Made in Manhattan

“I think I’d come here even if I lived here,” Violet said firmly. Then she narrowed her eyes at his expression. “What. What was that look?”

He smiled slightly. “Nothing. I just believe you would come here.”

“Why do you sound so surprised? These beignets are the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Not surprised that you love beignets. Surprised that you’re so decisive.” He hesitated slightly, then looked up again. “You’ve changed, Duchess.”

“Have I?” she asked lightly. “How?”

He leaned forward, capturing her eyes with his. “The woman I first met was a blank slate that anyone could write on to suit their own agenda. The woman sitting across from me now… she knows what she wants.”

“I do know what I want.” She licked powdered sugar off her thumb and held his gaze boldly. “I’m even prepared to go for it.”

His gaze tracked the motion of her thumb. Lingered on her mouth. “Knowing what you want for breakfast—or dessert—that’s the easy part. I’m talking life stuff, Duchess. Big stuff.”

“I know what you’re talking about, Cain. And like I said. I know what I want.”

He sat back, his expression more careful now. “And what is that?”

Violet took her time responding, glancing around at the couples feeding each other bits of beignet. The fussy kids up way past their bedtime. The middle-aged woman sitting alone and looking perfectly content to be so. The old men sipping coffee and laughing at what she liked to think was a bawdy joke.

“I was never one of those kids who boldly proclaimed they wanted to be a doctor or lawyer or the president,” she said, because it felt like a logical place to start explaining.

“Christ,” Cain said with a startled laugh. “What the hell sort of kids did you hang out with? My dreams started and ended with working at IHOP so I could have pancakes whenever I wanted.”

“At least that’s something. I mean, at least you knew you liked pancakes. I didn’t even have that! I always just sort of thought I’d figure out who I was, but I never really did.”

“Not even in college? Isn’t that when you rich kids are supposed to figure that shit out?”

“I majored in sociology.”

He shook his head, indicating the word meant nothing to him, and she explained. “The study of human behavior, society, culture. I loved it, I still find it fascinating, but in terms of turning into a passion, a vocation, a career…”

She lifted her shoulders and let them drop.

“So, how’d you go from that to working for Edith?”

“Because she needed me,” Violet said automatically, then just as quickly, corrected herself. “No, that’s not quite right. I tell myself that, but I think I needed her more than she needed me. She knew that. Gave me a purpose.”

“She’s needed you,” Cain said. “Maybe not as her assistant or whatever the hell you’ve been doing for her. But she needs you like you need her.”

“Because neither of us have family.”

“Because you are family,” he said firmly.

Violet felt her eyes water a little, not realizing how much she’d needed someone to tell her that.

“Plus,” Violet said lightly, looking up once she’d gotten her emotions under control, “who knows if she has some other secret, surly grandsons to be whipped into shape?”

“Impossible,” Cain said confidently. “I’m one of a kind.” He picked up another beignet, studying it with a slight frown before taking a bite. “So you’d do it over again?”

“Do what?”

“Go along with Edith’s request to, how did you phrase it? Whip me into shape?”

Violet didn’t hesitate. “No. I wouldn’t.”

He looked up. “Been that bad, has it?”

“No.” Violet’s voice was soft. “And even hypothetically, I hate the thought of saying no to Edith when she needs something from me. She’s wanted so badly for the company to stay in the family, and I want that for her, because I love her. But she shouldn’t have asked you to change. And I shouldn’t have agreed to help.”

His gaze dropped again, though he didn’t acknowledge her statement as he took a bite of the beignet and chewed thoughtfully.

“Okay, so you don’t want to be a lawyer or the president, and don’t have any use for your college degree. You’ve got another vision for your life?”

“I want a family,” Violet said with so much confidence in her tone that he paused chewing for a second. “I want a husband who adores me. I want kids. Three, maybe more. I want to take them to Central Park, push strollers while walking a big golden retriever that worships a very skeptical Coco. When the kids are older, I want to go on picnics where everyone fights over the last chocolate chip cookie, so we split it. I want my daughter to pester Edith about tips on taking over the business, I want my son to love piano… For that matter, I want to learn how to play the piano, but I’m probably too old,” she said jokingly.