Made in Manhattan

He looked back at the stage then, rubbing a thumb along his glass as he watched an employee hand a water bottle to the bassist.

When he finally did speak, he never looked away from the stage. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Violet said softly. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

And strangely… she was.

Sitting here listening to jazz with Cain Stone? She was somehow better than okay.

Fifteen

The next night, Violet adjusted her grip on the enormous binder and knocked on the front door of Cain’s new apartment. She didn’t have a key to the new place, and he certainly hadn’t offered one, so all she could do was hold her breath and pray he didn’t have female company.

When he finally opened the door, there was a flash of something besides surprise in his eyes, but she didn’t know what it was and told herself she didn’t care.

“Duchess?”

She held out the enormous white binder. “From your grandmother. Handwritten notes on everyone who will be voting on whether or not you’re the next CEO, and suggestions on how to win them over.”

He pressed his palm over the thick binder to hold it against his chest and glanced down at it. “Hasn’t she heard of email? The cloud?”

“You try telling her that,” Violet said, smiling, then did a double take when she glanced behind him. He had female company all right, but not the kind she’d been fearing.

Violet pointed. “Is that my dog?”

Coco looked tiny and immensely happy on the center cushion of the sofa. Her little tail wagged furiously, but instead of jumping up to greet her mom, she rested her snout between tiny paws, looking up with beseeching eyes, as though to say don’t be mad.

“Toto and I have been bonding,” he said, moving aside in silent invitation.

Violet stepped inside, and Coco hopped off the couch and raced over in greeting.

“I distinctly remember dropping you off at your grandma Edith’s house this afternoon when I picked up the binder,” Violet told the dog, scooping her up and mock-glaring into her sweet little face.

“Edith had a last-minute invitation to some fussy art exhibit she couldn’t resist, and Alvin… well, now I forget,” Cain said. “Something to do with a rash and milk baths. I didn’t ask for more details than that.”

“So he called you?” Violet asked.

“Nope, I just happened to be there at the time, dropping something off. Your dog’s a flirt and wouldn’t leave me alone, so… here we are.”

Violet kissed Coco’s head, then set her down so she could dart back to the couch and claim her spot. “I could have sworn I put her in a little plaid sweater. What happened to it?”

“Hmm. Must have gotten lost.”

“Uh-huh.” Violet crossed her arms. “Wait. If you were over at Edith’s house, why did she beg me to bring this binder over to you? She said it was urgent.”

He tossed the binder onto the counter. “Come on, Duchess. You know this one. Because she’s a meddling old busybody trying to push us together. Drink?”

Huh. Apparently Violet wasn’t the only one who’d been on the receiving end of Edith’s unsubtle matchmaking. She itched to ask him what Edith may have said, but instead she didn’t want to risk upsetting the unusual truce between them. “Please. Wine, if you’ve got it.”

“Prepare to be impressed. I have wine and wineglasses.”

“You bought wineglasses?” she asked skeptically.

“Well, my trough was too big to ship to New York. And no. Adam had about two thousand fancy glasses. Brought a few with me, sold the rest.”

“And the furniture?” she asked, accepting the glass and gesturing around at the furnished home. “You move fast.”

“Kim hooked me up with some company that takes care of everything. You pick a package, and they bring you a couch, bed, lamps, that ugly brown rug.”

“It’s marigold. I sort of like it.”

Cain shrugged, then hoisted himself onto the counter, sipping his beer as he studied her.

“Did they not have barstools in your package deal?” Violet asked.

“They were out of stock, getting delivered next week.” Then he surprised her, by patting the counter beside him in invitation. And maybe in a bit of challenge.

Violet Townsend did not sit on counters, and Cain knew it.

She couldn’t even fathom her grandmother’s expression at the thought, or Edith’s. Or Keith’s. Or even Ashley’s.

She handed Cain her glass of wine, and before she could rethink it, planted both palms on the counter and hauled herself up beside him, settling beside him and letting her legs dangle above the floor, her butt on cold marble. It felt both improper, and exactly right.

Cain handed her the wineglass back. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said.

“Is it going to be rude?”

“You’ll probably think so. You think everything is rude. But on a scale of one to ten, how comfortable are those shoes?” Cain asked, nodding down at her Jimmy Choos.