by Addison Fox
And Emma, too? She’d seen the alerts about Emma Vandenburg and her recent engagement to Louisa’s other son, Nick Kelley.
“Of course. Send them in please.”
With the wild sense that she’d somehow conjured up Louisa’s family from the ether, she stood and waited for the two women, curious as to what this was possibly about.
She didn’t have to wait long. Daphne and Emma filled the space, their smiles bright and their voices animated as they immediately launched into their excitement over the work out in the main gallery The petite blonde she recognized as Emma spoke first. “That’s Johnson Dellaport’s work out front?”
“It is.” Harlow nodded before gesturing them in. “His show has generated a lot of excitement.”
“I can see why. His work is amazing.” The woman who spoke moved in closer, her arm outstretched. “I’m Emma Vandenburg.”
Her companion extended her hand in turn, the tall, athletic build and dark eyes offset by a warm smile. “Daphne Rossi. It’s nice to see you again.”
“You too, Detective.” The flash of a solitaire at on Daphne’s left hand confirmed Harlow’s first assessment. “It sounds like congratulations are in order.” When a matched inspection of Emma’s left hand produced comparable results, Harlow added, “For you both.”
Between Emma’s excitement for Johnson’s work and the feminine chatter over wedding planning, conversation flowed easily enough. Jennifer had wheeled in a coffee service for everyone, and Harlow was amazed when a half hour later she was pouring herself a second cup.
She was used to this. The friendly, easy banter. Spending time with clients was part of her job, and she was good at it. While she’d always used the time in genuine interest and attentiveness, she rarely enjoyed the time as much as she had with Daphne and Emma.
It had certainly helped that the conversation was balanced between the three of them. Both women discussed their upcoming weddings, but they’d been equally interested in her work, Johnson’s show, and events she had scheduled at the gallery in the coming months.
Daphne stood and poured a fresh cup of coffee. “I think it’s time we came clean, Em.”
Come clean?
Before Harlow could question the comment, a decided blush crept up Emma’s neck, painting her cheeks a rosy pink. “There’s nothing to come clean about.”
Harlow straightened her cup, shifting the handle to a precise, ninety-degree angle, suddenly dreading why they were here. And more than a little mad at herself for being lulled into a false sense of security. “What’s going on? Has my mother done something again?”
“No.” Emma shook her head. “Nothing like that.”
“Then what is it?” Puzzled, Harlow’s gaze veered between the two women, unable to miss the twin looks of guilt stamped on their faces.
“Well, it’s just that Park Heights isn’t all that big,” Daphne started.
Not that big? Were they talking about the same place? While she’d own the fact that she spent little time in the other boroughs of New York, technically, they were all one big city. Brooklyn was as much a part of New York as the island of Manhattan. Add on the Bronx, Queens, and Staten Island, and no one Harlow had ever met had suggested life in New York mirrored small-town living. “Brooklyn is home to several million people.”
“Yeah,” Daphne hedged. “But Park Heights is different.”
“Only because your mother’s kitchen is one of the key nodes on the Park Heights grapevine.” Emma pointed out.
“Which only reinforces my point,” Daphne said.
“What point?” Harlow wondered what the two of them were possibly after. Or what any of this had to do with her.
“We heard you had a date with Fender yesterday.” Emma blurted her statement out in a rush.
That was why they were here?
A distinctly uncomfortable flush crept up Harlow’s chest, and she fought the urge to snag the small shrug off the back of her chair to cover up. “I’m not sure I’d call yesterday a date. We had lunch.”
The not-so-subtle eye contact between Daphne and Emma ended as Daphne’s full attention swung toward Harlow. “You both had meatball subs at Gino’s.”
“I respect your detecting skills, but we didn’t eat. We got about as far as getting the subs laid down on the table before he picked a fight.”
“Gino had it right.” Emma added a knowing nod to the stage whisper.
Daphne pressed on. “But then he chased you out onto the sidewalk, right?”
The flush Harlow desperately wanted to cover grew warmer. “No one chased me anywhere.”
“But you got caught in the thunderstorm?” Emma seemed confused. “The one that hit right after lunch?”
Since it had taken Harlow nearly two hours to dry out, the memory was still more than a little fresh. “Who told you this?”
“Everyone—,” Daphne said.
Emma’s more diplomatic comment of, “Mrs. Weston,” layered over Daphne’s.
“Look, I’m really not sure this was worthy of a special trip or taking the afternoon off, but I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. Nothing happened yesterday.”
“You had a date with Fender. The whole neighborhood knows and can’t stop talking about it. The sexy blonde with the killer legs.”
While she suspected she wasn’t the first blonde—or brunette or redhead, for that matter—to catch Fender Blackstone’s eye, Harlow couldn’t fully deny the shot of warmth at Daphne’s statement. And unlike the embarrassed flush that was finally fading, this one spoke of sheer pleasure.
She’d done her level best not to think of yesterday as a date. Especially when it had gone so sideways so quickly.
But to be the subject of hometown gossip?
She’d be lying to herself if she didn’t stop and enjoy it for a moment.
