Chapter Three
Magnus
J esus fucking Christ, that woman is something. Bleeding heart, soft as marshmallow, a total pushover. She didn’t even ask for a resume. She gave me some sugar-laden treat, and a coffee.
How the hell my people didn’t get her to sign the building the moment they met her is a mystery. I need to spend a few days with her at the least, to see the best way to get her to sign it over.
Fuck me offering her buckets of money.
She can pay market price. That’s the punishment for getting me hands on level involved in this. I’m going to have to spend time with her. And all her sugar. By that, I don’t mean those cookies and whatever the fuck else she bakes. No, I’m talking her .
Zoey Smith also has a stubborn streak fueled by a Do the Right Thing vibe.
I can get her. I know it. It’s just going to take a while. I tap my pen against the pad on my desk as I stare out at the night line of Manhattan.
Okay, I’ll give her a little more when she finally signs, on account she’s so fucking na?ve it actually hurts my black heart. The building is worth less than what it was bought for. I’m not sure how up to code it is, either. And her selling food has gotta be a violation. Especially the homemade variety. I’d thought it was the prepackaged shit, which is another reason why I didn’t look into it.
No one mentioned she was doing that to me, baking shit herself. No doubt on premises as she lives there. And no one mentioned the state of the old place. I had a good idea. The entire block is worth nothing more than the potential of the ground it sits on. But with her there, it means I can’t do a fucking thing.
One reason I haven’t pushed for a harder attack with law is the off chance of it being tied up in court. She can’t afford it, but bleeding hearts abound, and some sucker’s no doubt going to want to shine up their shingle by good deeding her case. If it went there.
Of course, I can quietly call in the health department, but first I want a look at the setup. And often with the health department they want a payout. It all depends on who you get. I don’t normally have to go to this level, so I’m not up to speed. I come in. I lay down money. People give me what I want.
This is different. I feel it. Because she’s soft and stubborn and has fucking beliefs. Honestly, it’s disgusting.
I’m getting off track.
I’ve already made some calls to my people. I want them to keep up the pressure, but not to up the ante.
“You’re plotting.”
I look up. Ryder’s there. I totally forgot we were planning on grabbing a bite as he wanted to talk about the goddamn stupid Sinclair inheritance with me.
“I’ve got a problem I need to solve.”
“Stomp it down like usual.”
“I’m figuring the best way. She—”
“Hot?” He’s suddenly sprawled in a chair in front of my desk looking all sorts of interested. “Stacked hot? Long legged? Blonde?”
“Short, compact, dark-haired, and a bad case of bleeding heart syndrome.”
“Jesus Christ, not your type at all. I vote for a blonde. I’ll take a redhead. I’m in the mood for a redhead.”
“If it’s hot and female, you’re always in the mood.”
“True. There’s a lot of me to go around. I’m extremely generous.”
“I’m sure. But this is business. This girl’s the one thing keeping me from my Bushwick development.”
He doesn’t say anything, just eyes me thoughtfully. “No one gets in your way.”
“She won’t budge. She’s got morals and beliefs.”
“Sounds horrendous,” he says, deadpan.
“Asshole.”
“Hey, I’m your favorite brother.”
“No, you’re not. That would be Hud and King.”
He clutches his chest. “You wound me.”
“See, they’re into making money.” I stop. “Make that Kingston. Hud’s gone soft.”
“Hey, I love making money. Almost as much as I love hitting great pussy.”
I laugh and shake my head. The rain’s stopped, but clouds still hang low outside in the sky. I get up and grab my light fall coat and sweep an arm toward the door. My staff’s already left for the day, so it’s just us and the security in the lobby. I glance at the wrap around window. “You think it’s going to rain? I no longer have an umbrella.”
And for some reason, I find myself smiling.
After all, today’s been a good day. A good beginning.
For me.
For Zoey Smith?
Not so much.
Zoey’s wearing a dress the next morning. It’s a pretty one, and it compliments her eyes, which are a dark blue, almost violet.
She’s not my type. Way too fucking sweet and smiling and little. I like tall and curves and less talking. I like a mouth that can do things to my body, and a woman who knows when to get the fuck out. Which is after sex.
I’m not Ryder. I’m not a wham bam kinda guy. I don’t need a different woman every time to spice up my life. But women serve a need. A certain kind of woman. Sometimes I’ll see them for a while because the sex is that good, but they always get clingy, or start picturing themselves with a Mrs. before their first name, followed by a Sinclair. Even the ones with money.
My favorite women I date and sleep with are the cutthroat variety. The ones who are playing hardball, who have needs like mine and don’t want anything else.
But those relationships tend to last a few months at the most because we always have different schedules that prove harder to coordinate than need. And for both me and for them, there’s always someone more available around the corner.
No complications is what I’m on about here.
Zoey Smith looks like she was built out of complications.
If she were my type.
Which she isn’t.
She’s pretty enough, and her mouth is soft and sweet and would look good wrapped about my cock. I don’t want her, but I’ll admit I’m enough like Ryder to sum up the fuckability of a female without thinking about it.
Actually, I don’t know why I’m thinking about it.
Maybe it’s the way the dress shows off her small waist, or the neckline hints at her modest cleavage.
Or the rosy glow to her cheeks that no doubt came from her running around earlier. She was probably out feeding the homeless. If there were lepers, no doubt she’d be there, ready to help.
I’m being a bit of a bastard. Maybe she doesn’t give a shit about lepers. I haven’t asked. I don’t intend to.
Right, I need to get my mind on track, back to my nonexistent dear old gran. And the plight of my made up life.
