Текст книги "New Amsterdam: Tess"

Автор книги: Ashley Pullo

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 9 страниц)

After devouring the second cookie, Thessaly stands from the yellow, velvet sofa and dusts the crumbs into her hand. She tosses her garbage and the crumbs, and then removes her clothes, dropping them somewhere near a laundry basket on her way to the elevated bedroom. Living in an L-shaped studio provides a tenant with room for creativity. So last year, after waiting six months for approval, Kip and Thessaly’s dad built a platform structure to house her queen-size bed. Constructed four feet from the floor and painted in a glossy white, the base features a built-in bookcase and dresser drawers. Thessaly refers to it as her stage – but unless she’s performing a one-woman show, that stage is rarely used for anything but sleep.

Fishing out an old Duke T-shirt she stole from Mason, Thessaly quickly changes and lumbers to the bathroom. She washes her face, brushes her teeth, lathers on some Clinique face cream, combs her loose curls, and then heads back to the couch. She scoops her laptop and phone in one hand while flipping off the lamp with the other. Climbing the five steps to her stage, Thessaly crawls into bed, wishing she had remembered to turn on the fan.

“Goddamn it,” she bursts, kicking the striped duvet off her legs.

Following her nightly bed routine, Thessaly sets her alarm for the following morning, checks her emails, and then opens Instagram to scroll through Mason’s photos. He apparently had a busy weekend in the Hamptons as his most recent additions are cozy pictures of exotic women on a yacht. Skank. He was never attracted to brunettes – Mason loved Thessaly’s fair skin and light hair, but now his photos are a collection of women with olive skin and brown hair. And no filters.

Skank. She’s pretty. Skank.

A glutton for salting the wounds, Thessaly moves to Facebook to reread their last interaction from a few days ago. It’s one of many inside jokes shared between them – started during a road trip in which they imitated Peter Brady’s impersonation of Humphrey Bogart across three states. Nostalgia is a fickle bitch.

Mason Andrews > Tess Sinclair

I had the best pork chops.

Tess Sinclair – And applesauce?

Mason Andrews – Yes. Dinner was swell.

Lonely and tired, Thessaly’s fingers hover close to the screen as tears fall from her eyes. She types several comments and erases them all – the easiest way to purge one’s feelings without any consequences.

Tess Sinclair – I want you.

Tess Sinclair – I need you.

Tess Sinclair – We were supposed to get married.

Tess Sinclair – One more fuck? LOL

Tess Sinclair – You have my heart. And my tennis racket.

Keeping it casual but with a slight push into a deeper conversation, Thessaly finally presses enter.

Tess Sinclair – I miss you.

And then she waits.

“I don’t know what’s more discriminating – getting the apartment because we told the board we’re partners, or being asked to decorate the lobby for Chanukah.”

Chapter Three

{Oh, nice . . . oh, God, Meg. Mmm, yeah . . . suck it. Oh, shit . . . your mouth . . . deeper, mmm, deeper. Taste it. Oh, fuck . . . lick my balls, dirty slut. Want more? Beg me . . . mmm . . . beg for my cock, Meg, you like it. Mmm, I’m close, so close. I’m fucking your face. Mmm, ah, yes, yes, ah . . . }

“Get up, asshole. You’re moaning.” A scratchy voice coughs, and then emits a sound that can only come from a throat full of phlegm.

Awakened from his dream, Seth rolls off the bottom bunk, his knees slamming against the tile floor before he opens his eyes. “I’m up, dickhead.” Standing slowly and sporting a massive boner, Seth trudges to the tiny bathroom to take a shower.

The living arrangements are not ideal for two men – like Bosom Buddies meets the East Village. Luckily their studio apartment is larger than most, measuring just shy of five-hundred square feet, but privacy is a luxury they can’t afford. Broke and desperate, the recent college grads were forced to get creative in order to secure a reasonably-priced studio that allowed two occupants. Exhausting all their options, Seth and his heterosexual roommate, Ben, scored a studio apartment by applying as a gay couple.

Bending his long torso over the bathroom sink wearing only navy boxer briefs, Seth takes an electric razor to his fuzzy stubble. Although his blue eyes are bloodshot, a side-effect from too many whiskey sours with Meg, and his thick, apricot hair could use a trim, Seth is adorably sexy.

