ARE YOU . . . ARE YOU BEING NICE TO ME?
LIBBY
I stick my head into Palo’s office and smile when his eyes meet mine. I watch his full lips tip up into a grin. Palo is a gorgeous Puerto Rican man with dark hair, caramel-colored skin, and brown eyes that look almost golden in the bright lights of the salon. He’s one of the nicest men I’ve ever met—and beyond talented. He’s been featured in tons of fashion magazines and newspapers for his work as a stylist. As young as he is—only thirty-three—he’s made a name for himself with not only the who’s who of Manhattan but with movie and Broadway stars alike. People book months in advance to have his magical hands in their hair.
“You off, love?” He swivels his chair around so he’s closer to me.
“Yep. My last client just left,” I tell him as I slip on my coat over a black button-up shirt with a frilly neckline and long, flowing sleeves that I wore over black skinny jeans and black pointy-toed booties with a slim three-inch heel.
“How’s your sister’s boyfriend doing?”
My fingers pause on the buttons of my coat. Two nights ago when I went out with Mackenzie and Fawn for the art show, Fawn’s boyfriend, Levi—a police detective—was shot. Thankfully he’s okay, but it was still very unnerving to see my sister worried out of her mind that she might lose the love of her life. I also learned earlier that evening the secret Mackenzie had been keeping from not only me but from everyone. She’s been secretly seeing Levi’s partner, Wesley. Mackenzie told us that they met at a bar just before Thanksgiving, when her actual date stood her up. They hooked up that night and then again a few days later; both times she made some assumptions about him and took off, thinking she’d never see him again. Then he showed up on Thanksgiving, having no idea that his partner’s girlfriend was Mackenzie’s sister. I guess after that, like they say, the rest is history. Now my family knows about them. Mom is, of course, over the moon that not only one but two of her daughters are actually dating living, breathing men who have the potential to put rings on their fingers and give her grandbabies to dote on.
“Hey.”
I feel a hand on my arm, and I snap myself back into the present and blink at Palo.
“Sorry. Yes, he’s okay. He’s actually doing great,” I murmur.
His head tips to the side, and his eyes scan my face as I finish up the buttons on my coat.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just a little tired.” Actually, I’m not really tired—even though I should be. All day I’ve felt as if I drank too much coffee; my whole body is wired with adrenaline and anxiety. Tonight I start helping out at Tony’s Pizzeria—much to the dismay of Antonio, who wasn’t very happy when I called to tell him I would be in this evening. Still, he didn’t tell me not to come, which goes to show how badly he needs the help right now.
“You need to relax more,” Palo chides gently.
I grab my bag from the drawer, then lean over to kiss his scruffy jaw.
“My next full day off, I’m not moving from the couch.” This is not a lie. Whenever I have an entire day off, I spend it in sweats, on the couch, watching whatever scary movies I can find and eating nothing but junk food.
“Good. And I expect you out for drinks soon. I also have someone I want you to meet.”
Oh lord.
“Palo . . . ,” I sigh.
“It will be casual. Promise.” He smiles, trying to cover his lie.
With Palo, nothing is ever casual. He’s been trying forever to find a man for me.
“You are not setting me up again.”
“Why not?” he asks, sounding offended.
I wonder if I sounded just like him when I tried to set up Fawn with someone and she told me no.
“Because—”
“Because is not an answer, love.”
“It is!” I insist. “It’s my answer. That’s because the last time you set me up, the guy left me with a hundred-dollar tab at the bar. Or because the last time you set me up, the guy was old enough to be my father. Or because . . .”
“I get the point.” He shakes his head and grabs my hand, his lips tipping up into an amused grin for a moment before his expression turns serious. “You’re a beautiful woman, Libby. You’re young. You should be dating.”
I agree. I should be dating, but every single time I’ve gone out with a man in this city, it’s ended badly. The men I’ve dated either expect me to be really stupid or really easy, and I’m neither of those things. I might not know what I want to do with the rest of my life, but I do know that I want to be successful. I want to be more than just a pretty object on the arm of a man, and I don’t want to have casual sex with random men until I find The One. I want to share my body with someone I care about, and who cares about me. I simply have yet to find a guy who meets my criteria.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell him, needing this conversation to end.
“You’re off tomorrow,” he reminds me.
I roll my eyes. I totally forgot. Tomorrow is my day off.
“Right. I forgot, since tomorrow I’ll spend most of the day running dresses all over the city.”
