Page 4 of Love and Lies

“Everyone?” I insisted. “Even the Westons?”

My mother made a hissing sound, showing just how triggered she was by the mention of that name. “Of course not. Do you really think they’d sit there and clap while a prize is awarded to me, for special services to New York City’s architecture?”

“Maybe, if their absence would make people talk,” I said. Nothing was more important to those people than appearances and reputation, after all. I had no qualms about coming face-to-face with the Westons; that wasn’t why I’d asked. Despite the fact that every time I saw them, I was confronted by what I’d lost. Mrs. Weston especially, with her resemblance to her daughter, was a perpetual reminder of just who I had to thank for my brother being dead.

My hands gripped the wheel a little tighter. Why couldn’t Valerie have chosen some other guy? Why did it have to be Adam?

“Let them come,” my mother said grimly. “As long as you’re in a brand-new tux, I don’t care.”

“Fine,” I conceded. “I’ll come by your place first and change there.” At least then I’d get to see my little brother, and the evening wouldn’t be a total waste. “I have to go, Trish—I have a meeting, and I want to swing home first.”

“A meeting about one of your projects?” she asked, sounding disapproving above all else.

“That’s right.” I ignored the undertone. “A place in SoHo.”

“Whereabouts?”

“The corner of Sullivan and Bleecker.”

“Prime location,” she said. “How did you find it?”

“Same as always,” I said with a shrug, though of course she couldn’t see it. “I got to talking with some people at the opening of Karma last fall. Someone knew the previous owner was thinking about shutting down, so I had a chat with him, and eventually he agreed to lease it to two young women for their vegan bistro.”

My mother sighed. “You really are a sensational waste of talent. When are you going to do something useful with your gifts? You know you could have any position you want at the firm.”

I bit back a harsh response. Of course I knew; she never stopped going on about it. And I also knew that losing Adam had turned this notion of hers into something of a mission. But as much I was trying to hold everything together, I couldn’t force myself to do that. A job at CW Buildings—like living in New York City for too long—would be the death of me.

“When should I be there tonight?” I asked, ignoring her. It wouldn’t help, explaining to my mother again why I would never work for the family firm. I’d tried often enough.

“Seven,” she informed me. “Don’t be late. And do something with your hair. That surfer mane of yours is impossible.”

“Forget it,” was all I said. “See you later, Trish.”

Despite the burn, I did check my blond hair in the rearview mirror but found no cause for complaint. Okay, it was a little scruffy, thanks to all the wind and salt water, but it was also a lot shorter than it had been when I’d returned two and a half years ago. I couldn’t even tie it back right now. It was one of many concessions I made to the role that I performed here—but there were limits to how far I would sacrifice myself. So she’d just have to live with it.

Luckily, the traffic on the bridge was moving again, and I took my usual route into the West Village. There was a free spot in front of my building, which I decided to take as a good sign for the rest of the day. This evening was not going to be fun, that was for sure, but it was still a few hours away.

I took the four flights of stairs at a jog, already looking forward to getting in the shower as I put my key in the lock. As soon as I was inside my apartment, I pulled off my clothes and threw them carelessly on the floor. The car’s heated seats had helped a little, but what I really needed now was hot running water. The hot-water tank in the bathroom really was my best friend, especially in the cold winter months.

Twenty minutes later I emerged from a cloud of steam, wrapped a towel around my hips, and went into the living room. Although that wasn’t really an accurate description, since the loft had an open-floor plan. The kitchen with its island and breakfast bar opened directly onto the living area, complete with large couch and an untreated oak dining table that sat up to eight people. At the rear of the fifteen-foot-high loft space, an iron staircase led to a mezzanine level built from steel beams, and my bed.

I made for a door next to the bathroom, pulling clean clothes from one of the shelves, ignoring as usual the fact that most of the space was full of cardboard boxes. It was more of a storeroom than the walk-in closet it was supposed to be, and I shut the door swiftly behind me. I should have gone through Adam’s things a long time ago, but I’d been putting it off for a while. Two years and eight months, to be exact, which was when I’d moved in to Adam’s apartment. My brother had once joked that I could have his place if he ever kicked the bucket, so there would always be somewhere I could call home in New York City. When he died, I wanted to honor his wish.

Despite what he’d said, though, living here had felt totally wrong at first, in the home that Adam had bought and fixed up the way he’d wanted. I thought it would kill me to be confronted by his death every day—not to mention the guilt. And it almost did. There had been times when I could hardly breathe, I was choking so hard on my own grief. I would go running, staying out for hours, afraid to come back to the apartment. But eventually I noticed that, in a way, it brought me closer to Adam. To live where he had lived, eat where he had eaten, sleep where he had slept. It forged a connection where there wasn’t one, could never be one again. And when it hurt, I didn’t complain.

I let out a breath, steering my thoughts away from my brother before pulling on a black hoodie, grabbing a pair of dark jeans from yesterday that were still draped over the back of the sofa, and throwing the stuff from my surfing trip into the laundry basket. My stomach growled indignantly—my last meal had been yesterday evening. I should really eat some breakfast before I had to get to SoHo for my appointment.

I grabbed some tomatoes, took eggs and spring onions from the fridge, and selected one of the more chill playlists on my cell phone, letting it play through the sound system in the living room as I cracked the eggs, whisking them in a stainless steel bowl and seasoning with salt and pepper. I was about to start slicing the onions into fine rings when my phone rang. I wiped my hands and answered the call, putting it on speaker.

“Morning, Thaz,” I greeted my friend with a grin. If I knew him, he’d have rolled out of bed no longer than ten minutes ago. And not his own bed, either. “Up already?”

“Only just,” Balthazar declared on the other end with a hefty yawn. “It was a long night. Let me guess, you’ve been at the beach already.”

“Damn right.”

“You know it’s winter, right? Not exactly ideal surfing conditions this time of year, if you ask me.”

I sliced the tomatoes in two and began to dice them finely. “No shit?” I said sarcastically. “And there was me thinking I wear the wetsuit just because it looks good. Not because the ocean is forty degrees or anything.”