Dressed in a shirt and tie, Ben presses his face against the door and jokingly flutters his eyes. “Bye, smoochie! Don’t wait up.” He disappears from the doorway, rummages for something in the kitchen, and then slams the front door.

“Later, snookums,” Seth growls.

Shutting the bathroom door with his foot, Seth stretches his mouth from left to right, buzzing the stubborn hairs on his chin. He’s never up this early, especially after a night of drinking, but he promised Thessaly he’d set up the New Amsterdam Market booth by nine.

For Seth, peddling jam at a farmer’s market with a B.F.A. in Visual Communications is slightly embarrassing. Both Ben and Seth graduated from the Pratt Institute with competitive GPAs, interned with prestigious design firms, and then built similar work portfolios. Ben was offered a decent-paying job, and Seth had to borrow money from his grandparents just to pay rent. But on the exact day Seth accepted failure and made arrangements to move back to New Jersey, a rare opportunity appeared for a freelance graphic designer. He nailed the interview, got the job, and then gave the double-finger salute to the Holland Tunnel.

Thrilled with Seth’s creative overhaul for her little company, Thessaly immediately offered him a full-time job. The starting yearly salary was twice what he was worth, and slightly higher than Ben’s salary, plus, he would have access to all the jam and honey he could eat. Thessaly and Seth collaborated on everything, expanding the business and building a friendship during that first year. And then something happened that’s unheard of in the business world, especially for a small business in a tight economy. On the fifteenth day of his fifteenth month of employment, Seth Adelman received one and a half percent of The Hive. No one had ever taken a chance on him, but then Thessaly buzzed in and welcomed him to her hive.

Which makes Thessaly the Queen, and Seth the worker bee – gladly willing to schlep a wagon of jam to a farmer’s market.

Showered and dressed in a black T-shirt, khakis, and gray Chucks, Seth unlocks his bike from the parking sign. “Assholes,” he howls, tossing the Dunkin Donuts garbage mistakenly stuffed in his wicker basket. He shoves a tech magazine and pantone color deck in the basket, sticks earbuds in his ears, and then starts his twenty-minute journey to the Seaport. During the winter months, Seth is forced to ride the subway to work, but now, speeding through Downtown using the bike lanes cuts his commute in half – even on his tight-chained piece of Americana.

The red bicycle was an impulsive buy, a flirtatious gesture from a dude with no game. A few weeks ago, Seth was inquiring about a Giant Via commuter bike, sleek and conducive for city streets. He was prepared for a cycling snob to push a more expensive model, but he wasn’t prepared for a cute chick with a giant rack to shove something else in his face. The sales girl wasn’t as pretty as Meg, but she made him feel like the king of swagger – the Achilles heel to any geeky guy with low self-esteem. As a result, Seth left the store that day with an inflated ego, and a four-hundred dollar, vintage Schwinn bicycle with an insulated wicker basket.

Arriving at The Hive, Seth props his bike against the window and attaches the U-lock to an exposed, unlabeled pipe. As he removes his earbuds and unlocks the front door, the confectionary smell and loud music coming from the small kitchen smack him in the face. It can only mean one thing.

“Tess?” yells Seth.

Seth stashes his things on the marble island and slowly pushes open the kitchen door. Standing in the doorway with a huge grin, Seth watches Thessaly stir a large copper pot to the thrashing electric riff of Heart.

Using her wooden spoon as a lasso while rotating her hips, she delivers the chorus with sexy precision.

Seth snickers as he approaches her from behind, strumming his awesome air-guitar high above his head. “Na-ah, ah-ah,” he hums.

Startled, Thessaly screams and jumps. She spins around and whacks Seth with the spoon. “Seth!” she shouts over the music.

Seth ignores the spoon and continues to whip his head up and down during the guitar solo. Dancing around him, Thessaly places her arm on his shoulder and the wooden spoon to her mouth. “This is not normal,” she screams through fits of laughter.

When the song ends, Seth grabs Thessaly’s hand and thrusts it in the air. “Thank you, New York City!”

