“Hello,” I say . . . just as I feel a fleck of icing on my lips. I wipe it away quickly. “Please, come in. Feel free to browse on your own, but I’m here for any questions you might have.”
“I’m not actually here to shop,” she says. “Though it all looks wonderful. You’re Kennedy, right? Kennedy Bennett?”
“I am.” I manage a smile. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to serve a summons. Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”
She laughs, a tinkling perfection of a laugh. “Full disclosure, I am a lawyer. But no, I’m not here on a legal matter.” She puts out a hand. “Theodora O’Toole.”
I think I take her hand and shake it. I’m not actually sure. The next few moments blur, time stuttering around me. This is Theodora O’Toole. This is the woman whose calls Connolly has been ducking.
Theodora O’Toole. Perfection personified. Elegant and gorgeous enough to be a cover model, but actually a lawyer. Because of course she is.
It’s like in seventh grade, when I spent three weeks working on my science-fair project. I’d had a good idea, and I’d worked my ass off, determined to win because that year, the prize was a real telescope and I wanted it so badly. I put my everything into that project, and I was so proud of it . . . and then I saw Molly Miller’s project. I’d wanted to run home and cry into my pillow from the sheer humiliation of thinking I could compete against our resident science whiz.
That’s how I feel right now. Like the idiot who thought she had a shot at a guy like Aiden Connolly. Sure, he’s out of my league, but hey, I don’t exactly lack for male attention. I knew I was good enough to enter the competition.
One look at Theodora, and I’m back in seventh grade, seeing my homemade project up against the shining perfection of Molly’s, and I am once again wondering what the hell I was thinking.
I manage to put out my hand to shake hers, and I screw that up, too. Is my grip too light? Too hard? Too limp? Too damp? I have no idea, only that I’m sure I screw it up. At this moment, I’m sure I’m screwing everything up.
I release her hand and move behind the shield of my cash desk. “So, Theodora. What can I do for you today?”
“I’m not your enemy.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
“With Aiden. I’m not your enemy.”
I bite my lip hard, in hopes that’ll keep my cheeks from going scarlet. “Uh, okay. Enemy in what sense?”
She gives me a knowing look. I meet it with one as blank as I can manage.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.
“I know Aiden spoke to his parents about you this morning. He was with you last night, and they called him on it, and he told them to back off. He also told them that you know about the contract.”
That reaction must show, because she says, “Aiden didn’t tell me. I haven’t spoken to him in days. He’s not returning my calls. He talked to his parents and . . .”
She sighs, and it is a very elegant sigh, like the softest rush of wind. “Aiden’s parents and mine both have immense corporate interests. They are friends. They are also rivals. Now that my parents hope to marry me off to Aiden, there is little that goes on in the Connolly household my parents don’t know.”
“They planted a spy?”
Her lips twitch. “In our world, there is always a spy or two. My parents told me what happened at the Connolly estate this morning and also told me to get rid of you.” She pauses. “Scare you off, I mean. That sounded more sinister than I intended.”
“That’s why you’re here. To ‘scare me off.’ First, Aiden and I are just friends. Second, he didn’t spend the night. We spent the evening chasing down an antique. Turned out to be stolen goods, and the police confiscated it.”
“That’s what I heard, and I’m certain it’s the truth because I cannot imagine Aiden coming up with that as his excuse. Trying to imagine Aiden Connolly happily spending an evening chasing down antiques and nearly getting arrested for art theft?” She smiles and shakes her head. “Nope. I got nothing.”
I bristle. “I can get the police report—”
She lifts her hands. “I don’t mean I doubt that’s what happened. I mean that if that’s the Aiden you know, then yes, maybe you are just friends, but his parents have every reason to be worried because he is not going through with that marriage contract.”
“And you’re here to make sure he does?”
She hesitates. “That’s . . . complicated. I will say that I am absolutely not here to scare you off. I’m here to introduce myself and to make it clear that I do not consider you a rival for Aiden.”
I tense.
She sighs. “I’m doing this all wrong. I mean that whatever you and Aiden have is none of my business. He is a great guy, but he doesn’t want me, and I don’t want him. I know a way we can both get through this. I just need him to talk to me, and he won’t.”
The doorbell chimes. In walks a young couple. When we both turn, they hesitate and recheck the Open sign.
“Come in,” I say. “Please look around. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Before I can return to Theodora, a delivery driver follows the couple in, a large box in her hands.
“Kennedy Bennett?” she says.
“That’s me.” Before I step up to automatically accept the delivery, I remember the past twenty-four hours. “I’m not expecting anything today. Can you tell me where it’s from?”
“It’s a personal delivery from . . .” She checks her table. “Aiden Connolly. There’s a card taped to the top.”
She has me sign for the box. Then she leaves as I eye it.
Theodora laughs softly. “You look as if you expect it to explode.”
“After last night, it might. Will you give me a moment? This could be a trick, and if it is, I want to get the driver’s info.”
I pull off the message taped to the top. It’s a standard note card, typed up, as if by the delivery service.
Kennedy,
I promised I would stop apologizing for the weekend, and so this is not an apology. It is a precautionary measure. Purely arising from my concern for your safety.
Aiden
I set down the card and eye the box again. Then I cut the tape and open it.
“Are those Magic 8 balls?” Theodora says.
I choke back a laugh as I look inside to see an entire crate of the toys.
“It’s an in-joke,” I say. “Long story.”
Her brows rise. “This is definitely not the Aiden I know.” She eases back. “I’m glad to see it.” She lifts her hands to fend off my protest. “Whether you guys are a couple or not, I need him to know I’m not trying to bag myself a husband. Just have him talk to me. Please.”
“I will.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” She pulls a card from her chic little purse and sets it on the counter. “In case he’s lost my number, but also for you. I know this arranged marriage business must all seem terribly . . .” She wrinkles her perfect nose. “Old-fashioned. Out-dated.”
“The rich are different,” I say, and I say it lightly, as a joke, but a shadow passes behind her eyes, a sadness and an exhaustion.