I need to find out more of Zoey’s weaknesses, and thinking of sex and her bleeding heart isn’t going to help.
She hooks a curl behind an ear and smiles up at me. “I’ve been up baking a storm since four am,” she says by way of explanation to the boxes of books sitting on the floor. “And I forgot I had a small shipment coming in.”
“Where do you get the books from?”
“Estate sales sometimes. Other times, people donate. And when I have time—I try to take time once a month—I poke about the tristate area. You’d be surprised what lurks in the strangest of places.”
“Like under trees?” I look at her, picking up a couple of hard covers from an open box. I’ve never heard of these authors. Where are the blockbusters? The known writers? She clearly has no idea what the fuck she’s doing.
If she did, she’d have sold to me at the first offer.
“Junk shops, garage sales—”
“Secondhand bookshops, am I right?”
The color in her cheeks heightens. “Sometimes. I actually occasionally get some new books in. I’ll set up over here and, and then I can show you around. I open in an hour so we should have time.”
I frown. “Your door was unlocked.”
“I didn’t know when you’d turn up, or if you would.” She comes up and puts one hand on the books I’m holding. “I never got any of your details or told you how much.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Now she frowns, and I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. Of course it matters. Or it would, if I were actually Magnus Simpson. Shit.
I take a breath. “I mean, I’m just grateful to have a job that gives me time to help Gran.”
“I never told you the hours.”
“You said part time, and…” I’m going to have to skirt a little closer to the truth, use it to get to her. I’m here to learn her weaknesses, what makes her tick, find the way to get her to sell. I’m not really sure what that is, but I do know I’m good at puzzles and spending time day to day’s going to give me that key.
“And honestly?” I look at Zoey again. “I’m just happy to have anything. Whatever hours you have, I can make work. Whatever you pay, I can make work. I have some savings, I just need extra to help Gran. You know…”
“I do. And I’m so sorry you’re going through this. If I had a million dollars, I’d give it to you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I like to help. I don’t see the point of hoarding money or things if you can’t share and spread the goodness. I sound like an idiot, I know, but it’s true. There’s enough in the world to make everyone’s lives better.”
“One woman can’t save the planet.”
“Maybe, but sometimes, all it takes is one person doing one small thing. So… that’s my aim.”
I’m really not sure what to say. So I just nod and smile.
“So before we open—”
“You want the resume? IRS details?”
Her eyes get big. “Not the last. I mean…” She drops her voice and says, “You’re struggling so I’ll pay under the table for now and later we can talk. But take care of your gran first. I can’t pay a lot. Fifteen an hour? Is that good? We can do… say …twenty or twenty-five hours a week?”
She has zero business sense. But I smile and place one hand against my chest. “You’re an angel, Zoey. My resume got wet yesterday, but I’ll give it to you so you have my number.”
I walk past her, deftly pulling the books she has her hand on away from her and to the counter. Setting them down, I retrieve the resume. It’s a little mangled. I didn’t think much beyond shifting it to today’s jeans. Magnus Simpson, I’ve decided, is just as soft as her, and he’s also so caught up in caring for Gran that he really isn’t thinking about making a perfect impression.
After all, he’d never be in this poky hole-in-the-wall if he was.
She comes over to me, her head barely reaching my shoulder. And I’m met with a hint of violets and spice that are both understated, sexy, romantic, and old fashioned. It suits her. “Oh, good. Your number’s still clear on it. I’ll program it in to my phone and here.” She stretches across the counter, narrowly missing a glass covered plate with what looks like cake inside. There are cookies, too, further back. But these are dark, almost black, and no doubt full of chocolate and sugar. It’s a wonder a man doesn’t get diabetes walking into this place.
Zoey hands me a little card. It’s very simple. Just the shop name, hers, and a phone number. Just the one. I slide it into my pocket.
“I’ll show you around.”
We weave in among the narrow high shelves and Zoey points out the little sections for different books. Sale items, fiction, lit, women’s fiction, minority voices, art, history—it goes on and up the stairs that have piles of books on them here and there. The place is a death trap.
Maybe I’ll call the fire department.
Of course, she’d probably feed them cake and cookies and they’d fall into a sugar coma and wake, forgetting why they’d come here.
Upstairs is another floor of books, but it’s a little more open, a big arched window in the front of the floor, and an open space with some comfy chairs and a sofa and a table with books. There are even lamps and a rug.
I want to eye her with disgust. She’s made a reading area. This isn’t a library, for crying out loud. No wonder she’s harried and talking about tough times. Dear fucking God. She’s a mess.
“I love this little space,” she says, eyes shining. “I was going to have it full of books up here, too. This used to be a storage area and my grandpa had a hardware store downstairs, but when he retired, it got turned into a dollar store to the people it was rented to, and when my grandparents passed, and the people renting closed up, well…I figured it was time for me to open my dream.”
“This store?”
She nods, and smiles dreamily. “I don’t know where I’d be without books. They’re magic.”
“Like the sign?”
“Yes. And I thought of having a place where people can peruse in comfort, or just escape and read something, no matter if they buy, then it would all be worth it.”
Money. That would be worth it.
“I know it might sound stupid.”
It does. “No, not at all,” Magnus Simpson, all round good guy and sucker says.
“And who knows? Maybe people mention it to others, and a book gets sold down the line.”
Downstairs the bell dings. And she grabs my arm, sending sparks of fire through me. I put it down to static electricity from the rug. “Come on, Magnus, time to get started.”
I follow her down the stairs, making sure not to touch her again.
This is going to be like stealing candy from a baby.