Thessaly reaches for the remote to the Bose speaker and lowers the volume. “What are you doing here so early? Lover’s quarrel with Ben?” she teases.

“Hardy, har har. I should ask you the same thing.” Seth peers into the copper pot bubbling with a liquid goo. “Blueberry jam?” he guesses.

Rushed and hyper, Thessaly replies, “Correct. Sorta. It’s more of a compote to serve with honey cornbread. For tomorrow. That meeting with the wedding planner. Wanna taste?”

“How much coffee have you had?” Seth glances around the tiny kitchen in search of evidence.

“I only had a bottle of Mountain Dew and a Twix – Starbucks and the Beanery were closed.”

“Holy shit, Tess. How long have you been here?”

“I couldn’t sleep. Six, maybe five-thirty.” Thessaly lowers the heat under the stock pot and stirs. “Truth?” she whispers.

“Always,” answers Seth.

Exhaling as she turns toward her friend, Thessaly licks the spoon and then sets it on the counter. “I’m lonely, Seth.” She crosses her arms and raises her voice. “We live in a city with eight-million people but every night I go to sleep alone.”

Lifting her chin with his hand, Seth smiles. “I’ll sleep with you.”

Relaxing her arms, Thessaly leans toward Seth and laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“How about we get some coffee and chat?”

Thessaly nods and then spins around to face the stove. “My compote!” She slides on whimsical dragon oven mitts with a ric rac of tiny teeth, and then chucks the pot onto a cold burner. “That should do it,” she adds, giving the fruity stew another stir.

Offering his arm, Seth leads them through the kitchen, remembering to grab his keys from the island on the way out the door. They lock up the store and then pause on the sidewalk to play rock, paper, scissors. It’s their entertaining way to decide on the insignificant things, like a coffee house – Thessaly prefers Fulton Beanery, but Seth tends to steer toward the cold brew at Starbucks.

“Rock, paper, scissors, and shoot!” they chant.

Thessaly’s paper covers Seth’s rock. “Yes!”

“Then you’re buying,” whines Seth.

The two friends stroll the long block to the Beanery, stopping once to discuss the mannequins posed in the window of an upscale boutique.

“Do you think the mermaid trend will catch on?” Thessaly takes a step closer and shakes her head. “The wigs are literally made from dry seaweed.”

“I think it’s more of an ecological statement about the condition of our oceans and the decrease in mythical creatures. Three-hundred years ago, the East River was crawling with mermaids and killer squids.”

Smiling, Thessaly adds, “I kinda dig those leggings with the emerald sequins.”

“C’mon,” he urges, pulling her from the window. “What time is Meg coming in? Maybe she can bring me lunch later – I mean, I’ll be sweating under a tent selling jam to tourists who want directions to the Brooklyn Bridge, it’s the least she can do.”

“Meg, huh?” Thessaly grins as she opens the door to the Beanery. “Why don’t you want me to bring you lunch?” She winks.

Seth sits at a small table, stretches out his legs, folds his arms behind his head and raises his eyebrows. “Don’t start with me, Tess.”

“Iced coffee?”

“Milk and two sugars,” he adds.

Thessaly orders and pays for their drinks at the cashier, and then waits at the end of the counter while checking her phone for Facebook notifications. Her shoulders drop and her face saddens as she slides her phone back inside her pocket. Forming a polite smile, she takes the drinks from the barista and heads back to the table.

“It’s packed in here, huh?” Thessaly jokes.

Seth pulls out the chair next to him and pats the seat. “Talk to me. No jokes, no shop-talk, no Game of Thrones book discussions – just us.”

Swirling the caramel around in her drink and biting the inside of her lip, Thessaly sits next to Seth. With a wily smile, she whispers, “Tyrion is a Targaryean.”

“Zip it!”

Thessaly takes a sip of her iced latte and crosses her leg. Placing the orange cup back on the table, she probes, “Have you ever been in love?”

“Love? Honestly, I’m not sure. I think I know what it would feel like to love someone, but I’ve never experienced that feeling. What about you?” Seth counters.

“Yeah, definitely. But I guess it’s not really love love if I’m the only one that feels that way.”

“That college boyfriend that works in finance?”

