Love Hacked (Knitting in the City #3)(32)
Author: Penny Reid

My previous grumpiness forgotten, I made a mental list of my letter-related action items.

I would send him my schedule by the end of the day via Mr. Patel, no problems there. Also, I had some ideas of where we could meet next. On the top of my list was Elizabeth and Janie’s old apartment. No longer occupied since their recent weddings, it would be the perfect place for us to engage in unhindered mutual bodily appreciation.

Maybe even share a private conversation.

Janie’s husband, Quinn, owned the building—or part of the building—and they now lived together on the top floor. Being in the (not always technically legal) private security business, we all knew Quinn was a freak about privacy.

Perhaps then Alex would feel freer to relax and enjoy himself. Let me enjoy him, I mused. Let me enjoy his body. Let me enjoy watching him enjoy himself.

However, I planned to ignore his last request. No way was I going to destroy this letter. I loved this letter. Touching it made me feel things; reading it made those feelings almost overwhelming. This was my letter, and I wanted it, just for me.

CHAPTER 15

Tuesday Horoscope: Friendship will save the day, but will be tested in the process.

Through an exchange of short notes over two days, we decided that Wednesday and Thursday nights as well as Saturday late afternoons into the evening were the best days and times for our interactions, as Alex termed them.

I wasn’t willing to give up my Thomas lunches on Saturdays at noon or my Tuesday knitting nights. Just because I was googly-eyed over my mysterious and manlicious Alex didn’t mean it was okay to drop my friends and standing commitments.

I had a whole other life and interests before Alex. I intended to continue that life and those interests while we were together. In fact, though it made my stomach tie in a lasso knot just thinking about it, I might be required to have that life again, without Alex, at some point.

Alex always worked lunch shift during the week as well as most Friday evenings. Though the restaurant was closed Sundays, he indicated that he had a standing conflict all day Sunday every week.

I didn’t ask him to expand nor did he volunteer any additional information.

Typically, I looked forward to Tuesday nights with a remarkable amount of impatience considering I’m a fully-grown functioning member of society. However, gathered with my girlfriends in the ridiculously opulent yet somehow spartan penthouse that Janie shared with Quinn, I wasn’t my usual effervescent self.

Admittedly, I was watchful for any opportunity to get either Elizabeth or Janie alone so I could ask one of them about the apartment. As well, I was distracted because tomorrow was Wednesday—Alex day: only twenty-four more hours.

My Alex man-hat and scarf were finished, and I was now working on the gloves. I’d opted to make mitts with removable tops instead of fingered gloves. Bulky yarn is thick and is therefore a whoreson to knit on double- pointed needles and achieve appropriate gauge. Plus, mittens took less time.

The girls—plus Elizabeth’s husband Nico—chatted merrily, buoying my spirits and improving my attention span. We’d given Nico the nickname Nicoletta, a symbolic label that he was one of us. This was hilarious because he was a sexy Italian stallion.

He didn’t seem to mind—likely because he was the youngest of eight children, loved his mother, and had older sisters. Men with older sisters and a positive maternal role model, I found, tended to have a good grasp on both their masculinity and sensitivity.

“What are you making?” Ashley leaned forward, squinting her eyes at Nico’s work in progress. “Some kind of pouch?”

“It’s a reusable market bag.” Nico held it up so we could all admire it. His long form was stretched out on a black leather chaise lounge, and Elizabeth was curled up beside him. They were disgustingly adorable at the moment, but that could change at the drop of a hat if he decided to tease her. Once he ended the night face-first in a seven-layer dip.

“Nice.” Ashley nodded her approval. “I find it’s best to go to the market or shopping if I have to pee. It saves me from buyer’s remorse.”

“It’ll also give you a urinary tract infection,” Elizabeth mumbled.

“Yes, but those can be treated with antibiotics and cranberry juice. An empty bank account can only be treated with whoring myself out down by the industrial park.”

This was met with a few chuckles and headshakes.

“Is this a habit of yours? Whoring yourself out down by the industrial park?” Elizabeth asked.

“Not since I discovered the money-saving properties of urinary tract infections.”

