CHAPTER NINETEEN
Connor
ILOVECHRISTMASin New York. Or at least I used to. But this year, every classic carol, every cheerfully decorated window, every sappy, small-town-girl-goes-to-the-Big-Apple Hallmark movie is a painful reminder that I won’t be spending the holidays with the woman I love.
She’ll be back from Toronto next week, just in time for Christmas Eve. Not that I’m cyber stalking her or anything. But Jake talks, even when I’d like him to shut up.
He and Ainsley have invited me to join them for Christmas dinner. But I think they both know that’s not happening, not with Brie in the picture. That would take painful to a whole new level.
A passing car blares its horn, making me jump and jerking me back to the present. I’m not sure why I thought it would be a good idea to walk the two plus miles from the club to my apartment. At 7:30, it’s already dark. And it’s cold enough that I can see my breath coming out in frosty white puffs. But despite the darkness and the near-freezing temperature, the long walk is still preferable to rushing home for another lonely night of frozen pizza and online chess.
I cross Broadway and pass a bookstore I must have driven by a thousand times before. But this time, something makes me stop and look inside. Maybe it’s the line snaking outside the door. Or maybe it’s the poster in the window that catches my eye.
Meet the author!
Vincent Dow signs copies of his holiday thriller,Jingle Bell Glock.
Thursday, December 19
6:00–8:00 p.m.
Thursday, December 19. That’s today. I know because I spent the greater part of my work day writing it on checks for the contractors doing the renovations.
I peer through the store window again, and sure enough, there he is. My father, sitting behind a table piled with copies of his latest release, looking—lost?
I take a second look, then a third, really studying him. This isn’t the Vincent Dow I’m used to seeing at book signings. Gone is the charming smile, the flirtatious glint in his eyes, the dramatic flair when he signs his name. Instead, his smile is forced, his eyes humorless, his movements slow and measured. It’s like he’s sleepwalking, going through the motions with poorly feigned enthusiasm.
Christ. I turn my back to the window, feeling like a jackass for ignoring the calls and texts he’s been sending me all week. I figured he wanted to guilt me into coming out to the Hamptons for the holidays. A fate worse than having my fingernails pulled out one by one.
But maybe there’s something deeper going on. My father might be a colossal tool, but that doesn’t mean I have to be one, too. The least I can do is go in and talk to him. Make sure everything’s okay, or as okay as it ever is with my dad.
Plus, it’s warm inside, and it beats going home to my empty apartment.
Almost without thinking, my feet carry me to the end of the line. It’s getting shorter—I assume because the signing is scheduled to end in less than half an hour—and I’m inside the bookstore in just a few minutes.
Once I get through the door, though, I start to reconsider my plan. Walking up to the table with a book in hand like some starstruck fanboy seems kind of like an ambush. So I duck out of line and into the nearest book stack, where I can kill time and keep an eye on things.
I’m about ten pages into a biography of a man billed as the FBI’s most wanted fugitive—not my usual choice of reading material, but I’m stuck between the true crime section and one on wedding planning—when the last person in line takes a selfie with my father, tucks her signed copy ofJingle Bell Glockin her bag, and is on her way. I stick the biography back on the shelf where I found it and make my way over to my father.
“I’m sorry.” A woman who I assume is the bookstore manager steps in my path, brandishing a stack of books. “The event is over. Mr. Dow has signed a few extra copies ofJingle Bell Glockfor us.I was just about to put them out on an endcap in our suspense section. If you’re interested, I could hold one for you while you shop.”
“He can have this one.” My father stands and comes around the table, holding out a book to me. “This is my son, Connor. He owns Top Shelf. It’s one of the hottest nightclubs in Manhattan. Or so I’ve been told.”
He sounds almost proud. I don’t know how to respond to this new, unfamiliar Vincent Dow, so I take the book with a mumbled “thanks” and stick it in the outside pocket of my briefcase.
The bookstore manager’s face flushes an embarrassed pink. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize your son would be joining you.”
“Neither did I.” My father puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s a nice surprise.”
The manager apologizes again, thanks my father for a successful signing, and goes to shelve her books, leaving my father and I standing awkwardly next to each other.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he says after an uncomfortable pause, dropping his hand from my shoulder.
“I know.” I scan the bookstore, wall-to-wall with holiday shoppers. This isn’t the place for a heart-to-heart. Or a knock-down blowout. I’m still not sure which way this is going. “Do you want to get out of here? Get a drink somewhere? Or is Fiona expecting you back on Long Island?”
Something dark and wistful crosses his face. “I’ll make time. We need to talk. Just give me a minute to pack up.”
“Where’s Pam?” He always has his assistant with him at these things. She’s been working for him since what seems like the dawn of time.
