Chapter One
Sunday
In all their years as wary mutual acquaintances, Oliver Huang never expected Fay Liu to be so happy to see him. But here she was, in this showcase home on the Mount Morris Park historic house tour, flashing Oliver a huge, almost desperate smile. She stepped right up to kiss him heartily on the lips, and in the process knocked his glasses askew, smudging them.
Then as he reached up to adjust them, she commandeered his arm and linked hers through his.
Fay was a fellow urban planner and, most importantly, she was a partner at Milieu. They had mutual friends. He’d even sent her firm a CV, and had finally received a follow-up from one of her partners expressing interest just that morning. For a fuzzy moment, he wondered if she was here, had sought him out directly, to arrange the interview. Still, he hadn’t expected Fay to be quite so warm and, well, handsy? lipsy?—was that a word?—about greeting a potential employee.
And wasn’t she married?
But she gripped him more tightly and snuggled into his side. She felt good tucked into him. So he allowed himself to relax, to enjoy touching another human body again, to almost hug someone, to feel needed, and wanted, and seen.
It was such a fleeting, wonderful connection. Fleeting, because in less than a minute, he understood what this was.
A man clomped up to them and scowled at the picture Oliver and Fay presented, standing in the upper hallway of the brownstone, looking for all the world like a pair of proud new homeowners.
Such a lovely illusion.
“Oh, so this is the boyfriend you were talking about,” Clompy Man said.
Fay tipped her head back, her glossy hair catching the light, and gazed up at Oliver adoringly. “Oliver, Brent here was offering to take me to the rest of the stops on the tour. But I said I was waiting for you to arrive, because I know you’re such an architecture hound that you wouldn’t want to miss it.”
“I’m sorry I was late. I got held up at the, uh, boxing gym.”
To her credit, she did not roll her eyes. Boxing gym. Oliver had never been inside a boxing gym if that’s what they were called. Fay said, “That’s all right, honey. I know how much you enjoy sparring. You’re so strong and quick on your feet.”
She gave his biceps a squeeze, two, as if the first wasn’t enough, and he almost laughed aloud.
She felt it, too. Even if their improvised dialog was stilted and terrible—or maybe because it was—they shared genuinely amused grins.
Brent the Clomper didn’t appear quite as delighted with their acting skills.
He stood there, looking at them, breathing heavily. Eying Brent’s heavily muscled torso, Oliver wondered if he was about to get into a fight for the first time in his adult life. It was unlikely—very unlikely. And yet, Oliver found himself considering what would happen if he had to take the bigger, younger man. Oliver was actually quick on his feet—but Brent was taller and much heavier. But Oliver also knew—he knew this for a fact—that if Brent swung, Fay would join in angrily and enthusiastically. Both of them together could definitely defeat one Clompy Brent, although they’d probably break Oliver’s glasses, not to mention scuff the dark wood floors of this brownstone, knock over the antique side table that held a collection of candles and pictures, and possibly damage the expensively restored newel posts of the gorgeous staircase in the process. That would be a damn shame.
Nonetheless, Oliver tightened his fists. So did Fay. For a moment, they stood tense, frozen, the smile on Fay’s face becoming slightly wider and more ominous, although the scariest thing about it was how attractive Oliver found it.
The old floor creaked. The sounds of greetings came from downstairs. A small group of people was likely bounding up the porch steps, eager to ooh and aah over Harlem real estate.
Clompy Brent flicked his eyes down toward where the sound emerged and he grunted. Evidently deciding that historic preservation was the better part of valor, he gave Fay a curt nod and went ponderously down the stairs.
Oliver sagged in relief—and a little disappointment. When the crowd passed beneath them through the front hall, he turned to Fay and she turned to him and they said, simultaneously, “Are you okay?”
A pause.
Fay started again. “He was so persistent. Sorry to involve you.”
Then, as if realizing they were still standing close, Fay slipped her arm out from his and they stepped away from each other.
“Don’t apologize. It’s messed up that you felt like you needed a cover.”
Fay shook her head as if to clear it. “That was tense, wasn’t it? He started pestering me one house back on the tour. I said I wasn’t interested, and he didn’t listen. When we got to this house, I told him I had a boyfriend and then I started trying to edge back downstairs to find the greeter when you arrived. But really it was nothing. It was fine.”
Oliver was quiet for a bit, trying to process what she’d said. She was slightly embarrassed judging from her abrupt manner—not that she had anything to be ashamed of at all. But the other thing that stood out was that she’d made up a fake boyfriend instead of referring to her husband. Which meant... He glanced at her hand. No ring. Maybe she wasn’t married anymore. So not the point here. But why did he suddenly feel so—not happy, not relieved, but...alert? Interested.
He hadn’t felt interested in anything for a long time.
She added grudgingly, “I’m really glad I ran into you.”
“An architect friend had a ticket that he couldn’t use. I wasn’t about to pass up a chance to scope out people’s houses.”
She laughed at that—maybe a little too hard. So he asked gently, “Would you like a cup of coffee or some water, or something? Or if you don’t mind, would you show me around? It’s the first time I’ve ever been on the Mount Morris Park house tour.”
“Are you kidding me? The restorations are gorgeous, but the tour also really highlights this area’s community-led revitalization. Have you seen all the businesses that have opened up on Malcolm X Boulevard lately? Plus, what New Yorker doesn’t love ogling real estate?”
The fact that she relaxed instantly told him he’d done the right thing in giving her a project: namely, him. But of course, he couldn’t quite feel at ease around her because her firm had his CV. If he didn’t want to live with his brother forever he was going to have to get that job. She still hadn’t said anything about it—in fact, she seemed oblivious—but Fay could potentially be his next boss. His sexy, non-ring-wearing-and-therefore-possibly-available boss. It was the worst kind of in-between space to be in with her: not closely acquainted enough to be friends, not quite coworkers, not quite flirting.
Instead of thinking about jobs or how he’d always liked her, he concentrated very hard on the leaded glass skylight that she was pointing out and tried to ignore the tingle that crept up his spine when her insistent hands pushed him toward the next set of stairs in order to show him the pitted, stained brick of an old fireplace that hadn’t yet been restored. They chatted with the greeter, Ms. Gloria Hernández, who was oblivious to the drama that had taken place upstairs.