“Sure thing, Monroe. I’ll have some of those donuts you like.”
We headed for the front door and my chest tightened. I understood feeling lonely. “You could do with some new locks on your door. I mean, your building has top-notch security, but you can never be too careful. Pop by the shop if you want to talk locks.”
He beamed at me and held the door open. “I might do that.”
“Bye, Mr. Goldstein.”
I headed down the plush hall to the elevator. Everything in the building screamed old money. I felt like an imposter just being in the building. Like I had “daughter of a criminal” stamped on my head.
Pulling out my cell phone, I pulled up my accounting app and entered Mr. Goldstein’s callout. Next, I checked my messages.
Still nothing from Maguire.
Frowning, I bit my lip. That made it three days since I’d heard from my little brother. I shot him off a quick text.
“Text me back, Mag,” I muttered.
The elevator opened and I stepped in, trying not to worry about Maguire. He was an adult, but I’d practically raised him. Most days it felt like I had a twenty-four-year-old kid.
The elevator slowed and stopped at another floor. An older, well-dressed couple entered. They eyed me and my well-worn jeans like I’d crawled out from under a rock.
I smiled. “Good morning.”
Yeah, yeah, I’m not wearing designer duds, and my bank account doesn’t have a gazillion zeros. You’re so much better than me.
Ignoring them, I scrolled through Instagram. When we finally reached the lobby, the couple shot me another dubious look before they left. I strode out across the marble-lined space and rolled my eyes.
During my teens, I’d cared about what people thought. Everyone had known that my father was Terry O’Connor—expert thief, safecracker, and con man. I’d felt every repulsed look and sly smirk at high school.
Then I’d grown up, cultivated some thicker skin, and learned not to care. Fuck ‘em. People who looked down on others for things outside their control were assholes.
I wrinkled my nose. Okay, it was easier said than done.
When I walked outside, the street was busy. I smiled, breathing in the scent of New York—car exhaust, burnt meat, and rotting trash. Besides, most people cared more about themselves. They judged you, left you bleeding, then forgot you in the blink of an eye.
I unlocked my bicycle, and pulled on my helmet, then set off down the street. I needed to get to the store. The ride wasn’t long, but I spent every second worrying about Mag.
My brother had a knack for finding trouble. I sighed. After a childhood, where both our mothers had taken off, and Da was in and out of jail, Mag was entitled to being a bit messed up. The O’Connors were a long way from the Brady Bunch.
I pulled up in front of my shop in Hell’s Kitchen and stopped for a second.
I grinned. All mine.
Okay, I didn’t own the building, but I owned the store. The sign above the shop said Lady Locksmith. The logo was lipstick red—a woman’s hand with gorgeous red nails, holding a set of keys.
After I locked up my bike, I strode inside. A chime sounded.
God, I loved the place. It was filled with glossy, warm-wood shelves lined with displays of state-of-the-art locks and safes. A key-cutting machine sat at the back.
A blonde head popped up from behind a long, shiny counter.
“You’re back,” Sabrina said.
My best friend looked like a doll—small, petite, with a head of golden curls.
We’d met doing our business degrees at college, and had become fast friends. Sabrina had always wanted to be tall and sexy, but had to settle for small and cute. She was my manager, and was getting married in a month.
“Yeah, Mr. Goldstein forgot his safe code again,” I said.
Sabrina snorted. “That old coot doesn’t forget, he just likes looking at your ass.”
“He’s harmless. He’s nice, and lonely. How’s the team doing?”
Sabrina leaned forward, pulling out her tablet. I often wondered if she slept with it. “Liz is out back unpacking stock.” Sabrina’s nose wrinkled. “McRoberts overcharged us on the Schlage locks again.”
“That prick.” He was always trying to screw me over. “I’ll call him.”
“Paola, Kat, and Isabella are all out on jobs.”
Excellent. Business was doing well. Lady Locksmith specialized in providing female locksmiths to all the single ladies of New York. They also advised on how to keep them safe—securing locks, doors, and windows.
I had a dream of one day seeing multiple Lady Locksmiths around the city. Hell, around every city. A girl could dream. Growing up, once I understood the damage my father did to other people, all I’d wanted was to be respectable. To earn my own way and add to the world, not take from it.
“Did you get that new article I sent you to post on the blog?” I asked.
Sabrina nodded. “It’ll go live shortly, and then I’ll post on Insta, as well.”
When I had the time, I wrote articles on how women—single and married—should secure their homes. My latest was aimed at domestic-violence survivors, and helping them feel safe. I donated my time to Nightingale House, a local shelter that helped women leaving DV situations, and I installed locks for them, free of charge.
“We should start a podcast,” Sabrina said.
I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t have time to sit around recording stuff.” I did my fair share of callouts for jobs, plus at night I had to stay on top of the business-side of the store.
“Fine, fine.” Sabrina leaned against the counter and eyed my jeans. “Damn, I hate you for being tall, long, and gorgeous. You’re going to look way too beautiful as my maid of honor.” She waved a hand between us. “You’re all tall, sleek, and dark-haired, and I’m…the opposite.”
I had some distant Black Irish ancestor to thank for my pale skin and ink-black hair. Growing up, I wanted to be short, blonde, and tanned. I snorted. “Beauty comes in all different forms, Sabrina.” I gripped her shoulders. “You are so damn pretty, and your fiancé happens to think you are the most beautiful woman in the world. Andrew is gaga over you.”
Sabrina sighed happily. “He does and he is.” A pause. “So, do you have a date for my wedding yet?” My bestie’s voice turned breezy and casual.
Uh-oh. I froze. All the wedding prep had sent my normally easygoing best friend a bit crazy. And I knew very well not to trust that tone.
I edged toward my office. “Not yet.”
Sabrina’s blue eyes sparked. “It’s only four weeks away, Monroe. The maid of honor can’t come alone.”
“I’ll be busy helping you out—”
“Find a date, Monroe.”
“I don’t want to just pick anyone for your wedding—”
Sabrina stomped her foot. “Find someone, or I’ll find someone for you.”
I held up my hands. “Okay, okay.” I headed for my office. “I’ll—” My cell phone rang. Yes. “I’ve got a call. Got to go.” I dove through the office door.
“I won’t forget,” Sabrina yelled. “I’ll revoke your best-friend status, if I have to.”
I closed the door on my bridezilla bestie and looked at the phone.