He knows all about my side business. Two years ago, I was doing a home visit for one of my very wealthy clients who was attending a charity ball later that evening. She showed me all her designer gowns and dresses—she only ever wore them once. All I could think was that it was such a waste. No way should Michael Kors, Vera Wang, Tom Ford, or Phillip Lim be forgotten in someone’s closet. That’s when I came up with my business idea. I talked to her and a few of my other clients. Surprisingly, it didn’t take me much time to convince them to go along. Once I got them to agree, I got pictures of their dresses and accessories that they wouldn’t mind lending out. That’s how I started Designer Closet. I rent out items from other people’s closets. Clients will tell me what they’re looking for, and I’ll find it. They pay a set price; then they return the item or items to me when they’re done with them. I have the items cleaned before I return them to their owners. I haven’t made millions from the business, but I have made a decent amount of money. Enough that I’ll be able to put a sizable down payment on a condo in the city.
“Make sure you also spend some time resting.”
“I will. I’ll see you the day after.” I kiss Palo’s cheek once more before I leave him in the office. Walking through the salon, I smile at the other stylists, but I don’t stop to talk since they all have clients.
“See ya, Libby,” calls Max, our receptionist. He’s prettier than most women I know. I turn to find him leaning against the receptionist desk with a smile on his face. His full lips are glossy, and his eyes are lined with dark pencil, making them stand out against his pale complexion.
“See you, Max. Have a good night.” I smile back, then turn and open the door.
As I step outside into the cold, I shiver. I stop and pull my hat and gloves from my purse, putting on both before heading down the block. As much as I want to take a cab across town, I don’t. Right now, traffic is ridiculous; everyone is trying to get home. Going to the subway station on the corner, I take the stairs down to the packed platform. Two trains pass before I’m finally able to get on one. By the time I make it to my side of town, it’s five thirty—thirty minutes later than I told Antonio I would be at Tony’s. I don’t go home to change since I don’t have time; I just head right to the shop. I step inside Tony’s and pull in a lungful of warm air. It smells like pizza dough and comfort. Peggy is at the front counter taking orders, and an overwhelmed-looking Hector and Marco are making pizzas. I hurry through the crowd of people waiting in line to place their orders and go to the office. I don’t knock. I walk in, then stop in my tracks when I see Antonio’s shirtless, muscular back. My stomach twists and dips at the sight before he pulls a plain navy-blue T-shirt down over his head.
“Uh . . . hey.” I clear my throat and avoid his eyes as I tuck away my purse in the corner of the room, then take off my coat and put it over my bag.
“You can’t wear that shirt out there,” he says.
Since I’m the only person in the room, I know he’s talking to me. I turn to look at him.
“Here.” He holds out a T-shirt the same color as his, with TONY’S written in yellow on the front. “You’re not going to argue with me?” He raises a brow, seeming surprised.
“This shirt cost close to two hundred dollars,” I say as an answer, watching his jaw clench.
“Right. See you out front.” He leaves without looking at me again. Watching the door close, I shake my head. I don’t know what the hell his problem is, but I do know that he needs to get over it.
Changing into the T-shirt he gave me, I tie a knot in the waist at the side since it’s too long to leave loose or tuck in. Once I’m ready, I leave the office and head through the half door that cuts off the back of the shop from the front.
“Where do you want me?” I ask Antonio.
He’s kneading large balls of pizza dough on a flat stainless-steel surface that’s covered with flour.
“What do you know how to do?” he asks without even glancing at me.
“Everything,” I say.
His doubt-filled eyes move to me. He scans me from head to toe, and I fight the urge to fidget. I’m not lying. When I turned sixteen, I wanted money to buy all the makeup and clothes my mom wouldn’t buy for me, so I got a job at a pizza shop down the street from my parents’ house on Long Island. I worked there until I graduated from high school. I loved that job, and I was so good at it that the owners offered me a full-time manager’s slot if I decided to stay local for college.
“All right, you can help me make pies,” Antonio finally says.
I nod, go to the sink and wash my hands, then stand next to him. We all work in sync, and I’m side by side with Antonio. He presses out the balls of dough into round crusts with his hands, I take them from him and add the toppings, and Hector and Marco put the pizzas in the stone oven and then in boxes when they’re done. At about eight o’clock, the line inside dies down, and the phone stops ringing every five minutes with people placing orders. I’m finally able to breathe a bit.
“I don’t know how you’re wearing those shoes right now,” Peggy states as I pass Hector another pizza to put in the oven.
