by Addison Fox
“And?”
“And what?”
“Do you harbor the same grudge?”
Harlow knew it would be easy to blame the woman on the podium for her family’s dysfunction, but had learned long ago how to view her childhood through the proper lens. “No, I don’t.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I’d like to offer your mother my support.”
“The Reynolds influence extends to Brooklyn?”
That urge to smooth her hands over her stomach struck her once more, but she held them stubbornly clasped at her waist. “I’m not quite sure I’d have put it in those terms, but yes, I suppose it does.”
Fender was prevented from responding by the arrival of his brother, Nick. Harlow recognized the man from the photos she’d seen online, and quickly catalogued what she knew. He was the third brother, one of three boys Louisa Mills had adopted shortly after her relationship with Harlow’s father had gone south. A former NFL player, he now owned a popular bar in Park Heights and was engaged to be married to the owner of a Brooklyn brewery.
That tidbit had pinged in one of her Google Alerts as well.
He was an attractive man, with the large, impressive physique one expected from a professional athlete. He was an interesting physical complement to his brothers. She’d met Landon McGee along with Fender when they’d both paid a visit to her gallery the previous month. Tall and lanky, there was a strength in Landon that became obvious the longer you looked at him. A strength that was as physical as it was mental.
And then there was Fender.
An odd name for an even more unusual man. She understood the appeal of the bad boy, even if she’d never ventured into those choppy seas herself. She had several friends who’d tried their hand with those who ran well outside the rarified air of the Upper East Side. Most had grown bored; a few had ended up with bruised hearts. None had managed to keep the relationship going.
And clearly she’d spent a few too many lunchtime internet sessions fantasizing about the man she’d met a few weeks back in her office if the word relationship was even whispering through her mind.
Fender made the introductions, the warm welcoming light in Nick’s vivid blue eyes fading at her name. “What brings you to Brooklyn?”
“As I told Fender, I’m here to lend my support.” Harlow eyed the crowd that still lingered and the line that stretched out before Louisa, waiting to speak with her. “Although it looks like she’s doing an amazing job on her own.”
“She is.” Whatever jovial warmth had carried Nick over was gone, even as he maintained a politely bland smile.
If she hadn’t been standing so close she’d likely have missed it, but the shift in Nick’s demeanor seemed to do something to Fender’s. His wariness vanished, and he turned toward his brother, a world of information flashing in his green eyes. “Harlow and I were just leaving.”
“Sure.” Nick nodded, his own thoughts burning like fire in his eyes. “See you later.”
Nick left as fast as he arrived, and Harlow was left alone with Fender. A cocky smile edged up one corner of his mouth. “Looks like you’re stuck with me for lunch.”
* * *
He needed to get back to the shop. The Corvette he had up on the rack still needed its suspension fixed, and the owner paid well to avoid a wait.
But he was damned if he could muster the urge to head back when the light scent of flowers wafted toward him. Fender had no idea what kind—he could pick out roses and that was about it—but she smelled like the whole damn flower shop. With something else lurking just beneath. Something sexy and confident that made his stomach muscles tighten and his mind immediately drift to heated images of tangled sheets.
That scent was alluring and unique and elusive in the thick summer air that barely swirled around them. He’d suggested meatball subs, and she’d agreed, so here they were, moving down the avenue that edged the south side of the park at a rapid clip.
Meatball subs?
What the hell was he thinking? This woman was Park Avenue and art galleries and French food. Not some greasy sub (albeit a delicious one) loaded with mozzarella and provolone.
“A neighborhood favorite?” Harlow asked as he swung open the door at Gino’s. If he had to guess, Fender would estimate he’d eaten roughly a thousand meals in his life inside Gino’s, and it wasn’t until that moment that he actually looked around.
The booths were scarred, their red vinyl peeling away to reveal stuffing, or covered over with tape. There was a photo on the wall of Nixon eating at one of the Formica tables. That same table still bore a faded brass plaque announcing the president’s lunch date, a few short months before Watergate broke.
It was shabby. Working class. Dated.
Everything Harlow Reynolds wasn’t.
That the thought even drifted through his mind, let alone rested there for a few seconds, pissed him off. She wasn’t any better than him, nor was he ashamed of where he came from.
So why did he suddenly have the urge to rethink lunch all together?
“Fender?” Her smile never wavered, but something shimmered beneath the pretty cornflower blue of her eyes. Questions?
No, he thought. Answers. There were answers in her eyes, and he was afraid to look at them too closely.
Shaking his head, he keyed back into the conversation. “Sorry. Yeah. This place is a favorite.”
“So how about that meatball sub you promised me?”
“They have other choices. Salads. Sand—”
Harlow’s eye roll stopped him. “Why would I come into a place that smells this heavenly and order a salad?”
As if to prove her point, she marched up to the counter, her smile bright for Gino. “My friend here tells me you make a killer meatball sub.”
“I do pretty lady. What do you want on it?”
“Extra provolone and extra sauce.”
“Coming up.” Gino reached over and laid a large withered hand over hers before shooting Fender a look. “The usual?”
“Of course.”
