Chapter Ten
Zoey
I t’s not a date. That’s my mantra and I need to stick to it.
So what if I picked out a pretty dress with dark blues and greens to wear today. So what if I managed to find my mascara and perhaps a little eyeliner and tinted lip gloss.
Sometimes, a girl just happens to want to put all that stuff on and feel pretty.
For no reason whatsoever.
And if Magnus Simpson makes my palms sweat and my heart think it’s a jazz drummer performing a bebop solo, so what?
It doesn’t mean anything.
Anyway, tonight is just a fundraiser, two colleagues going out to help others less fortunate. And that’s a far way off.
But I feel good, light, even though the sky outside is gray and drizzly. I’ve already turned the sign to open. Early this morning I made German chocolate cake with a coffee and raspberry drizzle, and simple little white chocolate cookies with dark raw sugar, cacao butter and butter.
The bell tingles and I smile.
But that melts away to a frown at the sight of the small, severe man in a mac coat and natty suit. He has a clipboard and marches up.
“Miss Zoey Smith?”
“Yes?”
“John Rogan.” He flashes an ID at me and my heart sinks down to the soles of my sensible heels. Health inspection for permits, food safety. I’ve heard the nightmares. Mrs. O’Malley loves to regale me with tales from the dark side that they’d had to go through with the bar.
I don’t even know anyone from the mafia.
The man eyes the cake and cookies. “Permits? I got a tip off you were selling food made in your home. There are all kinds of violations and inspections needed. Not to mention licenses and certificates.”
I’m not a liar, but I’m going to give it a good try, because I haven’t put up any prices yet.
“I have cake and cookies if you’d like some…”
“A bribe?” His eyes narrow and I almost recoil.
“What? No. Me? Never.” This is why I didn’t want to be a lawyer. They’re too slippery. I don’t want to have his job, either. Too slimy. “I love baking and I like to give a little something to the neighborhood. For free.” I lean in and lower my voice, even though it’s still early and no one comes in yet.
Magnus isn’t scheduled for another twenty minutes.
My stomach clenches in a different way at the thought.
“I have a sweet tooth, so it’s mainly for me to munch on, but I don’t mind giving a cookie to someone if they ask.”
His eyes narrow into little slits and he writes something down. “And the coffee?”
With a sigh, I tell him the coffee is for me. And by the time he’s done with the promise or threat he’ll be back, my good mood is nothing but dust.
I clutch the sheet of paper he gave me and shove it under the register, just as a rumble of thunder rolls.
“Hey, you all right?”
Magnus is there and I jump at the smooth, low sound of his voice. All my pulse points are on fire. He must have come in just as the thunder sounded.
His hair is damp from the light drizzle and he looks dewy and gorgeous and almost enough to forget the inspector.
“Great. Everything’s fine.”
“You sure?” He searches my face. “Because you haven’t offered me a cookie—”
“You never eat them!”
“—and you don’t have the prices up.”
I shrug. He’s got enough going on, so I’m not going to burden him. “I give them away mostly, anyway, so why bother? Let’s get going. The day isn’t going to get any younger!”
When the mail comes that day, it seems all my bills are coming early. They’re not, but it seems that way. I put them in a pile behind the counter to take them upstairs to deal with Sunday night.
At six, when he leaves to get me milk because Magnus seems to be a shining light in that drab day, I get a hand-delivered letter. It’s not a letter, it’s more like a fine to do with the sweets.
“This can’t be normal!”
The bell dings and all my senses are on alert as I know Magnus comes in. A plastic jug of milk hits the counter and he takes the paper from me. He frowns. “What the hell?”
“They can’t stop me giving things away.”
“It says here sales—”
“I can read.” I snatch it back and fold it up, and grab the milk and put it in the little fridge I have on the other side of the counter. “I’ll pay it.”
“It seems hefty.”
“I’ll be looking into it all,” I say quietly. “But big money speaks. So I won’t sell, I won’t display them and that’s that.”
“Do you make revenue? I mean…”
I glare at Magnus, even though this isn’t his fault. “They aren’t really about making money, although a little here and there never hurts. It’s about creating a cozy space, a neighborhood store where people can get books, and if I give them a treat, then maybe they’ll buy more down the track, or they’ll tell people.”
“Or you feed someone.”
He sort of looks at me like he’s angry, but I must imagine it because that expression vanishes.
“This is about that….bastard…Edward Sinclair. He’s trying to stronghold me out of this place. It’s just another little thing in a long line of little things.”
What Sinclair doesn’t get is the harder he pushes and bullies, the deeper I’m digging in my heels. I might be seen as soft or nice, but I’m also more stubborn than a gnat. Little, but with persistent staying power.
“So, just sell.”
“And give him something to drag me into some kind of war with the health department, or whoever he’s paying?” I lift my chin. “Unless you mean here.”
“What?” He’s silent a split second. “No. I meant your little treat.”
I rub a hand against my temple. “I just want it all to stop.”
“Then how about that fundraiser, Zoey?”
He holds out his hand, and even though I know it’s a bad idea, I put my hand in his. “Lead the way.”