Turning to face her, I smile and lift the three-inch heel of my shoe off the ground to inspect it.
“I’ve been walking in heels since I was four, when I convinced my mom to buy me a pair of the plastic ones from the grocery store,” I tell her with what I know is a nostalgic smile on my face. “I wore them everywhere. When I finally wore them out, I made my mom crazy by begging her every day to buy me a real pair. She didn’t give in until I was thirteen, but once the seal was broken, I never wore regular shoes again.”
“Sheesh,” Peggy mutters. “I’m forty-two, and I’ve only worn heels twice in my life.” She holds up two fingers. “Once when I got married to Hector”—she lifts her chin Hector’s way—“and when our daughter was baptized. My feet still hurt remembering what it felt like wearing those darn shoes around.”
Hector is Mexican American and is still handsome at forty-three. He’s short, with black hair that’s started to gray at his temples and a black goatee that I bet he dyes to keep it from going gray like his hair. He’s sweet, and he and Peggy make a cute couple. She has dark reddish-brown hair, pale skin, and a petite figure. I bet their daughter is beautiful. I do know that she’s smart—she just started high school this year at a private school in the Bronx, which is why Peggy started working here part-time. Their daughter got a full ride, but she still needs money for extracurricular activities, which at a private school are not cheap.
“I guess I’m just used to them.” I shrug.
“You really shouldn’t be wearing heels back here in the kitchen,” Antonio says, breaking into our conversation. When I turn to look at him, I notice a frown on his face. “They are a health hazard,” he states.
I grit my teeth.
“I like the heels,” Marco says, a cheeky smile on his handsome face. “I like them a lot.” He winks, and I roll my eyes. He flirts with every woman who comes into the shop.
“Marco . . . ,” Antonio growls.
Marco shrugs his broad shoulders. Marco’s half Italian, half African American. He’s close to forty but looks around thirty-five. He’s a little taller than I am in heels, with dark hair, greenish-brown eyes, and a killer smile that gets him tons of attention from the women who come in. He’s also very married to a woman named Lola who is okay with her husband flirting because she knows he will never step out on her—if he ever did stray, her three older brothers would kill him.
“I personally don’t care what kind of shoes you wear, chiquita,” Hector breaks in, patting my shoulder. “You’re fast, you didn’t crack under pressure, and every order was made correctly. In my opinion, you can wear whatever kind of shoes you want.”
“You kicked ass tonight, girl. Tony and Martina would be proud,” Marco says.
I let their words settle deep inside me. Hector and Marco have both worked here since before I started coming here, years ago. Tony has trusted them with the shop more than once, so it makes me feel good that they think I’ve done a good job tonight.
“Thanks, guys,” I say softly.
“You wanna put toppings on these pies, Princess, or do you want to continue chatting?” Antonio asks.
I turn back to the counter behind me and find that I’m behind by three pies. I don’t answer him; I just get back to work. I wonder if I should ask my sisters’ boyfriends if they would investigate me if Antonio suddenly turned up missing. Seriously. One day, I might just kill him.
“I can finish that up for you,” Antonio says three hours later.
I lift my eyes from the table I’m wiping down to look at him.
“I got it.” I go back to wiping and yawn; the adrenaline I felt earlier today is long gone, and exhaustion has firmly taken its place.
“You’re tired. Go rest in the office until I finish up; then I’ll walk you home,” he says as he walks across the now-closed shop toward me. Marco and Hector both left about an hour ago because they will both be coming back around eleven in the morning to open up and get things ready for lunch. Peggy left when her husband did, after cleaning up the kitchen and putting things away. I decided to stay since I can sleep in tomorrow morning before I have to start running dresses around the city.
“I’m almost done, and I don’t need you to walk me home.” I move to another table, wipe down the chairs and the top of the table, and straighten the shakers and the napkin holder.
“And I can finish up,” he tells me, trying to take the rag from my grasp. I pull it from his hold with a hard tug.
“Yeah, and so can I.” I glare at him before moving around him to another table.
“I’m trying to be nice to you.”
“Nice? You’re never nice to me. Just so you know, if you are trying to be nice, you could do it by just saying thank you.”
“I didn’t ask you to come.”
Seriously?
I wonder how much time you get for committing murder if you’ve actually spent time plotting someone’s death beforehand.
“You’re right. You didn’t ask for my help,” I agree. “But I’m here because I like this place and I love your parents.” I lock eyes with his and tip my head to the side. “Why are you so miserable all the time?”