Thessaly nods as she stares out the window. “We have dinner occasionally, and sometimes there are moments when he cares deeply about me, and sometimes there’s more,” she says, twirling her straw. “But I think about him all the time – like when I see a penny on the ground, or a squirrel eating pizza crust. I see Mason everywhere.”

Without Thessaly noticing, Seth furrows his brows and snorts. But realizing that she’s serious, he offers, “Maybe it’s time to move on.”

“Maybe,” Thessaly mutters. “But we were good together – we were comfortable.” She chokes back a few tears and stutters, “We were uncomplicated. I don’t know what love is if it’s not easy.”

Seth sighs and leans forward to rest his arms on the table. “Can I ask what happened?”

“Nothing major. We were and then we weren’t.” Circling her finger over the lid of the coffee, she adds, “Mason decided one day that we needed to pursue lives in New York without being a couple. That we would always fall back together when the time was right. Can I tell you a secret?”

“Kinky sex?”

“Never! I obsess over his Instagram account – he’s so happy without me.”

Seth groans and lowers his voice. “No, Tess.”

Blushing, she admits, “I know. I’m pathetic. I’m pretty much a stalker.” Thessaly slurps her coffee and then slams the cup on the table. “There was a Duke Business Alumni dinner at the Bowery Hotel in March and I didn’t think he would show – totally an event beneath him. And it’s not like we discussed it or anything. But guess who shows up late to the dinner? Mason and his gorgeous date wearing a tiny cocktail dress. I was wearing a Hillary Clinton pant suit.”

“Damn, that sucks, Tess.” Seth bangs the table like bongo drums. “Okay, I guess this is the part where I make you feel better by offering sage advice.”

“I know what you’re going to say – I need to move on. Out of sight, out of mind or something vaguely prolific.”

Seth slaps the table, shaking their drinks. “Yes, move the fuck on! Unfriend him. Unfollow him. And for fuck’s sake, Tess, all squirrels dig the crunchy delight of pizza crust. Stop assuming that the universe is giving you signs.”

Thessaly laughs. “Your advice is to erase him from my life? And then what?”

“If you remove certain toxins from your daily routine, then your body will experience things more freely.”

“That’s a little severe. Mason isn’t toxic.” She squirms.

“Let me put this in a way you can understand.” Seth grabs Thessaly’s orange cup and shakes it. “If you were to remove the sugar, caramel, extra caramel, and milk, the stuff that makes it easy for you to consume, then you would be able to taste the actual espresso bean. Natural and tart, a little acidic, but quite rich. But you like covering things with sweetness because it’s easier.” Seth points his finger and gives Thessaly a stern look. “Give bold a chance, Tess.”

“Give bold a chance, huh? Then ask Meg out!”

“Touché.”

Thessaly’s smile fades, thinking of all the wasted hours she spent pining for Mason. Studying his pictures, memorizing his LinkedIn profile, searching for ways to prolong their connection, and hoping for the future he once promised. Sighing, she concedes, “I guess you’re right.”

“Give me your phone,” Seth orders. “We start now.”

Standing from the table and removing her phone from her pocket, Thessaly whines, “I meant theoretically! We need to go anyway – it’s almost nine.”

Seth tosses the garbage and recycles their cups while Thessaly scrolls through her emails.

“Hey, I need to pick up the new labels at the print shop on Frankfort.”

Over his shoulder, Seth replies, “I have to run back to The Hive and grab the jam wagon.”

“Shit, Seth! You better hurry.”

Thessaly and Seth file through the door and out onto the sidewalk, smack in the middle of a hurried rush of morning commuters.

Digging in his pocket for the store key, Seth says, “I’ll leave my pantone color deck behind the counter. The colors I chose for the website have smiley face stickers.”

Walking backwards in opposite directions, they continue to shout off a list of reminders to one another.

“The compote! Ask Lois to jar half and store the other half in the fridge.”

“Tell Meg to stay away from Cherry Bomb.”

“Take a short video at the market and I’ll post it to the website.”

“I want a BLT with avocado for lunch,” Seth demands.

Nodding and waving him off, Thessaly turns and walks toward Frankfort Street.

