One Less Problem Without You (22 page)

She laughed. “I'm not, but I can see the advantage of a marriage of convenience!”

His shoulders relaxed fractionally. “So no fiancé.”

“Nope.”

His face colored slightly, and he quickly added, “And no miniature horse farm?”

She shrugged. “Never say never, but so far it's just Cosmos.” She slumped back in her chair and regarded him. He was just so cute. There was such a charming boyishness under his tailored suit and serious visage. “What do you think of the tea bar idea? For real.”

“For real?” A smile played at his mouth. She knew he found her charming. That was one of the many things she found charming about
him
. He seemed to see who she really was, and he seemed to like it. “I think it
could be
a great idea.”

She hadn't been expecting that.

“Please tell me you're not pulling my leg,” she said.

He shook his head. “Not at all. If your new person is as good at this as you say, and word gets around about it, I think it's a very reasonable segue into retail for you. If you're mixing teas and spirits, I see the possibility of doing that retail as well.”

“We already do retail!” she objected.

He waved that off. “Four, five thousand bucks a month. You're not a serious presence.”

But they needed to be. She now had two employees, plus her own salary, and her rent was going way up. And she had absolute faith that it would be worth it, because of the tea and the added room for workshops, but even for a psychic
absolute faith
sometimes wobbled. “We will be.”

“You can be.”

His phone rang; he looked at it, and she noticed a tiny muscle twitch in his jaw. He pushed a button, and the ringing stopped.

“No calls after hours, huh?” she joked, noting that she'd been sitting there half an hour past the time when his secretary usually left. They were alone in the office.

A shiver ran through her.

It was her. Britni. She'd been trying to have a talk with him for some time now. He was avoiding it. Everything was a fight between them. He was avoiding her.

“Some conversations are better had through voice mail,” he answered, and she noticed the light was gone from his eyes. His tone had changed, and the playful air between them had gone stale.

Not only did he not want to talk to her, but probably the only reason he was still here, spending his valuable time talking about miniature horse farms and gypsy teas, was because he didn't want to go home.

She wanted to prod him on the subject, but it was none of her business, and the last thing in the world she wanted was to let her stupid crush on a married man get out of hand.

It was one thing to admire qualities in him and hope to perhaps one day meet a man who possessed some of those same qualities, but it was quite another to be glad at signs that he might be a bit less than in love with his wife.

“I'd better go,” she said, because a moment longer and she'd be asking pointed questions that were none of her business. She stood up. “I'll look into the liquor license and e-mail you the ratified lease as soon as I have it.”

“And the information on the new employee,” he added.

“The…?”

“The tea girl. The one who's making the teas. Send me her information and W-4 and whatnot.”

“Oh. That.” Prinny sank back into her seat.

“Prinny?”

“Yeah, I have a nonstandard arrangement worked out with her. I'm compensating her rent in the unit upstairs from the shop and then paying the rest under the table.”

Alex sighed and his chair squeaked as he leaned back, templing his hands before him. “And why is that?”

“Because it's easier?”

“For whom? It's illegal to pay
or compensate
over a certain amount without filing a 1099. I don't suppose you were planning on filing a 1099?”

Prinny shook her head. “She needs to stay somewhat … anonymous.” There was no way he was going to let this slide.

“Don't tell me you're handing Leif an immigration cupcake to bite into.”

“Worse, I'm afraid. It's his wife.”

Alex looked at her for a moment in stunned silence, then laughed. “His
wife
? His
wife
is working at Cosmos now?”

Prinny nodded, but she wasn't sure what his laughter meant. “She makes the teas.”

“How on earth did he let that happen?” He frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe your problems with him are over if he's letting you employ his wife in what I believe he last referred to as ‘that patchouli-scented, idiot-filled box of magical rocks.'”

Anger rose in Prinny. “He
said
that?”

“Oh, come on, you know he always says that kind of thing.”
Guilt filled him. He didn't think highly of Leif but he didn't want to hurt her with Leif's words.

But, yes, she knew. Of course she knew. In fact, Leif often even brought her mother into it, talking about her “voodoo” and, yes, the “magical rocks” and various other weird little insults about her interest in spiritual things.

Alex cleared his throat. “I guess he's had a turnaround, then. At least as far as respecting the fact that the business has legs. That's refreshing news.”

“He has?”

Alex shrugged broadly. “He must have, if his wife is working there, right?”

“Oh. Yeah, no, he's not. He doesn't know she's there. In fact, that's why I don't want her pay to be traceable. Actually, that's why
she
doesn't want her pay to be traceable. She doesn't want him to find her.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

“I'm afraid not.” Prinny looked at him imploringly. “And she's got a talent that she's finally able to use, with confidence, without that jerk breathing down her neck. I know it's
ironic
that she's working with me—”

Alex scoffed.

“—but it's obvious to me that it was meant to be. She needed a place where she'd be welcome and understood. And since she and I both have no desire to incite Leif, it works out perfectly.”

“Unless you consider the fact that you're handing Leif added reason to want to blow you out of the water and added ammunition with which to do it.”

“He doesn't even know she's there!”

“If his wife has disappeared without an apparent trace, he's going to find her. Or have someone find her. Come on, Prinny, that's child's play for a man with his resources.”

“I'm not so sure. In a way, she's hidden right out in the open. Just in a place he'd never look. He hates me; he'd assume his wife is aligned with that viewpoint, and always has been. He definitely would never think she'd come to me.”

“Did she ever call you from her phone?”

“No! She has a TracPhone.”

“Car?”

“I don't know. I think she dumped it somewhere.”

