A Fine Romance (19 page)

“Absolutely true. But I didn’t lie, or manipulate. What I did was care for you.” Helen laid a cautious hand on Mira’s forearm. “Mira, you’re a sponge, so thirsty for love and acceptance, and yet completely unaware. This store will be a hit. I feel it in my bones. You’ve poured yourself into it, heart and soul. But no matter how many people walk through this door, no matter how many thousands of dollars they drop during our first week, it won’t be enough for you. Not unless you get the validation from your parents that you so richly deserve.”

Fat chance. “I don’t need anything from them.”

“Okay, you don’t
need
it.” Helen punctuated the sentence with an exasperated groan. “You’ve got a solid titanium spine, more energy than a quasar, and if you were a man, I’d say you had brass
cojones
, too. But you want their validation. You want them to notice what an amazing woman you are. So instead of you swallowing your pride and reaching out, I did it for you. Consider it my grand opening present. If it backfires, I’ll owe you big-time. I just want you to be happy. I want your parents to see the remarkable woman that I’ve gotten to know and admire. The one who’s not only following her own dream, but helping me to live mine.”

All the other emotions dropped out of the race, because gratitude surged into the lead. Tears tingled at the corners of her eyes. “Damn it. I told Sam I’d try not to cry so much. Since I moved to Chicago I’ve turned into a regular tear spigot.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re finally comfortable enough here, with all of us, to let down those rigid emotional walls. After everything you’ve told me about your family, I understand why you erected emotional battlements. But you’ve made a new family here. We’ve already crossed the drawbridge and stormed your heart.”

Laughter dried up the tears. “Wow. I didn’t think you’d stick with the medieval Europe reference. When you pick a theme, you really grind it into the ground.”

Helen drew her into a long, tight hug. “I’m told a person has to hear something three times before it sinks in—or maybe it’s nine times. Either way, you’re rather stubborn. I figured the repetition couldn’t hurt.”

“There’s no guarantee they’ll show.”

“Then we’ll get to finish off their champagne ourselves.”

“Good point.”

* * *

Sam ran his hands over the car’s pale gray leather seats, softer than double-cream Brie. A guy with basic tastes, he didn’t care about season tickets to the Bears, or designer sunglasses. He would, however, give his left nut to own a car this sweet. “How many paychecks did this set you back, Gib?”

“Doesn’t matter. This beauty has paid for herself twice over with all the females she attracts.” Gib slammed the door of the sporty silver convertible. “Hope you don’t mind if the top’s down. I can’t bear to put it up until the first snow.”

“That’s how we roll here in Chicago. Turn up the tunes and let’s cruise.” Sam rolled a drum riff against the dashboard with his palms.

Gib shot him a look before fiddling with the radio. “So says RapMaster Lyons. What’s with the hip-hop ’tude?”

“Dunno. Good mood, I guess. It is poker night, so I plan to give most of your money a new home in my back pocket.”

“You hold on to the optimistic spirit. It’ll get you through the blinding depression that’ll set in right about midnight. When I upgrade your crumpled cash into their new, luxury digs of my Burberry trousers.”

Trash talk was sometimes the best part of poker night. Team sports, like soccer and baseball, demanded good sportsmanship. Poker demanded that you psych the other players out using any underhanded, devious, ass-hattery that came to mind. Sam couldn’t think of a better way to blow off tension. Well, aside from the mind-blowing sex he and Mira racked up every night. “I’ll bet you twenty dollars I come out ahead of you tonight.”

“I’ll take that action.”

“Hey, guys. What action? I want in.” Ben used one hand on the side of the car to boost himself into the backseat.

“Too late, all around.” Gib gunned the engine and jetted into traffic. “Why are you late, Westcott? Doesn’t Ivy understand that poker night is sacred? She didn’t use her considerable feminine wiles to try to lure you into staying home, did she?”

“Hey, that’s my future wife,” Ben protested. “Try to notice her wiles a little less, okay?”

“No promises. That’s like asking Monet not to admire a hay stack.”

“Or asking Picasso not to turn and stare at a Cyclops woman with three boobs,” Sam added.

Ben leaned between the front seats, yelling to be heard over the wind noise. “To answer your question, Gib, I was wrapping up work. You know, that thing Sam and I do for a paycheck, and you use as a way to pick up women?”