“I’m not.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
I try not to notice how his muscles flex or how his shirt gets snug against his pecs and abs when they do.
Annoyed with myself for finding him attractive when he’s such a jerk, I shake my head. “You are.”
“I’m not miserable.” He scowls.
I roll my eyes and move to another table. “Sure you’re not.” I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Even now, you’re scowling.” I look down and start cleaning another table.
“I don’t scowl,” he denies.
I look up at him and roll my eyes again when I see that he is indeed still scowling.
“Sure you don’t.”
“I don’t.”
“Whatever. This conversation is completely pointless,” I say, looking away from him. “Don’t you have something to do?”
I look up when he doesn’t leave. When my eyes meet his, the air around us seems to shift. I see something in his gaze that makes my stomach muscles clench and unclench.
I don’t know how long we stare at each other, but it feels like forever before he clears his throat and finally looks away.
“I’m gonna finish shutting everything down.”
“Right.”
I watch him go, wondering what the hell that was about. I finish cleaning the tables, then do a quick sweep of the floors. Around eleven, I walk back to the office. A few seconds later, he comes in behind me. Deciding not to bother with changing back into the shirt I wore here, I fold it neatly and put it in my purse. Then I put on my coat, hat, and gloves. When I turn around, I see he’s put on a black down jacket and a beanie. I don’t want to think he looks good wearing a beanie, but he does. It makes his already-strong cheekbones seem stronger, his eyes seem darker, and him seem overall more mysterious. Pushing those stupid thoughts away, I leave him in the office and head for the front door.
As I walk away, I hear him coming up behind me.
“Have a good night,” I murmur without looking back.
I stop when I feel his hand wrap around my wrist, between my coat sleeve and glove. A shot of what can only be described as electricity shoots through my system at his touch, charging every cell in my body. It startles me.
“I’m gonna walk you home,” he says.
I turn to look up at him. “I’m fine walking alone.” I attempt to pull away from his grasp, but his fingers only seem to tighten.
“I’m gonna walk you home,” he repeats more firmly.
I fight back a sigh of frustration. If he wasn’t such a jerk, I would think his worrying about me making it home safely was sweet. Unfortunately, he’s proved to be mostly a jerk.
“I’m really okay to walk alone. It’s not even two blocks,” I say, trying once more to tug my wrist from his fingers.
He doesn’t let me go or reply. Instead, he opens the door, shuffles me outside, then shuts and locks it. Scooting me farther to the side, he uses his key to open a metal box there, puts the key in, and turns the dial on it. The metal shutters that cover the glass windows slide down.
“Now, like I said, I’m walking you home,” he tells me once he’s locked the box back up.
I barely resist the urge to kick him in the shin. He finally releases his hold on my wrist, and I grit my teeth as I turn away from him and head for my block. I try not to look like I’m stomping, but that’s exactly what I’m doing. When I finally reach my place, I head up the steps and open the front door to the town house.
“Thanks for all your help tonight, Libby,” he says.
I turn around, knowing my mouth is probably hanging open.
“I appreciate it, and I know Mom and Dad appreciate it, too. You really did do an awesome job.”
“Are you . . . are you being nice to me?” I point at myself.
I swear I see his lips twitch, but I know it has to be a figment of my imagination—just like I must have imagined him thanking me.
“Go on in.” He lifts his chin to indicate the door behind me. “Flicker the lights once you’re upstairs so I know you’re good.”
“Flicker the lights . . . ?” I repeat, feeling my stomach warm.
“Yeah.”
“I’m good. You can go.”
“Lib, go in and flick the lights,” he repeats, sounding like a jerk once again.
I sigh.
“That didn’t last long,” I mutter under my breath as I turn on my heel and head inside.
I swear I hear him chuckle as I shut the door behind me. I figure it won’t kill him to wait a few minutes, so I stop and collect all the mail. I shove it under my arm before I head up to the second floor and use my key to enter the apartment.
Without knowing exactly why I do it, I leave the light off and walk across the apartment to look out the window. I wonder if Antonio actually cares enough to have waited to see that I’ve gotten in okay. When I peek out and see him standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the windows to my apartment, my stomach drops. I rush quickly back across the room, almost falling on my face to get to the light switch. After flickering the lights, I head back to the window and peek out again. I watch him walk down the sidewalk with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. I shake my head, not sure how to deal with the fact that I now know he has the ability to be sweet.