LATE THURSDAY AFTERNOON, Xander sent me a text asking if I’d come help him paint at the bar. Before I answered him, I messaged Veronica.
Hey. My brother is asking for help again at the bar after work. Should I tell him to piss off?
No! Why would you do that?
Because I’d rather be with you.
Aww. How about I come up and help? I could bring snacks.
You don’t have to.
I don’t mind! What are you working on?
Painting.
Perfect! I’ve got lots of experience painting NYC apartments. Got any old shirts lying around I could wear?
Bottom left side dresser drawer. Take anything you want.
Okay. See you soon!
Given the haphazard way Veronica slapped color on the walls, I wasn’t sure how true her statement about experience was, but she looked adorable in one of my old shirts and ball caps, her blond ponytail sticking out the back. We had music on, and she was definitely doing more dancing than painting, but just having her there put me in a good mood.
At one point, we ran out of tape, and she volunteered to run to the hardware store to pick some up.
“How are the kids doing?” Xander asked when we were alone.
“Good,” I said, rolling on the navy blue paint. “We FaceTimed yesterday. They’re having a ball.”
“Back Sunday?”
“Yep.” I was torn every time I thought about their return. I missed them like crazy and couldn’t wait to have them home again, but I would miss being able to spend time with Veronica too, and we only had three nights left. “Hey, can I borrow your SUV Saturday night?”
“Sure. What for?”
“I’m taking Veronica to dinner at The Pier Inn. I thought it might be nice not to drive the truck.”
“Ooooh. A date.”
I frowned. “It’s not a date.”
“Oh, sorry, I must have misheard. I thought you said you were taking Veronica to dinner at The Pier Inn—because that’s a date.”
I ignored his attempt to pick a fight. “I’ll return it on Sunday.”
“No rush,” he said. “So I take it things are good with you guys?”
Things were better than good. I was having more fun with Veronica than I’d ever had with anyone. “Yeah.”
“Definitely seems cozy between you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you guys just seem really comfortable together. This is the most I’ve heard you laugh in years.”
I put the roller in the paint tray and worked it back and forth.
“And you’re definitely more relaxed, but I’m going to assume it’s not because you’re getting more sleep.”
“Safe assumption.”
“You give her that hickey on her neck?”
“Fuck off.”
He burst out laughing. “Don’t let Dad see it. I think he might be in love with her.”
I cracked a smile. “I know.”
“He said her fiancé must have been a complete idiot to let her go.”
“He was.”
“Still planning on ending it when the kids get back?”
I kept my mouth shut.
My brother shook his head as he rolled paint onto the wall. “I’m not even gonna say it.”
We ended up staying at the bar later than I wanted to, and by the time we got home, we were starving.
“I’ll just make us something really quick,” I said to Veronica.
“I’ve got it,” she told me. “Why don’t you go take your shower and when you come down it will be ready?”
“Sounds good.” Even though I was dirty from work and probably smelled like sweat and primer, I couldn’t resist wrapping my arms around her. “Thanks for everything you’re doing this week. It’s above and beyond what I deserve.”
“Not true.” She locked her arms around my waist and looked up at me. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be singing for my supper on some street corner, and let me tell you, no one wants that.”
I dropped a kiss on her lips. “I wish there was more I could do for you.”
“I can’t imagine what that would be,” she said. “You’ve given me a job, a place to live, a little taste of family life. I feel like I’ve been adopted at age twenty-nine! I’ve got a dad, a brother, a sister . . .”
“You should just change your name to Buckley,” I teased.
“Veronica Buckley.” She laughed. “It has a nice ring to it!”
“Veronica Buckley.” As I said the name, I realized that’s what her name would be if we were married. “Wait a minute. Did I just accidentally propose?”
She tilted her head. “You know what? I think you did. But since I am not currently interested in matrimony, I will have to respectfully decline. I mean, why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?”
Laughing, I let go of her and headed for the stairs, the name Veronica Buckley still lingering in my head.
It was official. I was losing my mind.