In a rush, Seth cups his hands around his mouth and roars, “Hey, Tess?”

“Hey, Seth,” she answers, spinning around and walking backwards.

“Stay bold, Pony Boy. Stay bold.”

Laughing, she corrects, “I think the phrase is, stay gold, Pony Boy.”

“Nope – stay bold.”

“Yeah, I like nice things. I work hard, so why shouldn’t I enjoy the very best? Money buys happiness. Or at the very least, money makes me happy.”

Chapter Four

Same Day Delivery/No Surcharge

Glancing at the time on his titanium watch, Mason Andrews opens the door to the upscale floral shop on Nassau Street. Inhaling the aromatic mix of fresh flowers and sub-zero air-conditioning, he approaches the counter and rings the bell.

“Hello?” he says.

Appearing from behind a floral curtain leading to a storage room, a gorgeous woman in her early thirties approaches the counter. Mason immediately runs his eyes over her petite frame, carefully following the shape of her hourglass curves while leaning against the counter.

Smiling, she positions her long, brown hair over her shoulder, and then takes a single rose bud and fastens it above her exposed ear. “Hello,” she replies. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I’d like to send a gift,” Mason answers.

“Do you have any flowers in mind?”

“Pink.” He smirks.

“Is this a gift for a girlfriend?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

The complexity of that question forces Mason to consider the actual definition of his relationship with Thessaly. When they met as college freshman at a fraternity party, their attraction was immediate. He was intrigued by her refined personality and delicate features, and she liked having a confident and ambitious athlete by her side. Thessaly was different from the other girls Mason had dated – she was sweet and classy, and naturally pretty. But Thessaly could also drink liquor like a frat boy, and her sexual appetite complemented Mason’s need to constantly get laid.

For seven years, they were friends and lovers – but rarely sharing intimacy beyond sex. They were a couple, and they each contributed to their pre-determined roles. And even now, as Mason gazes at the exotic beauty with the impressive body standing before him, he only imagines a future with Thessaly by his side.

Literally.

“She’s a very special person,” he finally answers.

“Then you’ll need peonies.” She turns toward a wicker rolling cart and takes a bucket of large, delicate blooms. “From my garden in Bridgehampton.” She smiles. “The blush color is so light and feminine – do you think she would like something like this?”

“I do. Tess loves pink.”

Proud of his selection, Mason makes arrangements for the flowers to be delivered to Thessaly’s store – a romantic gesture to kick start the next phase in their lives. The few friends that know of his intentions, question why he would give up the playboy lifestyle of Wall Street to settle down with his college girlfriend.

His answer?

“To quote Jerry McGuire, she was loyal.”

Mason pays for the flowers, smiling at the seductive florist, and then takes out his phone to text Thessaly.

Mason: Dinner tonight?

Several blocks away, as she’s leaving one of the Seaport’s original printing shops, Thessaly stops on the sidewalk and studies her phone. She lowers her sunglasses over her eyes, almost as if she’s blinded by the text. Several pedestrians, unprepared for the interruption in the flow of traffic, swerve around her mumbling nasty expletives. A woman bumps into her shoulder, causing her to drop the package of freshly-printed labels.

“Tonight?” she whispers to herself.

Unaware that she’s missing the envelope, Thessaly take a few steps forward and shouts, “Why dinner?” Stopping abruptly and trying to type a response, a man taps her shoulder and passes her the envelope. She tucks it under her arm as the man mumbles under his breath with a deep scowl.

With her head down, plagued with anxiety, Thessaly continues along the sidewalk like a tourist with an outdated map. Her footing is jumbled, her balance is off, and she misses the crosswalk to Fulton Street.

“Lady!” someone barks.

In a daze, Thessaly looks up to discover she’s standing on the mechanical lift to a seafood delivery truck. “I should want bold, right?” she asks the delivery man while taking a few awkward steps sideways to get to the crosswalk.

Trudging through a swamp of sweaty people, Thessaly finally makes it to the yellow door of The Hive. She extends her free hand to pull the lever of the main door, but it’s met with another hand – large and tan compared to her bony, alabaster skin.

“Allow me,” offers a smoky voice.

