Crouching over the tub, I slip my fingers up the faucet opening and sure enough drag my fingertips across a loose part.
“Got a flashlight?” I ask.
Love turns to leave, returning a few seconds later with a black flashlight, handing it over.
Less than two minutes later, she’s back in business.
“Wow … thank you so much,” she says, leaning down to grab a soaked towel. “I still don’t know how you just knew what to do.”
Growing up, my father always taught me never to depend on anyone for anything, which was fitting because I couldn’t depend on him for shit.
Also didn’t hurt that I was a mechanic in the Army. I’ve never met a valve, part, engine, or apparatus I’ve never been able to take apart and rebuild.
“What do you do anyway?” she asks. “Like for work? You were dressed so nicely the other night. Wall Street?”
“Nope.”
“Banker?”
“Nope,” I say.
“What?”
“Strategic consultant.” I hope to God I can sell this.
Her brows lift and she nods like she knows what that is. “How’d you get into that?”
“Business major,” I lie. I’m so going to hell. “And just … made the right connections and got the right experience over the years. Wanted to be my own boss. That kind of thing.”
“Huh.” She studies me, though there’s no denying there’s an underlying hint that she finds my handy-yet-Upper Eastside persona attractive. I doubt there are many of us.
“What about you? What do you do?” I pivot the conversation.
She snarls her lip for a second then exhales. “Honestly? Nothing.”
Love shakes her head, like she’s disappointed in herself.
“But I’m meeting with my attorney, going to start up some charitable organizations,” she says. “I’ve recently … come into some money … and I plan on giving 95% of it away.”
“Only 95%?” I tease.
She laughs a sweet, delicate laugh. “A girl’s got to eat.”
For a moment, I find myself enjoying this conversation, wet socks and all. There’s something unexpectedly down-to-earth about Love, and she’s easier to talk to than I anticipated given the fact that we have nothing in common but our current addresses.
“Where are you from?” she asks, slightly squinting.
“I didn’t realize you were interviewing me.”
She swats my hand. “I’m just asking because you’re obviously not from here. You’re way too nice.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not bad at all. Just … different. Unexpected,” she says. “Yeah. Unexpected. So where are you from?”
Dragging in a long breath, I rub the back of my neck before letting it go. “Everywhere. I’m from everywhere.”
Love’s nose wrinkles, like she’s disappointed in my answer. “Can you be more specific?”
“Moved around a lot. I was a military brat,” I say. It’s partially true. The year I turned thirteen my father got a dishonorable discharge for beating the ever-loving shit out of my drug-addicted mother and leaving her for dead. After that, he went to prison and we went to live with my aunt in Tulsa before moving in with our grandma in Queens.
“Bet that was interesting.”
“Something like that.”
Love lifts a brow, giving me a side eye. “I feel like there’s more to you than meets the eye. Like you’re holding back or something.”
“I feel like I came in here to fix your bathtub and now I’m being psychoanalyzed.”
She laughs, reaching for a strand of pale hair and tucking it behind her left ear. “Sorry.”
I slide my hands in my pockets. “Now it’s my turn to ask questions.”
Head tilting, she shrugs. “Okay.”
“What are you doing Friday night?”
Silence.
Dead silence.
Her honey-hazel eyes flick to the wet floor as her lips part and then seal shut again.
“This is about what Tierney said earlier…” she says, finally glancing up at me as her voice trails off. “Seriously, you don’t have to do this.”
“This has nothing to do with what your friend said.” I pull my shoulders back and flash a confident smirk, laser focused on my target. “I want to take you out.”
I swear she blushes for a moment, but it vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. There’s a bit of modesty under that poised façade.
“Seven o’clock?” I ask.
“Jude.” The way she says my name tells me the answer to my question. “I’m so sorry. You seem like a really nice guy, but I’m not dating right now.”
Shot down.
I offer a gracious smile and make my way across her bathroom with sopping wet socks. Talk about kicking a man when he’s down.
Not that this date would’ve been real, but I didn’t think being turned down would bruise my ego this much.
Love walks me to the door, keeping a few paces behind, and I show myself out to the hallway.
“I’ve just gone through a divorce and I’m sort of putting the pieces of my life back together. Dating isn’t really on my radar right now,” she says again, lifting her pink nails to her pink mouth. Everything about her is velvet and delicate and I wonder how the hell she survives in a city that eats nails for breakfast. “Truly, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say. “I get it.”
She smiles, resting her cheek against the open door. “Thank you.”
“For what?” I ask.
“For being such a gentleman,” she says, her voice pillow soft. “You’re a class act, Jude Warner.”
If she only knew.
Chapter Five
Love
Growing up, I never aspired to be a kept woman. I never wanted to live in a high-rise luxury apartment in one of the most expensive cities in the world. I never wanted to be that woman who kept herself busy between nine AM and five PM and then pounced on her husband the second he came home from work like some sex-starved centerfold.
I wanted a simple life.
A loving marriage. A happy home. A fulfilling career. A baby or two when the time was right.
“Sign here, Love,” Richard Wexler, my attorney, slides a stack of papers across his desk and points to the little sticky neon arrow at the bottom. “And on the next page.”
He’s helping me set up my first charity, Agenda W, which is aimed at helping women get back on their feet after life-changing events. We’ll provide job training, scholarships, resources … all the tools they might need to ensure they can make it on their own without the help of a man.
My real estate agent is going to help me find a space for it in Brooklyn where we can get more space for less money, and I’m going to spend the next six months or so getting it up and running.
This … this is step one.
Richard slides another stack of paperwork toward me. “This is establishing that you’re a not-for-profit organization.”
I sign my name at the bottom of the page.