I look around. It’s an old warehouse, near enough to Williamsburg, one that’s nestled in amongst the religious statue stores and ice cream truck places, all the little things no one ever thinks about being an actual business or supplier. But around here are artist studios and rental spaces and old school bare bones boxing gyms.
The place is done up enough. There are drinks for sale and music and all kinds of people.
Magnus makes a donation at the front door. I don’t see how much he puts in, but I make a note to do so when he’s not looking.
Cool young things with money are here. The well-heeled too. And women basically drool and follow Magnus with libidos in their gazes as he treks to the drink table and back to me.
“They have red wine and white wine.”
“White, please.”
He smiles that slow smile and flashes his dimple and my knees go weak and wavery. “Here you go.”
“There’s a lot of people.”
“I know. What’s the use of having had a career in marketing if you don’t put word out,” he says.
“You?”
He shrugs. “It’s close to my heart.” Then he looks past me. “Is that…Tuesday Harry?”
“I invited some neighborhood people.”
Harry’s deep in conversation with a slender older woman who’s very animated.
“You know what they say…great minds think alike. And thanks.”
“Word gets out and it helps good causes.” I glance about. “Do you know who’s throwing this? It’s…”
I trail off because there’s something about his expression that sets an alarm bell off in me.
“What?”
“Don’t worry about it.” He slides his hand down to mine, but I reluctantly snatch it away.
“Oh, my God. This is that horrible man’s charity, isn’t it?”
Magnus turns a darker shade. “I don’t know about that, but the bartender just told me they’re having an art auction and there are a few Sinclair family pieces here. So I asked a few more questions and…he’s put money in it. Maybe he’s not that bad.”
“He is.” I want to go and I down half my drink. I’m being unreasonable. This is a good cause and I’m aware people like my ex, and more so, people like Edward Sinclair, are involved in everything and anything that can get them a tax break or a sympathetic public appearance. “Actually he’s worse.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How so?”
I down another big swallow of my drink and glare at Magnus. “Because it’s all fake.”
“But it’s for a good cause.”
I sigh, defeated. “I know, but he’s causing a lot of these problems by trying to make everyone leave their homes on my block so he can add more millions to his billions to give people with lots of money a home they don’t need.”
“Billions to his billions,” Magnus says, taking a sip of his wine.
“I think I should go home.”
“No.” He captures my hand and draws me close. Against my better judgement I let him. That thumb moves slow over my flesh and I’m quivering inside. “Stay. It is a good cause, Zoey.”
He brushes up against me and my good sense and outrage give up and sizzle down into need.
“Magnus,” I whisper, “I thought we agreed this was a bad idea.”
“No one agreed anything. I work in a shop with you. Fire me. Then maybe I’ll ask you out…” His mouth whispers against that sensitive spot under my ear and I moan a little. “Or maybe we can just be two adults, two colleagues who are having a fun evening for a good cause. I like you, Zoey, that’s all.”
My head is spinning. “Magnus—”
“You know what this place needs?” Tuesday Harry says, grinning at us, ruining the moment, saving me from a mistake.
Me and men…I make mistakes. And all my energy is tied up in saving my home, my heritage, my neighborhood.
I smile at Harry. “Do I want to know?”
“A roller disco. All the kids are into it. There’s one in Bed Stuy, just off New York Avenue that’s old school cool. Back in the day, I could really do some roller moves. Got me all the ladies…” He mimes swishing around. Then he gives Magnus a hopeful look. “Is your gran here? I was talking to the organizer. There’s some real money here tonight, and every cent made is going to build a center and help set up dignity services for the old people.”
He says this like he isn’t one.
“How is your dear grandmother?”
“She’s home with a care giver tonight. Someone comes in once a week. I’d…she has a bad hip.”
“Surgery?”
“Harry!” I almost groan. Next he’ll be asking for her phone number. But he spies an old lady with green hair and pearls and makes a beeline for her. “I’m sorry, it’s not his business. And—”
“I like him,” Magnus says, humor lacing his words, and there’s a part of me I didn’t know was tense that relaxes. If he likes Harry, then all is good.
And secretly, I want to ask the same question Harry did, but for different reasons. I think, though, Magnus will talk about it when and if he wants to. It’s not my business until it is. Still…
“He’s lonely. You know you’ll have to introduce him to your gran at some point.”
“I just might.” He’s still got my hand and it feels right. “You know, you don’t have to like this Edward—”
“Good. Because I don’t.”
“But you have to give it to him. He’s doing a lot of good, showing heart.”
“He’s a cynical monster who’s doing this for nefarious reasons.”
I don’t know this for sure, but it fits.
Anyone who kicks out poor people, old people and the lower working class for luxurious buildings and then has a charity to help is diabolical.
Magnus laughs softly and lifts my hand, brushing his lips against it. “You’re one of a kind, Zoey.”
Suddenly he goes stiff as a cloud of subtle, expensive perfume wafts over us and an elegant voice says, “Magnus? Aren’t you going to introduce your friend to your mother?”