Harlow had already laid her free hand over Gino’s, a gentle touch for an old man. “What’s the usual, Blackstone?”
“Same as you. Only I get mozzarella on the second layer of cheese instead of provolone.”
“You’ll do.” With a hard nod, she turned back to Gino. “I’ll order one more before I leave. I left my coworker to take an early lunch, and she’ll kill me if I come back smelling so delicious.”
“A little thing like you?” Gino’s eyebrows wiggled. “You’ll be taking half yours back to share.”
Harlow laughed then, her voice low and husky. “Don’t bet on it.”
She exchanged a few more pleasantries with Gino before following Fender to the drink station and then on to their table.
“This place really does smell heavenly.” She glanced around, shooting a smile toward Gino’s grandson, who was showboating with several high twirls of pizza dough behind the counter.
“I think what you’re smelling is nearly fifty years of meatballs, pizza sauce, and grease. Gino’s is the heartbeat of the neighborhood.” Fender’s voice came out gruffer than he planned, even as the idea of planting his fist in the middle of Dominick’s face presented a tantalizing image.
“I thought your mother’s house was the heartbeat of the neighborhood.”
Harlow’s comment brought him up short, and he gave her his full attention, Dominick and his pizza dough twirling forgotten. “How would you know that?”
“I ask questions. I also know how to Google. Your mother has quite a reputation.”
Something uncomfortable settled in his gut. He’d believed his mother well past the intrusions of the Reynolds family, especially after Harlow’s mother’s bad behavior earlier in the summer. Was it possible she was just a pretty diversion, continuing the attack from a closer position?
Gretchen Reynolds had already sent his mother any number of threatening notes, then followed it up with an actual robbery of his brother’s bus
iness in an attempt to get her hands on the servers hosting his mother’s campaign for borough president. It had only been the full recovery of everything taken, as well as the promise that it was an unfortunate mistake, that had kept them from taking legal action.
Had they been too hasty?
“Are you spying on my family?”
“Are Google Alerts spying?”
“They are if you use them to nose around.”
Harlow took a sip of her water before facing him full on. “Then maybe I am spying.”
He was a quick study. He’d had to be, growing up with Trent Blackstone as a father. Add on a surprising set of smarts that he let few see, and it made for an ability to outthink most situations.
But there was no outthinking Harlow Reynolds.
Something about the woman had cratered his brain the first moment he saw her, and he hadn’t fully recovered.
In a move reminiscent of Gino’s, she stretched her arm across the table, laying her palm over the back of his hand. “I don’t mean anything nefarious, nor do I wish you or your family any harm. But I am intrigued.”
“Why?”
“Look at it from my point of view.”
“I am. And all I can see is a woman trying to help her scheming mother.”
Chapter Two
Harlow snatched her hand back and ignored the warm imprint from Fender’s skin, branded against her palm. The man was a furnace. And even all that heat couldn’t come close to thawing the deep freeze in his vivid green eyes.
He was pissed.
Disappointed, too, if what she saw beneath the chill was any indication.
The look was subtle, and if she weren’t staring directly into his eyes, she’d likely have missed it. But it was there all the same. She recognized the look. Had seen it on the patrons in her gallery who missed out on a desired piece. She’d seen it in her mother’s eyes, especially when the subject of her father came up.
And it was something she saw in her own eyes more often than she cared to admit.
“I’m not helping my mother.”
“You have Google Alerts set up on other strangers?”
“Does Channing Tatum count?”
As jokes went it was lame, but it did eke out a small smile, hovering just at the edge of his lips.
“I’m not trying to cause trouble,” Harlow added, striking while she had the slightest advantage. “Nor am I in league with my mother. I’m as mortified as anyone by what she’s done. Worse, I’m mad at myself that I had no idea how deep her anger and disillusionment went.”
“Parents are human beings, too. It’s frustrating to realize that.”
More than she wanted to admit.
She’d learned the “parents are flawed” lesson from her father, but she’d persisted in believing that her mother was above the juvenile and petty.
How humbling to realize just how wrong she’d been.
She was prevented from saying anything further when Gino’s grandson filled the corner of her eye, laden with a large tray. The rich scents of oregano, cheese, and tomato sauce filled the air, ripe with the promise of an awesome lunch. He set down their plates. “Extra napkins ‘cause you’re gonna need them.”
She thanked him, amused when he lingered briefly, offering to refill their still-full drinks. It was only Fender’s sharp “we’re good for now” that had the man moving along.
The meatball sandwich beckoned, but the skepticism still emanating off Fender’s stiff frame and sullen features had her returning to their conversation. “I truly mean no harm.”
“Then why even come around? We’re the dirty family secret that lives over the bridge. I’d have thought an Upper East Side princess like yourself would prefer to stay as far away from that sordid past as possible.”
As insults went she’d heard worse, but something in the subtle sneer that tilted his lips, and the dry, knowing tone, pulled her up short. She was well aware she’d cultivated a certain life for herself. She was equally aware the Reynolds money had brought her a life of extraordinary privilege and opportunity.
But she was hardly a princess. Nor was she living a fairy-tale life.