“It’s called multitasking.” Gib nipped across two lanes of traffic with barely a glance in his mirrors. Every time Sam rode with him, the fear that Gib would revert to his British roots, driving on the left side of the road, kept him white-knuckling the edges of his seat. “I consider the women who stream through the Cavendish Grand to be a buffet which continually refreshes itself.”

Sam shook his head. “One of these days, you’re going to meet a woman who objects to being lumped into the generic mass of legs and breasts who check in and out of your bed faster than you can change the sheets. You won’t have any clue how to handle her.”

“Just because you’ve fallen ass over teakettle for your new neighbor doesn’t mean you have to pair up the rest of the world. With my stellar good looks—”

Ben and Sam both groaned. It didn’t slow Gib down for a second. “—and charming, almost-royal accent, I couldn’t turn women away if I tried. They sneak in my office. They leave their panties hanging from my doorknob. It’s a burden I’m forced to shoulder, and I try to do it with aplomb.”

Sam refused to spend the rest of the night dealing with Gib in this mood. “Jesus, but you’re on a high and mighty throne tonight. What shot helium up your ass?”

“If I tell you now, you won’t be surprised when the January issue of
Windy
City
Magazine
hits your mailbox. With none other than the Right Honorable Viscount Gibson Moore on the cover.”

“What?” Ben fell back onto the seat. “You mean I should’ve been bowing and scraping in front of you all these months? You’re a freaking member of the British peerage?”

Great. Gib only trotted out his title to be particularly insufferable. Sam knew the next three months until the magazine came out would be endless if he didn’t stick a pin in Gib’s triple-inflated ego immediately. “He doesn’t do tea with the queen. He doesn’t have a castle. In fact, he rarely springs for so much as dinner. Don’t think the title makes him special.”

“No, what makes me special is getting featured as one of Chicago’s top twenty most eligible bachelors. It was cute when
CityPaper
said it. But it’s a huge honor to be awarded that particular accolade by
Windy
City
.”

Gib was one of his closest friends. Sam knew how smart the brains were rattling around under that overpriced and over-gelled haircut, not to mention the work ethic that kept him at the Cavendish for an ungodly number of hours each week. He couldn’t think of anyone who deserved this shout-out more. The bro code demanded, however, that he not admit any of that to Gib.

“You conned a magazine into basically advertising that you’ve got a big Open for Business sign strapped to your crotch? Nice going. Your mom must be so proud.”

The corner of Gib’s mouth took an ugly twist downward. “My mother wouldn’t be proud of me if I nabbed a commendation from the queen for shagging the Princess Royal.”

Ben leaned forward again, the journalist in him prepping to ask the obvious—what deep, dark dirt accounted for Gib’s sardonic tone. But Sam’s recent experiences with Mira had taught him that sharing family angst wasn’t exactly a mood lifter. He refused to let Ben’s unquenchable curiosity ruin poker night for Gib. Using one finger, he drew a line across his neck, hoping Ben got the universal signal to zip it. Then he frantically cast about for a new topic to fill the awkward chasm of silence.

They were now slowed by late rush hour to a near idle past the more upscale restaurant and boutique section of Halsted Street. A late-season biker hugged the curb next to them, crunching through crispy leaf piles. “I thought we were going on a beer run. We’ve already passed four liquor stores. Are you heading all the way down to farmland to harvest your own hops?”

Gib shook his head, and apparently his dark mood with it. “Keep it up, Lyons. The more you yank my chain directly correlates to how little beer I’ll pour for you.”

“Sam’s got a point.” Ben jammed his feet through onto the center console, nudging Sam’s elbow out of the way. “I can’t believe you’re using the car on something as basic as a beer run.”

Gib stroked the steering wheel with both hands in a lazy arc. “Her name is Moll Davis. After one of the very famous mistresses of King Charles II. Samuel Pepys’s wife called her the most impertinent slut in the world. Perfect for an auto with 100 horsepower under the hood.”

“But this is your guaranteed booty-mobile. You do know that neither of us is going to sleep with you later, right? My heart—and my dick—belong to Ivy now. I’m not tossing my chastity into the pot as an ante.”

“If you did, I’d fold that hand without even peeking at my cards. And don’t make such a big deal about my driving. We’re going to Goose Island. Thought I’d pick up a few growlers of Honker’s Ale and Green Line.”