“That’s too bad, because Dr. Ken Miles was asking about you yesterday.” Elizabeth and I shared a covert glance.

Nico stiffened. He was not a fan of Dr. Ken Miles because the man used to pursue Elizabeth. In fact, none of us who worked at the hospital particularly cared for Dr. Ken Miles.

Nico gave Elizabeth a sharp smile. “I’m sure he frequents the industrial park enough, dearest. If Ashley had been there, he would have found her.”

“Me-ow, Nicoletta!” Ashley reached over and gave Nico a high five.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes good-naturedly at her husband. “All this talk of urinary tract infections and whoring at the industrial park is making me thirsty. What does everyone want to drink?”

“Can I make lemon drops?” Janie was already shifting her work in progress to one side. “I was thinking about the ratio of vodka to sugar, and I have an idea.”

Elizabeth stood to help, stretched. “Sure, sounds good to me.”

I jumped at the opportunity, nearly tripping over the large glass coffee table as I sprang from my seat. “Oh, let me help. I’ll come too.”

“Yes. Good thought. Between us we’ll have enough hands to carry all the beverage glasses.” Janie motioned me toward the kitchen and led the way.

The kitchen was just as spartanly opulent as the rest of the apartment. All the appliances appeared to be the latest and greatest, all stainless steel, but this also made the space feel very sterile.

“Elizabeth, can you get the vodka out of the freezer?”

“In a minute.” Elizabeth leaned both her palms against the granite countertop and looked across at me, her blue eyes shrewdly assessing as they moved between mine. “First, I want to know why Sandra followed us in here.”

I didn’t try to look innocent. Since last summer, I was usually the last one to help with the preparation of drinks. We’d all flown to Vegas for Janie’s bachelorette party, I’d inadvertently spiked our drinks with Amsterdam-grade absinthe, and Elizabeth had woken up married.

I don’t think it was the getting-married part that irked her. I think it was the not-remembering-the getting-married part.

“Fine.” I sighed, mimicked her stance, and glanced between Janie and Elizabeth. “I do have a favor to ask.”

“Who needs help?” Elizabeth asked.

“Me.”

As though pulled by the same string, both Janie and Elizabeth’s eyebrows jumped. Their eyes widened in unison—synchronized surprise.

“You?” Janie asked.

I nodded. “Yes. I need a favor. It’s for me.”

They shared a look—super secret best friend silent brain wave communication—but it was easily readable. Neither of them was expecting me to request a favor for myself.

“Anything you need, it’s yours.”

“How can we help?”

I cleared my throat and tented my fingers. I hadn’t exactly thought through how I was going to go about requesting use of the apartment without explaining why I needed to use the apartment.

I decided to wing it. “So, about your old apartment, I was wondering if….”

“Done! When are you moving in?” Elizabeth bolted upward from her leaning position and began hopping from one foot to the other.

“This is excellent news. I am so pleased.” Janie beamed at me. “You’re going to like the bathtubs.”

I tried to speak, but only a strange stuttering sound made it past my lips. They both wore mirrored expressions of excitement, and I loved them for it.

“You had me thinking you were going to ask for an actual favor. I thought it might be the first sign of the apocalypse.” Elizabeth tossed me a grin as she padded to Janie’s freezer, drawing out the bottle of vodka.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I wrinkled my nose at her back, finding my voice.

“I’ve never heard you ask for a favor—ever.” Elizabeth handed the bottle to Janie.

“That’s not true.”

“It is. It’s true.” Janie confirmed.

I tsked and frowned, studying the flecks in the granite countertop as I searched my memory for the last favor I’d asked.

“Also, you never talk about yourself,” Janie added, “unless it’s a humorous and self-deprecating story.”

“It’s a sign she’s too well adjusted.” Elizabeth nodded. “She’s the queen of sublimation.”

“I talk about myself. I’m my favorite subject. And I’m not well-adjusted. I’m plucky and neurotic.” I crossed my arms over my chest. As proof of my lack of demonstrative maturity, I felt inexplicably defensive and upset about Elizabeth’s accusation of emotional stability.