“Surely I’m not the first woman he’s had lunch with. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is the way he looks at you.”
Emma’s words were quiet, but they packed a wallop.
“He doesn’t look at me.”
“He sort of does.” Daphne added. “In a way that everyone’s noticed. Landon saw it, too.”
While the rapid shift in topic from weddings and gallery showings to Fender had caught her off guard, Harlow thought she was hanging in there admirably, so it was humbling to get knocked right back down. “I’ve only met him a few times. Twice, actually.”
“It only took once.” Emma said.
“Sparks fly off you two,” Daphne added. “So Emma and I got curious. And, well . . . we wanted to help.”
“Not that you need it,” Emma added in a rush.
“Help me with what?”
“We thought we could help you scale the concrete wall.”
Once again confused, Harlow could only think that she’d fallen into a dream. Or had simply continued on in the surreal one that had started with her near-drowning in a Brooklyn thunderstorm. “What wall?”
Emma spoke first. “The one around his heart.”
* * *
Fender strode into the End Zone, the bad mood that had ridden him for the past twenty-four hours still on him like a rash. He’d been a bastard yesterday. A raging, asshole of a bastard who had lashed out at Harlow Reynolds in what could only be described as the height of fuckwittery.
And he’d apologized, damn it.
But that hadn’t made him feel any better. Especially after he’d told her she deserved better, and she landed that damn closing line of hers before she marched toward her Uber like a queen.
“Maybe we both do.”
What in the hell did that mean?
And, he lamented, recounting the haunting image of how she looked bent over the front of the dead cab, how was it possible the woman could look as ripe and delicious as a piece of summer fruit and stand there lecturing him about engine failure?
Who did that?
“Take your scary mug and shitty attitude out of my bar. You want to ruin happy ho
ur for me?”
Fender glanced over Nick’s head at the clock on the wall behind the bar. “Happy hour’s two hours away.”
“I like to be prepared.”
Fender grabbed a stool opposite Nick and stared over the dark, polished wood. “Fuck prepared.”
“Something really does have you in a mood.”
“I’ve been working my ass off.”
“So you decided to knock off early?” Nick polished glasses as he pulled them from a large plastic drying tray, setting each one neatly on the gantry above the bar.
“That’s not a crime, is it? I’m a business owner. I can come and go as I please. Especially after I replaced two sets of brakes yesterday, cleaned a thoroughly corroded engine until around midnight, and was right back at it again this morning at six.”
“And yet you still had time to take Harlow Reynolds out on a date?” The question was casual, and Nick never broke his rhythm between the polish and the lift of one glass and the next.
“Damn straight, I—what?”
“You. The incredibly attractive Harlow. And a date at Gino’s.”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“Was that before or after she walked out on your surly ass and straight into the rain? Left a damn fine meatball sub behind, the way I hear it. You must have really pissed her off.”
Although Fender was well acquainted with the Park Heights gossip train—especially since he grew up in one of its depots and then went and got himself a brother who owned a second one—but this was more than even he’d expected.
“Who told you this?”
“Mrs. Weston, when Emma and I went over to Mom’s for dinner. It was then repeated throughout last evening as I worked the late crowd, with Patty finally marking down the number of times your date with the attractive Miss Reynolds was mentioned on one of the chalkboards.”
Fender followed the direction of Nick’s pointed glass to the last chalkboard on the wall, next to a well-punished dartboard. A series of hash marks—was that actually four sets of five?—filled the corner.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Nick set another glass above his head. “I guess that’s why you were hiding out with your corroded engine.”
“Fuck you, Kelley.”
“Actually, Blackstone. I think that’s your problem.”
Whatever easy camaraderie he’d expected when he’d decided to hit up his brother for a beer and a plate of deep-fried food was nowhere in sight. “I’ll get out of your happy way then.”
“You sure?”
Nick’s voice remained even and steady, and it was obvious he’d decided to ignore the bad mood.
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Then you won’t care about the fact that Emma and Daphne sat at that table right over there for an early lunch.” Nick pointed once again in the direction of the dartboard and a small two-top that sat a few feet beyond it. “Huddled with Patty for what seemed like an hour. I swore the three of them cackled, but Emma primly informed me that I needed to get my head out of my ass.”
“Where it so often rests.”
“Not dignifying that with a comment. Especially since I’m enjoying just how clueless you are about all of this.”
“I’m not—” Fender broke off and sighed. He normally enjoyed the upper hand with both of his brothers, so the fact that Nick had it now meant he’d do well to shut up and listen. “What’s going on? Doesn’t Daphne have a case she has to work on? And isn’t your fiancée busy making beer? And what the hell is your best barmaid doing lounging during the lunch hour?”
“Daphne and Emma are both entitled to a day off. And I stopped telling Patty what to do about three minutes after I hired her.”
His future sisters-in-law weren’t what anyone would call lazy—neither was Nick’s chief barmaid—so Fender gave them a collective pass. “Fine. Summer day. I’d play hooky, too. But what does any of this have to do with me?”
“Can’t say, exactly. But Emma and Daphne were cooking up something with all the finesse of Lucy and Ethel. Went racing out of here, too.”
