare shoulder where the sweater had slouched off. He blinked slowly and shrugged.
“Did you hear anything I just said?” She pulled up the collar of her sweater, a crease forming between her eyebrows.
He sighed. “Sorry. Just dealing with some work issues. Nothing to write home about.”
With No Reservations Page 6