“Nice plan, Moore. Be sure to get some Dublin Stout, too. You know, for those of us manly men who like a beer you can’t see through.” Ben kicked Sam’s knee with the toe of his boot. “Speaking of being all man, I heard a rumor you finally made it to home base with the girl next door.”

For about a second it surprised him that Mira would’ve spilled the details to anyone. Women, unlike men, didn’t usually mark one up on the scoreboard, or take a victory lap. Then he did the math and realized Mira had slept at his place the last three nights running. Daphne must’ve figured out that her roommate, no matter how much of a workaholic, wasn’t pulling a string of all-nighters at the store. But he wasn’t going to sit here and give Gib and Ben a play-by-play recap. “We’ve...uh...gotten closer.”

“How much closer?” asked Gib.

“You want me to draw you a picture?”

“Sorry, that came out wrong. Here’s the thing. We really like Mira.”

“Me, too.” Sam had his suspicions about just how much Gib liked Mira. Running along the lines that if Sam got run over by a bus tonight, Gib would be on her doorstep by dawn to stake his claim.

Ben interlaced his fingers into a fist and rolled his wrists. “She’s got a groove that works with our little group. Gib and I talked about it, and we decided to just come out and tell you that you’d better treat her right. Or else.”

“Or else what?” Were they really threatening him? On poker night?

“Not sure. We’re still fine-tuning the details of the threat. Just be assured the consequences would be dire should you break her heart.”

Because he did care for Mira, he appreciated where they were coming from. It was all that kept him from slapping them both silly. “I’m not Gib. I can keep a woman around longer than it takes to change a pair of socks.”

“So this is serious? Girlfriend material, not grab-and-go?”

“Mira’s great. But, well, it’s complicated.”

Gib unleashed a deep, long chortle. “Sam, you are the least complex man I’ve ever met. Your entire life can be summed up in two bullet points: your mom first, and the bakery second.”

Sam stewed a minute. He didn’t know what to say, or how much to tell them without sounding like a whiny teenage girl.

“Have you been keeping a deep, dark secret from us?” Ben thumped the back of Sam’s seat. “Are there a few more layers in your cake than we realize?”

“Secret agent? Superhero?” Gib suggested.

Ben snorted. “Right. What would his superpower be? Covering villains in icing? Getting people so hyped up on sugar they spin around like a Tasmanian devil?”

Hey. After all, with a little training and a lot of money, anyone could do the Batman gig. “Look, there’s a lot going down right now. Money stuff and career and family—it’s all up in the air. And it could all come crashing down on me in the next week. I don’t want to talk about it. But with everything that could go to shit, Mira is the one bright spot. And even she’s complicated. You guys know about the slam piece the
newspaper
ran on her, right?”

“We got the highlights.” Gib draped his wrists over the steering wheel, the picture of nonchalance. “It was one stupid article. It won’t keep anyone from coming to the grand opening.”

“Maybe. No guarantees.” And Sam desperately wanted to be able to provide her with a guarantee. Anything that could help erase the shadows of worry from her beautiful blue eyes. “Do either of you have any contacts with local media? Someone who could run something with a positive spin about the store?”

Ben huffed out a breath, spiking his fingers through his hair. “You know all my bridges were burned years ago. If I lit myself on fire, I couldn’t get a journalist to so much as snap a picture. But more importantly, I don’t think that’s the way to go. I know Mira pretty well at this point. Not as well as you, obviously, but enough to know she wouldn’t want anything she hasn’t earned.”

“True. But if the store folds, she’ll leave town. Chicago’s an expensive place to hang out without a paycheck coming in the door. She’ll have to move to wherever she can chase down another job.”

“Chicago’s also a pretty big city,” Gib noted. “What makes you think she couldn’t find another job here?”

Ben slapped his palm against his heart. “You could also have a little faith. Ivy and Mira know what they’re doing. That store is one classy operation. What makes you think it won’t be a huge success, even with a bit of bad publicity?”

Because his mother had beaten into him that life wasn’t always fair. “I can’t risk it. Right now, she’s like a tractor beam of sunshine holding my head above water.”

A long, low whistle from Ben was loud enough to compete with the squawk of a passing flock of pigeons while they idled at a light. “Enough mixed metaphors there to push an English teacher into a nervous breakdown. You need to get a hold of yourself.”