“Stereotype much?”
“I call them like I see them.”
“Then you don’t see much.”
“Don’t I?” Fender finally leaned forward, the move so reminiscent of a jungle cat on the hunt that Harlow sat back in her seat.
“What is this really about? You can’t seriously tell me you’re here to make sure your mother doesn’t do any further harm. Most people who escape without police charges pressed after they hire someone to steal intellectual property stay far away from the individuals they wronged. Yet here you are.”
The reminder of her mother’s recent choices stung; Harlow was embarrassed by the sheer audacity of her mother’s hunt for information on Louisa Mills’s election campaign. The PI she’d hired—who’d taken it on himself to steal Landon McGee’s server—had ultimately put it back, but it hardly mattered. That she hired the man did. And Gretchen’s instructions to dig for access to Louisa’s campaign mattered even more.
How did you apologize for something like that?
The reality was that you didn’t. You just moved forward in a way that you believed was right. Even if you also knew that choice would mortify your own mother beyond belief.
“I have no other motives. I’m here to support your mother in her bid for borough president. It’s the least I can do.”
“Everyone has motives. Just because you can’t or won’t put a name on yours doesn’t mean they’re not there.”
The jungle-cat analogy wasn’t far off the mark, but Harlow had to admit there was something more. Like a shark circling or a snake waiting to strike, there was an intelligence in Fender Blackstone. An innate sense of where to hit the hardest to do damage.
And a world of secrets beneath that vivid green gaze that tugged at her, even as she knew the better choice was to run far, far away.
“Believe what you want. I have no agenda, and I certainly didn’t come here today with any hidden motives.”
“I think you have plenty. But I’m sure you’ve been paying a shrink on Fifth Avenue for years to help you figure them out. Daddy issues are a bitch.”
The words were a slap and full of such cruel innuendo, Harlow couldn’t match them to the man who sat before her.
Or to the man she’d imagined in her mind.
Somewhere in the past few weeks, she’d begun to think of him as the poor boy who grew up to be a strong man because of the love of Louisa Mills. A man who’d begun life with very little, but through the grace of a determined woman had turned his life around.
How disappointing to realize he was just an asshole. Worse, to realize just how far off the mark her initial perceptions really were.
“I’m not a liar, nor am I harboring any delusions about my mental health or my choices.” She stood and tossed her napkin on the table. “I am, however, sorely reconsidering what possibly possessed me to come to lunch.”
As closing lines went it was as prim and proper as he’d accused her of being, but she had no time to think of anything better as the urge to flee took over. She dragged her purse off the back of her chair and was halfway across the restaurant before he even mustered up her name.
Ignoring the dark, rich tones of his voice—tinged by the whiskey notes of the devil’s own hand—Harlow continued barreling out Gino’s front door.
And walked smack into a summer-afternoon rainstorm.
Rain poured from the sky like water through a sieve, and the silk dress she’d so carefully selected attached itself to her like a second skin. Her hair plastered itself to her skull as the water pounded her in roughly the same volume as the shower she’d taken that morning.
“Shit, damn, and fuck.” She muttered the words as she frantically searched for some sort of awning or overhang on the row of businesses. Nothing appeared through the deluge, but she did catch sight of a taxi, limping along i
n the rapid torrent. Rushing toward the curb, her heels splashing through a puddle, she flagged down the cab.
The man slowed, rolling down his window. “I’m having trouble with the car, but climb in and stay dry.”
She took the offering like the drowning rat she was and crossed through the huge puddle gathering at the gutter as she stepped into the street, water oozing through her leather pumps. She pulled open the door and dived into the backseat, ignoring the way she squeaked as she slid across the vinyl. She was in a dry place.
And away from the prying eyes of the man who was no doubt still laughing at her through Gino’s large front window.
“Can you just get to the next block?”
“Lady, I’m not sure how I got this far.”
“There’s a fifty in it if you can just get me out of sight of this restaurant.”
The avarice that quickly lit the man’s features faded at the possible slight. “What do you have against Gino?”
“Nothing. It’s the jerk I left inside his place I’m not too keen on.”
“Got it.” Unlike Fender, the cab driver took her at face value and revved the engine. “Next block, coming up.”
The taxi shuddered under the quick assault of gas before a heavy rumble seemed to emanate from beneath her seat. Harlow clutched at the door as the car lurched forward, the heat of the afternoon combined with her thorough soaking already fogging up the windows. Whether it was the force of the gas or the simple fact that the cab was done for, she had no idea, but they barely moved forward a foot. Instead, the taxi burped a final breath as it backfired before stalling out in the middle of the street.
Still in full sight of Gino’s front window.
The cab driver slammed the car into park before turning with a shrug. “Been telling my brother-in-law for three weeks she needed a tune-up. Bastard keeps ignoring me. Some people never listen.”
“No, they don’t.”
The hard knock on the window made her jump, and Fender’s muffled voice barked orders through the window. “Roll down the window.”
“Go away, Fender.”
The driver’s eyebrows shot up, the curiosity in his gaze rising. “That the jerk?”
