That's (Not Exactly) Amore (6 page)

“Hey!” My friend and project-mate, Jazz Bates, shivers her way up to me. “Why are you standing in front of the door?”

I shrug. “Just waiting for you.”

She grins and throws a couple of fake punches into the air just like she’s Rocky Balboa. “Gearing up for a fight?”

“Oh, brother. I hope not.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Jazz says, more because she’s only twenty-three, I think, than because she has any idea what’s going to happen beyond that door with the jingle bell over the top.

I gather a breath for courage and reach for the handle, but it opens and I have to catch myself before I pitch forward onto my face.

Joe is standing there looking like someone out of
The Godfather,
his dark eyebrows scrunched together. I guess he didn’t notice that I almost splatted onto the black and white tiles. “Are you going to stand out there all day?”

Sheesh, the longer he runs Nick’s, the more he acts just like the guy. On a portly, older man, it sort of works. Gives him that gruff but cuddly persona. With Joe it’s just intimidating and I don’t care for this side of him at all. What happened to the guy who used to pull me into a big hug every time he saw me?

Jerking my chin to gather as much dignity as possible, I push past him and step inside the yummy-coffee-smelling shop. “I was waiting for Jazz,” I say without apology.

“Music?” He gives me a puzzled frown. “You know we play jazz inside.”

“Not jazz music. Jazz Bates, my friend from the design group.”

Jazz lifts a finger. “That would be me.”

His face colors, and he clearly recognizes her now.

“Remember?” I say. “We’re supposed to talk about new ideas for the redesign?”

“Oh, yeah.” He rakes his fingers through a head of thick dark hair. “Well, let’s close the door. No sense heating up the whole outside.”

The dining area is predictably full, and two employees are hopping to keep on top of everything. “Where should we sit, Joe?” I ask, slipping my politically incorrect sheepskin coat from my shoulders.

He jerks his thumb behind the counter. “Come to my office. I got an architect in there we can talk to.”

My chest tightens. I stare at him, my depression slipping lower down the emotional black hole I like to call the Valentine’s Day blues.

“What do you mean? You have an architect in there already?”

I see his defenses rise. His eyes narrow and his chest pushes out a little. Usually, that would be my sign to back down, but not this time. He’s jumping the gun. “I thought we were going to decide on an architect after you okayed a design plan. And unless I misunderstood, we were supposed to choose together.”

“Whose place is this? Yours or mine?”

So he wants to play hardball, huh? Tough guy. “Neither! It’s Nick’s place, and he trusted me to oversee this project. What right do you have to undermine me?”

He gives me a silent glare, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s about to order me out of “his” shop, or if he’s just trying to think of a comeback. Surely his thought processes aren’t that slow.

A steadying breath seems to put things in perspective for him. The hostility leaves his face. “The architect is a friend of the family. I think Uncle Nick would approve. She’s good. We’ll have the meeting and see if the two of you can work together.”

“And if we can’t?” And did he say “she”?

“Try.” His gaze is almost pleading. “Nancy just moved here from Chicago. She could use the job.”

The office door opens, and I understand now why he wants her working for him. Nancy, the so-called “friend of the family,” is a knockout. Black hair that falls in soft waves over her shoulders, dark eyes (like Joe), olive skin that makes her breathtakingly beautiful. Not to mention her figure. Let’s just say she could be a Victoria’s Secret model.

My heart sinks at the way she’s looking at Joe when he turns around. All familiar and friendly. Almost sisterish, if she weren’t so stunning.

“You coming, Joey?” she singsongs in a way that I personally feel is beneath a woman of her exotic beauty.

“Yeah.” He swallows. “This is Laini Sullivan.” He points to me. “She’s in charge of the project for the most part.”

She turns her dark gaze on me and one eyebrow goes up the tiniest fraction.

She offers a hand tipped with long bloodred nails.

Even a girl like me—a virtual wallflower compared to this woman, recognizes a challenge when she sees one. Suddenly, my name is no longer Determination. It’s Give-Up-Before-Anyone (Namely Me)-Loses-Any-Blood.

Jazz nudges me and I snap out of it. Thank goodness for Jazz. “Nice to meet you,” I lie.

“Likewise,” she replies with equal insincerity.