He started to say something else, then stopped and shook his head. “This is a ridiculous conversation. Suddenly I'm plotting a movie. Look, it's none of my business what you and she do; there are no legal implications that I know of. But Prinny”—he leaned forward and looked so deep into her eyes that her breath caught in her chest—“he is a powerful man. A powerful,
spiteful
man. And that makes him a powerful, spiteful enemy for you.”

A ripple of fear corseted her. “He'd never take a chance on actually
harming
either of us.”

“I hope not,” Alex said. “I really and truly hope not.”

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Chelsea

“Please,”
Andrew whined from his “work recliner,” a leather study chair that was really closer to a stiff, sleek leather torture device. It was about as far from a La-Z-Boy as humanly possible. “If I sit around this place one more night, working until my fingers ache, I'll die. My fingers are starting to permanently look like they're doing spider impressions.”

“You were just out night before last!” Chelsea said, laughing. She'd seen the pictures of him with his other girlfriends. She knew he liked her best, but part of her had envied the carefree fun the rest of them were all out having. The high heels, the tight dresses wrapped around still-hot bods, the actual makeup. The energetic music that blasted from bass-heavy speakers. The pregaming bottle of champagne that kicked off a night of Vodka Cranberrys out on the town. She remembered that fun fondly, but as if she were small and feeble, remembering the glory days.

“Yes!” said Andrew. “And it sucked! Jason bailed early, and I was stuck talking to a bunch of weirdo sycophants.”

“Oh, I'm sure you loved it.”

“Yeah, I would, except none of them were the
least
bit interesting. Not even, like, douchey-but-hilarious or anything. And it was disgusting out, so I wasn't really trying to go bar to bar. Do you see all this?” He gestured at the expanse of hardwood floor, completely covered in neatly lined pieces of paper. Andrew said he couldn't rearrange his work on a computer; it stressed him out. So he printed it out so he could hover over it physically while he panicked. She knew part of the reason he did it was for his blog and social media, where he posted Extremely Artistic pictures of his Extremely Artistic process.

“Yeah, you're right. You have a lot of work to do. You should probably stay in.”

“Yes, Chel, that's why I need a break from it.”

Chelsea slouched on the floor, leaning against the hand-shaped chair, and pushed slowly with her bare toes at one of the papers. “Soo much work…”

“Seriously, it'll do you good to get out and actually do something. You've been mooning around over Mike for what feels like forever.”

“It does feel like that.” She put a hand to her head and a hand on her hip. “It's not about him, though. I'm over him. Really. It's the general malaise that comes from breaking up with your soul mate. That's all. No big deal!” She shouted the last part at him dramatically.

He raised his perfect thick eyebrows and rolled his chair over to her, picking up the open bottle of Cabernet on the way. “Glass, lady.”

“It just seems so ridiculous now,” she said, picking up the conversation they'd been having before Andrew decided that the remedy was going out.

“What seems ridiculous, this moping? You're right.”

“No.” She pushed his chair, and he rolled back a few inches. “That I broke up with Mike. I mean, I loved him. He was my best friend. Diana's over here hiding from an abusive man who's obviously compensating for some…”

“Shortcoming?” Andrew filled in.

She couldn't help giving a laugh. “Sure. And I'm just this midtwenties brat who broke up with the perfect guy two years ago and still isn't over it. And I broke up with him because we were too happy. Too settled.”

“Don't rewrite history, love.” He cranked open a window and sat by it with his cigarette. “You left him because he wasn't enough. You left him because you wanted a big life with a big love.”

“Yeah, and what am I doing? I'm failing at my craft, or whatever you want to call it, and struggling to make ends meet. Working twenty-four/seven, complaining as often, and definitely not having a better life.”

“You have no idea what your life would be like now. You could be miserable. And
pregnant
. Count your blessings.”

She sighed. “I know.”

“Plus, how do you know this Leif guy isn't Diana's Mike? Maybe she loved him only enough to marry him, and she should have kept looking.”

“No … you should have heard the way she talked about their beginning. That sounded like real love.”

“Well, I didn't hear her. But I can tell you that if you want to talk about rewriting history, that is exactly what you've done with Mike. Whenever you talk about it nowadays, it's all got this pretty pink lens on it. I was there, don't forget. You two fought like stray cats and had sex like—whatever the opposite of a rabbit is.”

“Oh, come on, our relationship wasn't bad.”

“I'm not saying it was. But what I am saying is that when you broke up with him and your acquaintances started making you seem like Ross and Rachel or Cory and Topanga, I saw it differently. As someone who saw your best and your worst together, I
got
why you broke up with him.”

Chelsea stared down at the brick-colored wine, struck a bit dumb by what he'd said. He took silent drags from his cigarette for a few minutes, letting her ruminate on it.

“You're right.”

As if he'd known exactly when she'd say it, he said, “
I know I'm right,
Chelsea.”

She laughed again, then let out a groan. “I hate when that happens.”

“I know you do.”

Andrew's phone rang, and he held up his middle finger at it with a scowl, then held up his pointer finger to Chelsea as he stood and took the call. It was some business contact he'd been waiting for hours to hear from. “Of course
now
he calls.” He walked into the next room, sounding professional, fifty percent more masculine, and not at all tipsy.

At that moment, Chelsea's own phone buzzed, and she looked down to see a text. She slid open her phone and read:

Chelsea, it's Diana. I apologize for being such a downer! Don't listen to what I said. They're not all jerks. I didn't want to seem like a No-Hope Nancy to you.

She didn't quite know how to respond, so she set it down and had another sip while she waited for Andrew to return.

Two minutes later, he returned. “I positively hate that guy. What happened while I was gone? Why do you look like someone just told you you're pretty?”

“What?”

“You look pleased but confused, like you always do when you get a compliment. What happened?”