Made in Manhattan

She turned to him, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask where the rest of his clothes were, why he hadn’t packed more, but the guarded look on his face stopped her.

“Apparently you weren’t planning on staying in New York long,” Violet said, gesturing toward the meager clothing options.

Cain shrugged and bent down to gently rub Coco’s head with a knuckle. Violet ordered her heart not to melt. Or to think about the fact that Keith barely tolerated her dog’s existence, much less pet the little Yorkie.

“I didn’t think I’d be here more than a day or two,” Cain said. “Certainly wasn’t planning on the old lady trying to get me to stick around until Valentine’s Day.”

Valentine’s Day. Even before Cain had shown up, Edith had planned to announce her board-approved successor at the famed Rhodes Heart Ball.

Violet had always looked forward to the black-tie affair, but this year, it felt more like a ticking time bomb.

She picked up the sweater and studied it. It was soft. Not cashmere soft, but well-worn soft. “Why’d you come? To New York, I mean? You’re clearly miserable about it.”

Another shrug. “Curious. Enough to meet the old lady. Didn’t plan on the whole family-legacy thing with her business.”

“Or the incredible wealth that comes with it,” Violet pointed out.

“Or that,” he acknowledged, not the least bit embarrassed by the admission.

“It’ll hurt her when you leave, you know,” Violet blurted out. She hadn’t meant to say it, but she cared too much about Edith not to worry.

He held her gaze a moment longer, then turned away, tossing a curt, “I’m hungry,” over his shoulder.

Violet looked once more at the sweater, running a thumb over the threadbare fabric, then took it with her as she followed him down the stairs.

“Wear this,” she said, pushing the sweater at his chest, then bending to scoop up Coco.

When she straightened, he was holding the sweater, but had made no move to put it on.

“What?” she snapped impatiently, unable to read his expression.

He shook his head and shoved his arms into the sleeves of the sweater, pulling it over his head. “Someday, Duchess, you’re not going to get everything you want. I’d say I hope I’m around to see it, but with any luck, I’ll be long gone.”

He headed toward the front door, and Violet caught herself noting the way the sweater emphasized his broad shoulders, his jeans low on lean hips.

Violet had the sudden urge to tell him he was wrong.

She didn’t always get what she wanted.

She didn’t even know what that was.

Six

Violet hesitated in the doorway of the diner, her eyes scanning the window for the health-card rating that was in every New York restaurant. An A meant the place had achieved above a C rating…

Cain put a hand to her back, shoving her in the door before she could verify that the place wasn’t crawling with rats.

A fifty-something waitress in a bright blue uniform paused, coffeepot in hand. “Two?”

She grabbed two menus from the hostess stand and headed toward a row of booths before waiting for confirmation.

Cain nudged Violet again, and she reluctantly followed, uncomfortably aware that she didn’t look like she belonged. Most of the patrons were wearing jeans. A group of college-age kids were wearing pajamas. A couple of construction workers had their protective helmets on the table beside their ceramic coffee mugs.

Violet, in her heeled boots, Max Mara dress, and pearls, did not belong.

The waitress dropped the menus onto a table in a booth near the window, and Violet gingerly lowered onto the cracked vinyl seat.

“Coffee?” the waitress asked, flipping over the mugs.

“Yes, please,” Violet said needlessly, not because she needed more coffee, but because the woman was already pouring.

“Know what you want or you need a bit?” the waitress asked.

Violet blinked. She hadn’t even so much as touched the menu, which she sincerely hoped wasn’t sticky, and—

“Give us a few,” Cain said, smiling at the woman with a foreign friendliness that made him almost unrecognizable. Violet stared at him.

She did not like that grin.

It made him look… appealing.

The waitress smiled back at Cain, warm and a little flirty. “You got it, love.”

The server resumed her coffee-filling rounds, and Violet tentatively used a fingernail to drag one of the menus to her. She caught Cain smirking and narrowed her eyes. “What?”

He leaned forward. “Admit it. Your snobbery is dying to point out everything wrong with this place.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” she said quickly. “It’s just… different.”

“Then why’d you agree? Why not push for your fancy café?”

“Because you vetoed my place without stepping foot inside,” she reminded him.

He studied her for a longer-than-comfortable moment. “And that’s your thing? Agreeing to whatever someone else wants, no question?”

His tone was neither incredulous nor unkind, but the question scraped at something uncomfortable at the very back of her mind, so she lifted her menu and studied it.