What is it with women like this one? Why on earth would she consider me a threat? Comparing the two of us is worse than comparing Adam Sandler to Brad Pitt. The guy’s funny, but come on . . . he’s not Brad! Honestly? There’s just no comparison. It’s worse than comparing a Mercedes with a Volks-wagen Beetle. And everyone in the room knows it.

Joe takes a seat in his leather chair. I’m glad to see he’s tackled Nick’s cluttered desk and has this office sparkling. He motions Jazz and me to the two chairs against the wall, and Nancy (who doesn’t wait for an invitation) walks around the desk, where plans are spread out in front of Joe. Apparently these two have been talking awhile. She leans over him, and my claws start to unsheathe as her hair wisps onto his neck. He reaches up absently, as if to swat away a mosquito.

“I like this.” He glances up at me and his expression softens. I must have a look of utter helplessness on my face. That look the nerdy girl gets when the cheerleader walks into the room and suddenly no one remembers the nerdy girl’s name. But I don’t need his pity.

“Do you want to come over and take a look?” he asks. “I’d like your input.”

Another nudge from Jazz rouses me from my stupor. I rise slowly to my feet, and even though I’d rather do just about anything else, I walk around the desk and take my place on Joe’s other side. I feel like Nancy and I are the angel and the devil on his shoulders.

Guess who gets to wear the halo?

I already took the class on how to read plans, so I can visualize pretty much everything on the blueprint in front of me. As much as I hate to admit it, Nancy’s ideas are solid. Stone steps and a cast-iron railing will definitely accent the Italian decor I proposed. We’ll have a stone walk leading from one building to the other underneath the awning, and ten small, round tables with cast-iron chairs will add to the old-world feel. Her plans are good. It’s like she read my mind.

When I glance up, Nancy has turned and is eyeing me. She’s holding her breath—waiting, I suppose, and feeling a bit of the uncertainty that girls like her aren’t used to feeling. I smile at her, then at Joe. “It’s perfect. I don’t think there’s any reason to look for another architect.”

Nancy’s face softens with relief. My skepticism about her fades a little—just a little—as a broad smile stretches across unbelievably flawless skin.

“Great!” Joe says, slapping the plans on the desk in front of him as though giving them a high five. “What next?’”

“Permits,” Nancy and I say at the same time and smile at each other.

Joe looks from one of us to the other. “All right, then. Let’s get some permits.”

Five minutes later, we step out of the office, finally armed with a plan. Nancy carries a long cylindrical case that holds the future look of Nick’s Coffee Shop.

The place is packed out. Joe gives us a hasty good-bye and jumps in to help. Nancy extends her hand to me and smiles. “Well, I guess I’ll get out of here. I’m supposed to go look at an apartment in”—she looks at her watch and scowls—“shoot, thirty minutes.”

“You’re looking for an apartment?”

She nods. “Something cheap. I’m a poor architect. This is my first job in New York. God bless Joe.”

“Yeah.”

I’m aware that Jazz is staring at me, but I choose to ignore her. This Nancy friend of Joe’s seems nice enough. But when a girl has spent the last eleven years living with best friends and suddenly finds herself all alone, she doesn’t just jump at the first candidate that comes along. I mean, sure, I’m looking for a roommate, but I’m not desperate.

“Well,” I say cheerily, giving Jazz no chance to stick her nose into something that’s none of her business, “good luck with that apartment. It’s murder trying to find anything in the city.”

She grabs a black leather coat from the coatrack and shrugs it on, pulling her long, shiny hair out of the collar. “You’re not kiddin’. See you around.”

She spins on the heels of department-store boots.

“I can’t believe you didn’t offer. Are you nuts?”

“Am
I
nuts?” I scowl at Jazz and slip my coat from the rack. “She could be a serial killer for all I know.”

“Sure, a serial-killer Italian architect who just happens to be a childhood friend of your friend.”

“Joe isn’t exactly a friend. As a matter of fact, I barely know him.”

She rolls her eyes.

“What about you, Jazz? You looking for a place?”

“Nope, so don’t even think about using me as an excuse for bad manners. You know she’s probably going to look at some rat-infested dump while you’re sitting over there all alone in a two-bedroom rent-controlled apartment just around the corner.”

So my good luck somehow makes Joe’s “friend” my responsibility? I don’t ask it out loud, but inwardly I’m seething. Why do I always have to be the one to do the right thing?

I huff. Well, darn, that just sealed my fate, didn’t it? I admit the right thing to do is to offer Nancy the empty bedroom in my apartment. And it’s true I could use help paying the bills.

“Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll talk to her about it.”

“Talk to who about what?” Joe butts in.

“What, are you eavesdropping?”

“’Ey, don’t be shouting in my place if you don’t want people to hear what you’re saying.”

Jazz grins. “She’s going to offer Nancy the other room in her apartment.”

“You got a room?” His eyebrows are up practically to his hairline.

“Yeah, both my roommates moved out recently.”

He nods, apparently connecting the dots. “Nance will probably jump at it.”

Yeah, I’m sure “Nance” will.
“She might like the place she’s looking at.”

“You want I should give her a call before she wastes her time in Brownsville? I never wanted her living over there anyway.”

“Hey, Jerry Stiller lived in Brownsville once,” I say. “Ben Stiller’s dad?”

Joe scowls. “So did Mike Tyson.”

Point taken. “Call her.”

Eight hours later, a moving truck pulls up to the curb in front of my apartment building. Don’t ask me how the driver found a spot. But Nancy must be a real go-getter because she’s standing at my door, wide smile, check in hand. “You made it—that’s great.” I try to be upbeat, but I feel like crying inside. I liked the solitude. But solitude costs more than I can afford.

A wide grin splits her face. “Hi, roomie!” She tosses a box in my arms. “Put that in my room, will you? I’m going to go down and get some more. Oh, and don’t worry about the size of the truck. One of Joe’s uncles owns a moving company. This one was free.” Her throaty laughter fills the hall. “My stuff has been rattling around in there all the way over.”

And just like that, Nancy Costa becomes my roommate.

6

I
t’s Valentine’s Day. Whoop-de-do.

I wade through Nancy’s boxes as I make my way, not happily, to the kitchen and prepare a pot of very, very strong coffee. Last night the moving guys piled all of her things wherever they could find room, put her bed together, and Nancy crashed around 3:00 a.m.

Which of course means that’s when I also crashed. Only I didn’t sleep. At all. It’s now 6:00 a.m., and I have a day to begin. Coffee at Nick’s with Tabby and Dancy at eight—where, incidentally, I have to drop off four dozen cinnamon rolls anyway. All in the shape of hearts—which I made and froze three days ago. Don’t even ask me how I pulled that off. I’ve whipped up pink icing too. They’ll look amazing, and I know Joe’s going to sell every single one of them. This should be enough to get me out from under my Eeyore cloud, but it isn’t. After all, why should I care if some dumb, love (or more likely lust)-sick guy buys a pink, heart-shaped cinnamon roll for his girl? Valentine’s Day is such a brutal day.

I pull the frozen rolls out of the freezer and set them on the counter to thaw. My agenda tomorrow will include mixing up a new batch of dough.

I started supplementing my income last fall when Nick fell in love with my baking skills and hired me to provide the coffee shop with continental breakfast items. I have to admit to feeling a bit smug about the whole thing. We started with one dozen cinnamon rolls, and now he easily sells out of four dozen by noon every day. He’d buy more if I had time to make them. But I had to cut him off.

Besides the cinnamon rolls, I also provide the shop with hot stuffed sandwiches made with fresh dough. Some roast beef and cheddar, turkey and swiss, ham and Colby Jack. I’m telling you, no matter what I send, they sell like gangbusters at lunch and dinner.

But I’ve had to put my foot down and tell them I’ll bring the rolls and sandwiches twice a week (Tuesdays and Thursdays) instead of every day like I was trying to do a couple of months ago.

After the coffee finishes brewing, I grab a huge mug and fill it with coffee, half-and-half, and two packets of Sweet’N Low. After a year on Weight Watchers when I was nine, I truly have too many guilt issues to use real sugar. I stir the mixture. It takes less time to mix powder than granules of sugar—that’s got to shave hours off my schedule. That’s one of the first questions I plan on asking God: “How much time did I save by putting sweetener instead of sugar in my coffee?”

I grab my textbook and open to the chapter I should have read by now considering tomorrow night is class and my professor always gives quizzes on Fridays. This one is about flooring. Ugh. I’d much rather be scouring cookbooks for new recipes.

I glance around and eye the cookbook on the counter. It’s a fun little Western cookbook that Dancy brought me back from Oklahoma after she went out there to help her older brother, Kale, and his new bride settle into their house. The cookbook has all kinds of Tex-Mex recipes and how to cook venison and fresh fish—stuff like that.