“Yes, sir,” Seth said.
That’s why he hired Seth for jobs outside the delivery service. Scrupulously honest. Unflappable. Tats up and down his heavily muscled arms, and visible in the deep V of his bike jersey. The only one Ryan recognized was the marine corp’s globe and anchor.
“How much cash are we talking about, sir? Just out of curiosity.”
“Twenty-five grand.” An apology for the scene at the restaurant masked as a tip for treating Daria so well.
If the amount fazed Seth, his response was hidden behind mirrored-blade sunglasses. “And the other one?”
“A single piece of cardstock that’s more valuable to me than the cash.”
Seth gave him one short nod. “I’ll have them there in half an hour. I have to pick up one more delivery for Irresistible first.”
“Hold up a second.” Ryan gave him another envelope, the same thickness as the first. “That’s for you.”
Seth pulled a pocket knife from the zippered pouch on the front of his messenger bag, slit the side of the envelope, and peered inside. “Jesus,” he said. “What’s this for?”
“It’s a tip.”
“I can’t take it, sir,” Seth said, trying to give the envelope back to him.
Ryan left his hands in his pockets. “Sure you can. You put the envelope in your bag, you walk out the door, and you get on your bike and go. Easy.”
Seth left his arm extended. “Am I doing something illegal, sir?”
Not unless his definition of illegal included wooing a woman against her will. “Not even remotely,” Ryan said. “It’s a tip. That’s all.”
“I get tips from other customers. Ten bucks. Maybe twenty. Not thousands,” he said.
There was a similar envelope in his desk for his assistant, an off-the-books severance package he’d hand her when their world came crashing down. Before that happened, Ryan was going to take care of the people who worked for him. “I’m paying for discretion,” Ryan said finally.
Seth’s jaw tightened. “Just so you know, sir, if I find out I am doing anything illegal, I’ll be the first person to go to the cops.”
“Fair enough,” Ryan said.
Clearly reluctant, Seth zipped both envelopes into the interior pocket of his messenger bag, then shifted the bag from his chest to his back. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
***
Simone looked up when Lorrie buzzed the bike messenger into the showroom. He handed her several envelopes, then had her scribble an electronic signature to confirm delivery. She opened the thick one, her name scrawled on the envelope in handwriting she recognized as Ryan’s, and blew out her breath at the amount of money inside. “Il est fou,” she muttered. A single piece of paper with the MacCarren logo at the top slid out with the bundled cash.
An outrageous tip for treating Daria so well. Sorry about the scene. It won’t happen again.
The second one contained documents from Stéphane, signatures needed on some business papers.
“He said to wait while you signed them.”
Simone signed in all the places indicated with yellow sticky note arrows, tucked them back into the manila envelope, and refastened the tabs. The bike messenger tucked it back into his messenger bag.
The third had no name on the front. Puzzled, she opened it and tipped out a single ticket to Shakespeare in the Park for the performance that night.
“Oh,” she said. She rubbed her forehead with her palm, and looked at the ticket to Much Ado About Nothing. A single ticket, worth its weight in gold at the moment, with Daria Russell as Beatrice. Stéphane really was running hot.
After the bike messenger left, she called Stéphane. “Thank you for the ticket,” she said.
“What ticket?”
“The ticket to Shakespeare in the Park.”
“Cherie, once again, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Stéphane’s voice always held that lighthearted note. He’d done this before, sent her secret gifts, denied his role, as a way to win her. She’d find out anyway, if he had a second ticket and sat down next to her. She could just see it, him settling into the seat beside her, smiling his satisfied smile, executing another maneuver in the game of love. But in that moment, Ryan’s brand of dishonesty felt more authentic, his anguish real, his ambivalence heartfelt. “Well, thank you. It’s a shame we can’t go together.”
“I couldn’t go even if I did have the other ticket. I have a business dinner tonight. Enjoy yourself.”
Bemused, she disconnected the call and tucked her phone under the counter. She should go. She would go. She would face down her envy and let her love of Shakespeare and Manhattan wash away the memories of the story Ryan told.