“Please, Iamher flow,” Sofie says, smirking.
From above, a chair scrapes, and the rapid clack of keys stops.
“Is that you, Sofie?” Noelle’s voice drifts down.
“We’re coming up!” Sofie calls.
“No, no—give me a minute, I’ll be right down!”
Sofie rolls her eyes. “Noelle, we can—” She stops mid-sentence as Noelle appears on the stairs, hair escaping a messy bun, coffee-stained cardigan hanging off one shoulder, eyes ringed with exhaustion and joy.
“Oh my God,” Sofie blurts. “What happened to you?”
“I’minspired!” Noelle beams, nearly tripping as she rushes down. “I just need about ten more hours in the day!”
The bells above the door jingle again, ushering in a gust of cold air and a tangle of red hair.
“Well, okay then, come right in,” Noelle laughs.
The woman who enters looks around, smiling like she’s just stepped into her favorite dream, and I totally feel it.
“Why would you ever leave here?” she murmurs, then bends down, scooping up a black cat from behind a shelf. She glances at us, cradling it like an old friend. “Hi, I’m Hildy, and I’m here for the job posted online.”
“You posted a help-wanted ad online?” Sofie snips at Noelle.
Noelle scratches her head. “Maybe?”
“What do you mean, maybe?” Sofie whisper-hisses.
“I mean, yes, but it was just a couple?—”
Hildy crosses the room and offers her hand. “You’re amazing.”
Sofie’s jaw drops. “She’swhat?”
Hildy grins. “Aspiring author, current bookshopeteer, looking for a bookworm who loves the classics. Will pay for twenty hours a week, but you’ll want to be here forty. Benefits: all the tea you can drink and reading material you can consume. Don’t dog-ear the pages.” She looks at the cat. “Is this yours?”
Noelle blinks. “It is now,” she says, taking the cat and smiling. “And you’re hired.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Deacon
Paul spreadsthe blueprints across the island like he’s planning a heist and wants me involved, not renovating a four-story Brooklyn beast of a brownstone. I stare down at the neat lines and measurements, trying to figure out how the hell he pulled this off so fast.
“You sure about this?” I ask, squinting at the schematics.
“Damn right I am.” He nods with enough confidence to make this seem legit. Then he flips open a sketch pad. “The inspiration.”
I blink. “A drawing is your inspiration for turning a property that could bankroll itself forever into a single-family home that is going to drain your bank account?”
He stabs a finger at the fourth floor. “Single-family home and a hen house. And don’t you worry about my bank account. Men from my generation may not have made the money you younglings do, but we didn’t piss away what we made on fancy sportscars and prostitutes.”
Incredible. Truly.
I press my lips together. “Are these certified plans a contractor can actually use, or did you buy them off some random site that sends customer service emails from a guy named Vlad at three in the morning?”
Paul scoffs, offended. “Relax. The original blueprints and the deed got handed off to that fancy city guy Costello has in his pocket. And that guy knew another guy, who knew another guy, who had a demo crew ready to jump the second they heard the word go.”
