Twenty-one

VICTORIA SPENT MOST of Monday morning in a settlement conference, working out a custody schedule for the divorcing couple’s three children. It was hardly a pleasant meeting—both parties got particularly emotional when dividing up the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays—but for the sake of their kids, everyone at least remained generally civil to one another.

In her book, that was a major victory.

When she got back to her office, Will handed her a stack of messages. “The usual suspects. Oh, and Ford Dixon called. He said he tried your cell first.”

Interesting. She wasn’t expecting him to call. “I had my phone on mute during the settlement conference.”

“And how is our intrepid, Adonic neighbor these days?” Will asked cheekily.

Not bothering to dignify the comment, she simply gave him a look and headed into her office. She shut her door for privacy and flipped through the messages to make sure none of them were urgent.

Then she dialed the number to Ford’s cell phone.

“Ms. Slade,” he answered warmly. “What are you doing tomorrow between twelve and two?”

She turned in the desk chair to check her calendar on her computer. “I don’t know, why?”

“I thought we might pencil in a nooner.”

Seriously.

“Please tell me you did not just say that in the middle of the Trib newsroom.”

He chuckled. “You’re safe—I’m out grabbing lunch. And the real reason I called is to tell you about Plan D.”

She smiled, not at all surprised to hear that there was, in fact, a Plan D already. The man was always coming up with some sort of scheme—he was rather annoyingly clever that way. “All right. Tell me.”

“I went by Peter Sutter Number Four’s three-flat this morning. He lives only two blocks from a Red Line stop, so I thought I’d hang out for an hour or so on the off chance I could catch a guy with brown hair walking out the front door of the building to take the L to work. But when I got to his place, I discovered something even better: a For Sale sign that says there’s going to be an open house tomorrow. And since I know you’re going to ask—yep, I already checked. It’s for unit three, Sutter’s condo.”

Ooh . . . that was interesting news. “Is it for sale by owner? Do you think Sutter will be there tomorrow?”

“Doubtful. The place is listed with a real estate agent named Melanie Ames. But there’s likely to be some photograph of him somewhere inside the place. I can snap a picture of that with my phone and forward it to Nic. And if that doesn’t work, there’s always Plan E.”

“What’s Plan E?”

“I steal his toothbrush for a DNA sample. Which brings me to the point of my call: if I have some eager real estate agent following me around, it’ll be hard for me to do my thing. So I was thinking it’d be nice to have someone with me who could act as a decoy.”

“That’s what you were thinking, huh?” Victoria checked out her calendar. “I have a call scheduled for noon tomorrow that shouldn’t last more than a half hour. Why don’t you text me Sutter’s address and I’ll meet you there at one o’clock?”

“Actually, why don’t I come to your office at twelve thirty and we can cab over together? It’ll work better with our cover story if you and I arrive together.”

“What cover story?”

“That we’re a couple, sweetie. You and I are taking the plunge and buying a place together.”

Oh, boy.

*   *   *

FORD COULD ONLY imagine what the cabdriver thought he and Victoria were up to.

“Okay, another worst-case scenario,” she said, her body angled in the backseat of the cab so she could face him. “What if I get stuck in a conversation with this real estate agent while you’re doing your thing, and she starts asking me questions about how long you and I have been dating? Or how we met?”

“I wouldn’t get too complicated. Stick as close to the truth as possible. Just tell her that we met when you moved into the place next to mine, and things developed from there.”

Victoria nodded. “Okay. And how long have we been dating?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Three years?”

“Three years?” She threw him a look. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“What’s wrong with three years?”

“I’m just saying, if I were actually the type to be in a serious relationship, at thirty-three years old I would hope it wouldn’t take three years for him and I to figure out whether we’re compatible enough to live together.”

Ford considered that. “All right. So we’ve been dating, let’s say . . . six months.”

“Six months? And we’re already moving in together?” Victoria snorted. “How’d you manage to talk me into that?”

“Okay, why don’t you pick a length of time between six months and three years after which you would feel comfortable fake living with me, and we’ll just go with that?”

That got a smile out of her. “Sorry. I get a little nervous before these missions.”

Yes, she did. And he found it more adorable every time they were together.

Per his instructions, the cab pulled to a stop at the end of the block. Victoria climbed out while Ford paid the driver, who—having overheard their entire conversation—gave him an odd look.

“Long story,” Ford said, handing over a twenty. Then he stepped out of the cab and met Victoria at the sidewalk. Together, they walked toward Sutter’s three-flat. “Remember, this is a brokers’ open house, so it’ll be mostly real estate agents. But you and I were driving by the other day, saw the open house sign, and thought we’d check it out. We’ve been eyeing this block for a while, given how close it is to both the L and Wrigley Field.”

“Big Cubs fans, are we?”

“Oh, huge. We’re on the waiting list to get season tickets.” He crossed his fingers. “Here’s hoping for next year.”

“Okay, you are way too good at this.” As they headed up the front steps of the building, she looked sideways at him. “One year.”

He cocked his head, not following.

“That’s how long I’d want to fake date someone before fake moving in with him,” she explained.

“One year. Okay.” With a smile, he took her hand, leading her up the stairs to the unit on the third floor.

The door was open, so he and Victoria walked right in. There were several people milling about the penthouse condo, and a handful more gathered around the kitchen island, where light refreshments had been laid out.

It was a nice space, with lots of sunlight, vaulted ceilings, and maple hardwood floors. Two bedrooms, two baths, according to the listing sheet Ford took from the dining table as part of their cover. He and Victoria meandered into the living room, where he spotted several framed photos on the fireplace mantel.

Including a wedding photo.

Exchanging glances with Victoria—she’d spotted it, too—the two of them made their way over to get a better look.

“Any questions I can answer about the place?” asked a male voice from behind them.

Ford turned around.

The man smiled and gestured over his shoulder. “My wife, Melanie, is the real estate agent, but since she’s a little busy, I’m helping out.” He held out his hand to Ford. “Peter Sutter.”

Ford shook his hand, taking in the man’s brown eyes and short brown hair. Good-looking and built, this man would undoubtedly meet even Nicole’s standards of “cute” and normal looking. And there was one other thing that stood out about Peter Sutter Number Four.

He was the spitting image of Zoe.