“I made my specialty,” she said, setting two plates on the table. “Fried bologna sandwiches.”
I half-groaned, half-laughed. “You didn’t.”
“I did.” She brought in two cold beers, then sat down across from me and picked up her sandwich. “I haven’t had one of these in ages. And this is much better than the ones I used to make as a kid. This is artisanal bologna, the butcher told me, premium meat from Yale, Michigan with a cult following. This bologna has its own festival!”
“Oh yeah?” I picked up my sandwich and took a bite.
“Yes. And I got fresh buns from the bakery, and that’s lettuce and tomato and homemade mustard from the farmers’ market. Nothing but the best for you.” She took a bite too, chewing with exaggerated relish.
I was amazed by how good it actually tasted. “Fuck. It’s delicious.”
“Told ya.” She took another bite. “Did you talk to the kids today?”
“Yeah, I called them earlier. They said to tell you hello.” I grinned. “Apparently, they snuck their new tap shoes into their suitcases. They’ve been showing off their dancing.”
Her face lit up. “I love that. So there’s no dance studio around here anymore? Someone told me there used to be one. I think the kids would enjoy a real tap class in a studio.”
“But they wouldn’t have you for a teacher.”
“That’s true.”
“Have you ever thought about owning your own studio?”
“Here and there. I do like teaching. But I’m actually waiting to hear back about a job this fall.”
“Are you?” Tension crept into my neck and shoulders. “With the Rockettes?”
“No. As an assistant to the lead choreographer for a show that’s opening on Broadway.”
“So you wouldn’t be performing?”
“Well, no, but it would be a fantastic opportunity. It would see me through the next six months until I can re-audition for the Rockettes. Those auditions aren’t until March, and if I don’t have to bartend or waitress in the meantime, I’d be thankful.”
While she talked, I finished my sandwich without really tasting it.
“I don’t have a lot of details yet, but my friend Morgan passed my new number along to the choreographer. He’s actually someone I used to know pretty well, so I think I’d have a good chance of getting the job.”
“Did you date him?” The words were out before I could stop myself, but I hated how they made me sound. Even worse? I hated the idea that she’d been intimate with someone else. Anyone else.
She looked surprised. “No. He’s a teacher, and I took his class a lot. He’s gay, actually.”
“Oh.” I exhaled, shaking my head. “Sorry. That question was out of line.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s not my business who you date.” I got up and took my empty plate to the sink, but instead of putting it in the dishwasher, I left it there and stared out the kitchen window into the dark, my hands on the edge of the counter.
This was fucking stupid. I had no right to be angry that she would leave here and go on with her life—her bright, exciting life in the big city with its stages and applause and guys in fancy suits that lived in penthouse apartments. If she wanted that, that’s what she should have.
Veronica joined me in the kitchen a moment later. She placed her dish on the counter and leaned back against it. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Did you know that when you get jealous, two little lines appear between your eyes?”
“I’m not jealous.” Damn those lines. I tried to relax my face.
“Yes, you are.” She bumped her hip against mine. “But I like it.”
I looked over at her. She was so fucking cute in my shirt and hat. “You gonna give my clothes back when you go to New York?”
She tugged the bill of the cap down. “Nope. You want your stuff back, you’ll have to fight me for it.”
“Deal.” I grabbed her and tossed her over my shoulder, heading for the stairs. She kicked and squealed and squirmed, batting my ass with her hands and calling me a brute.
Up in my bedroom, I tossed her onto the mattress before snatching the hat off her head and tossing it aside. “You just gonna let me win?”
Giggling, she rolled over and tried to scramble off the bed, but I had her pinned to the mattress in three seconds flat, my body sprawled over hers. “Let me up,” she begged. “This was not a fair fight. I needed a head start.”
“I never said I fought fair.” I pushed her hair aside from her neck and tugged down the back of the shirt she wore, sealing my mouth to her skin.
Was it unfair of me to leave another mark that could be seen so easily? Probably.
But I didn’t care.
And she didn’t stop me.