“Where are they going?”
“My guess?”
Fender looked into the familiar blue eyes and fought the rising sense of disorientation. “Lay it on me.”
“I believe there was some mention of heading into the city for the day.”
“To shop?”
Nick shook his head as he set another glass overhead. “Doubtful.”
“Why?”
“Daphne mentioned something about an art gallery exhibit she wanted to see.”
The dark mood that had followed Fender for the better part of a day shifted, leaving a strange catch in his chest in its wake.
They’d gone to see Harlow?
Nick continued, “I couldn’t quite make it all out beyond the cackling, which, of course, they will deny ever happened, but I think they mentioned something about pleading your case.”
“For what?”
“Last time any of us checked, you don’t make it a habit to insult women to the point they’re driven to run out in a thunderstorm. I think Daphne and Emma wanted to make sure any potentially interested parties understood that.”
Fender rubbed a hand over his now-shaken gut. Daphne and Emma went to bat for him? While he hardly needed the help—he was responsible for his actions—he was undone by the idea that his brothers’ future wives thought that much of him.
“I apologized to Harlow.” The comment was unduly gruff, even for him, but he couldn’t quite shake off his surprise at the ready defense.
Nor could he deny how good her name felt rolling off his tongue.
“Then why did she still leave?”
“She had to get back to work. So did I.”
“Fair.”
It was fair. And the truth. They were busy people with busy lives.
Fender shot a dark look at his brother, suspicion stealing over his thoughts. “So why do you look so smug?”
“This is my knowledgeable bartender look. I’ve had to develop it as the proprietor of the End Zone.”
“You’ve got all the answers today.”
“I guess I do.” Nick set the towel down and leaned forward, his gaze never wavering. “So I’ll give you one more.”
“What’s that?”
“They’re doing emergency construction on the Q-train tracks today. I’d take the 5 into the city if I were you.”
* * *
“Invitations are out for the September show.” Jennifer bustled into the office, her focus on her tablet and not on Harlow’s still shell-shocked face.
Shell-shocked.
Gob-smacked.
Blown away.
Each came to mind as Harlow continued to process her visit from Daphne Rossi and Emma Vandenburg.
“I also confirmed your lecture in a few weeks at the Renoir symposium. And once I leave here, I’m going to make that final payment on the rental furniture from Johnson’s showing. I still say we should save the expense and buy some of those high-top cocktail tables ourselves.”
Harlow continued to pace her office, the nervous energy that had filled her since her visitors left had not quite dissipated yet.
“Har?”
“What?”
“Harlow!”
She finally stopped and turned to face Jennifer. “Invites. Lecture. Tables. I’ve got it.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Of course.”
“Did something happen with those women? They seemed nice enough but, well—” Jennifer broke off, frowning.
“They were lovely women.”
“If you’re sure.”
Harlow wasn’t quite sure about anything any longer. She was prevented from saying anything by the subtle buzz of the gallery entrance.
“I’ll be right back.”
“I can do it.” Harlow offered.
Jennifer handed over her tablet, pointing toward her ever-present list. “You look at what’s left, an
d I’ll cover the front.”
With nothing to do but follow orders, Harlow read the first few lines on the tablet, then scrolled through the rest of Jennifer’s list. She still had to decide on a speaking engagement that would be good for the gallery and her reputation, but that would force her to be nice to a childhood nemesis. And the gift she’d ordered for her brother’s birthday had arrived damaged, so Jennifer had helpfully added the note to swing by the retailer’s Madison Avenue location to get the wallet replaced. The last thing on the list read Mom.
Harlow had added it herself, a reminder to check in with Gretchen Reynolds and confirm she hadn’t made any additional attempts to contact Louisa Mills. The entry had been made before her visit to Brooklyn—before Fender’s drubbing over spying on his family—and she’d likely have already heard about it if her mother hadn’t stuck to her promises, but it still paid to stay on top of the situation.
Harlow had no interest in seeing her mother turn into some sort of weird criminal. And she loved Gretchen. It bothered her to think her mother still struggled to move on with her life. Her father clearly hadn’t been the ideal spouse, but he’d been gone a long time. What would it be like to live with that much bitterness and lingering anger?
Kincaide Reynolds had done a number on all of them. While she’d chafed at the suggestion—and would rather walk naked through Times Square than admit it—Harlow was well aware “daddy issues” wasn’t exactly an empty jab. Hers were couched deeply in a polite veneer that doubled as guarded wariness, but they were there all the same.
Jennifer knocked on the door, amusement riding high in her eyes. “I guess it’s the day for visitors.”
“Who’s here?”
“Why don’t I just send him in instead?”
Jennifer disappeared as fast as she showed up. In a matter of moments, Fender stood in her place, an elegant bottle of whisky in hand. He lifted the peace offering—one of her personal favorites—a small smile quirking his lips. “I guess I’m ready to believe you.”
Chapter Four
She really was beautiful. This was the third time he’d seen her, and the gut punch grew more intense each time.
Which shouldn’t be a surprise, but it was.
Like whatever he had in his mind couldn’t come anywhere close to reality.
