One Hot Fake

Her little face falls.

“Hey, it’s okay, we’ll have a good time together while I’m visiting. How’s that?”

She nods, her smile restored. She takes my hand and doesn’t let go for the hour that I’m there. I’m furious at Leonard for putting me in a spot. How could he raise Samantha’s hopes like that, knowing that we couldn’t turn back the clock?

We don’t get a chance to talk as Samantha is there constantly, as is Fiona. When I leave, Samantha makes me promise to come by the following day.

It’s four when I visit the florist shop on Main Street. I’m drawn by their beautiful arrangements in vases dotted around the shop. I look at framed pictures on the walls of their work at wedding venues.

“Hi, I’m Betty, how can I help you?” a smiling ageless woman says to me.

I like her instantly. I get into it right away, and she leads to a back office where we can talk uninterrupted. Having interviewed vendors more times than I can count, I rattle off questions and weigh the answers. I do it automatically as I’m distracted. My mind keeps going back to Samantha. I feel drawn to her as if she can fill the gaping hole in my chest. I’m happy with Betty and her ideas for the floral designs.

My phone rings just as I enter my car. I grab it and glance at the screen. Brooke.

Chapter 32

Declan

Ace, a few of the guys, and I are having lunch at the First Bar when my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a text message from Stewart, the manager at the pizza shop in Santa Monica.

Something’s come up. Can you come down this afternoon?

Be there in an hour, I text back.

I slip my phone back into my pocket as I try to figure out what the problem could be. There’s very little that Stewart cannot handle.

“Is Marian okay?” Ace says, leaning to whisper into my ear so that the other guys don’t hear.

“Marian’s fine,” I tell him. “She’s driving down from Arlen today.” I hope whatever it is will be fast, so that I can come back to LA in time for Marian’s arrival back home. “That was Stewart. He needs me to go to Santa Monica.”

“Is it serious?” Ace asks.

I shake my head. “If it were serious, he’d have called, not sent a text.”

Ace grins. “Good reasoning.”

In five minutes, I’m on my way to Santa Monica. I’m wound up with tension, and I inhale air into my lungs to dispel some of it. I’m worried about the shop. This is not the right time for a crisis when we’re kicking up the final preparations until the opening of the LA shop.

Then there’s Marian. We spoke once this morning, but she sounded distracted and distant. Unlike herself. I can’t wait for her to come back, and I can see for myself that she’s fine.

I reach Santa Monica in half an hour and park at my usual spot behind the shop. I ignore the staff entrance at the back and go round to the street entrance. Everything looks normal.

I push the doors open, and I’m immediately reassured by the normal buzz of activity. I wave at the waiters and waitresses rushing about, carrying orders and clearing tables.

To reassure myself further, I go to the kitchen and peer in. The usual organized chaos. Bins of meats and vegetables line the assembly table. The scent of cooking pizza emanates from the ovens. Even now, the scent of melting cheese and crusty pie makes my stomach rumble.

With a wave at the kitchen staff, I make my way to the back offices and straight to Stewart’s office. I knock lightly and push the door open. We exchange greetings, and I plop down on the extra chair.

“What’s up?” I ask him.

He turns his computer screen around to face me, walks around the desk, and comes to sit next to me. I peer at the screen. The website on the screen belongs to a third-party delivery service.

Stewart moves the cursor lower on the page to the food joints they deliver from. My heart stops when I see Did you say Pizza? listed on the page.

“We don’t deliver,” I say to Stewart.

He nods grimly. “I tested it before calling you.” He stands and reaches for a brown nondescript bag on a side table. He hands it to me.

I pull out a pizza box. Ours. With all our colors. Definitely ours.

“Open it,” Stewart says.

Inside is one of our specialty pizzas. The most expensive one that we sell for twenty-six dollars.

“They bought it here all right, but guess how much it’s listed for?” Stewart says. “Twenty dollars.”

“So they are operating at a loss?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around it. “What sort of business model is that?”

“An unsustainable one, but it’s probably to make a name for themselves before upping their prices,” Stewart says.