He nodded in greeting to a man who had approached the stand and was fingering berries before adding them to his reusable cloth bag. I must have been scowling because Kai whispered to me over the pile of berries, “What’s wrong?” His lips matched the color of the strawberries.
I watched the man sniff a berry, centimeters from his nose. He squeezed the fruit, and then put it back. I looked at Kai, motioning for him to move farther down the table so we could talk more privately.
“That man is bruising your fruit. You should stop him.” I shuddered involuntarily. “And judging by how close he’s holding the berries to his nostrils, I’d have to assume his hands are full of bacteria.” I shrugged. “Classic trifecta of gastrointestinal disasters: feces, fingers, food. I’d watch him or you might have a food poisoning incident here at Forsythia Farms. Blood on your hands.”
Kai did exactly what I thought he would not do. He laughed.
“You are a piece of work, Ms. Garrett.” He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded in appreciation. “I find you refreshing.”
I huffed. “I’m not a glass of iced tea.” Then I pointed at his chest with my index finger. “And I’m just trying to help you out. No farmer wants to be blamed for making the public sick.”
He whistled. “Wow. Does it get windy up there on the pedestal?”
I blinked. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning.” His cheekbones were utterly distracting, so I frowned at them.
His face remained serious, but he looked like he wanted to laugh again. “I thank you for your concern,” he said, eyes big, “but I don’t own Forsythia. I’m just helping out a friend. But I’ll pass along your advice.”
The snotty-sniffer held up his bag and caught Kai’s eye, ready to pay. Kai turned toward the man, but I stopped him with my arm on his. I pushed two twenties into the pocket on his shirt.
“Sorry about the spill,” I said and started back toward the entrance to the market.
“Wait a minute, New York,” he called after me. “This is ridiculous. And way too much!”
“Keep the change,” I said over my shoulder. I saw him shake his head, the bills still in his hand as I hurried away.
8
I sat on my living room floor, looking at a rainbow of Post-its, papers, recipe cards, and newly printed labels. Only two days remained until my first night on the line at Thrill, and I had mountains of work to complete. Unable to sleep past five, I had risen in the inky gray light and waited only for my French press to do its work before tackling mine.
I heard the concierge’s buzzer sound, signaling a visitor. I looked at my watch to verify the time.
Yes, it really was six o’clock in the morning, and yes, there was really a human being leaning mercilessly on the elevator buzzer downstairs. Was Omar gagged and bound, or who was being so pushy?
I pushed myself up with my hands and walked to the concierge phone in fuzzy socks—absolute necessities, it turned out, on the stunning but chilly marble floor of my new apartment. I reached to answer, but my thoughts lingered on what I’d been needling moments before: the merits of a Linzer torte versus lemon crêpes with blackberry sauce.
“Hello?” I said.
“What took you so long? Let me in.” It was Manda.
Less than a minute later, she stepped out of the elevator, her curls gathered into a hasty ponytail. The shoulders of her coat shimmered with the rain that had been falling since the previous night.
“Normal people answer their cell phones. Normal people are reachable by the outside world.” She strode past me and into the apartment, dripping and sloshing and making wet footprints on a floor that I had not Swiffered yet that day. “I thought all New Yorkers were obsessed with their phones,” she continued, progressing quickly to the kitchen and pouring out the last of the coffee in my carafe. “But then, you’ve always been contrary.”
“Good morning, Manda,” I said, my voice droll.
She ignored me. “Thank God that Omar person wasn’t at the front desk. He never would have let me through. Some hipster who looked even more exhausted than I feel was there and didn’t give a rip that I wanted to go up to the penthouse.” Her voice resembled that of a insouciant British lord.
I leaned against the counter and felt its cold surface beneath my sweatshirt. “Lovely to see you at such an ungodly hour.”