“Huh?” Thessaly shifts her weight and slides her phone in her pocket.

“Aren’t you going in?” he inflects with sarcasm.

Turning to acknowledge the polite gesture, Thessaly tries to form words. “Yaw-eh.” Her reply incomplete and muddled, she’s now a speechless idiot with a gaping mouth.

The smiling stranger holding the door towers over her, at least five inches taller than her five-nine frame. He’s lean and muscular – dominating without being a beefcake. His hair is the color of candied pecans, and his eyes mimic the shade of Midnight Blue from a box of Crayola crayons. Leaning closer, Thessaly inhales his intoxicating scent of sea salt and musky masculinity while trying to form a smile. Her eyes wander, from his perfect teeth, to his snug-fitting T-shirt, and then back to stare into the deep waters of his blue eyes. And he does the same – mentally checking off the amazing qualities of the slender blonde blocking the doorway.

“I’m melting,” he declares quietly.

So am I, thinks Thessaly.

In a swift motion, he brings his other hand between them, shaking it gently, and then raising it to his lips. Thessaly watches with delight . . . gazing as his mouth swipes his thumb . . . fantasizing as his tongue circles a scoop of soft, pink ice cream . . . dissolving as he takes a tiny bite, not with his teeth, but by pinching the ice cream between his lips. Eventually, the sugar cone completely disappears inside the grasp of his large hand, making the action even more sensual – a necessary tactic in which the mouth just takes what it wants.

“Shall we?” he asks, nodding toward the door.

Blushing, Thessaly bobs her head robotically as she walks through the vestibule. Leaving him to roam the shelves of blueberry jam, she bolts straight to the counter and exhales deeply.

Behind the register, Meg looks up from her iPad and smiles. “Tess? You’re flushed. Humidity is not your friend.” She returns her attention to the tablet and adds, “Lois had a family emergency – she left about an hour ago.”

Placing the envelope of labels and her polka-dotted clutch on the counter, Thessaly asks, “Is everything okay with Lois? I’m concerned.”

“I’m not sure, but she seemed really stressed.” With a devious smile, Meg strikes the screen of the tablet violently. “God, that Seth,” she mumbles. “He’s the most annoying child sometimes.”

“What’s up?” Thessaly asks, watching as the man with the ice cream cone picks up a jar of infused honey and holds it to the sunlight.

“He wants lunch and company. Do you need me here?” Meg snaps her fingers in the air and quips, “Earth to Tess?”

Thessaly pivots so that she’s face-to-face with Meg. The two women are pressed closely against each other, an image Seth would kill to see. “Look over my shoulder – discreetly!” she demands through an excited whisper.

Meg leans to the left and surveys the showroom. “Gray T-shirt?” she asks.

Thessaly nods.

“Da-yum!”

“What’s he doing?” whispers Thessaly.

“He’s carrying a shopping basket.” Meg pauses and lowers her voice. “He just placed a jar of jam – apricot, no peach – inside the basket. Nice forearms.” Another pause. “Okay, that’s hot, Tess, really sexy.” Meg’s eyes expand as her volume returns. “Holy hotness, he devoured a sugar cone in two bites. Shit!” Meg ducks behind Thessaly. “He’s looking over here!”

Leaving her friend exposed, Meg darts into the kitchen, the door flapping behind her from the hard push. Thessaly takes a deep breath and then spins around.

Bold, Tess, be bold, she chants.

“Hi. Is this your store?” He places a basket filled with random items on the counter and picks up a petri dish near the register.

“That’s raw honeycomb,” Thessaly asserts.

Placing the delicate object back in its place, the man leans against the counter and smiles. “I’m familiar.” His mouth curls slightly to the left, just enough to make him appear naughty. “Let’s start over. I’m Levi, and you must be Tessaly, or Shelby?”

Confused by Levi’s assumptions, Thessaly hesitates before replying. “It’s actually pronounced Thes-sa-lee, but everyone calls me Tess. My little brother is Shelby – how did you know our names?”

Raising his eyebrows and pointing over his shoulder to a family photograph, Levi adds, “That’s you, right – in the overalls and Doc Martens?”

Thessaly quietly whimpers as she realizes that the picture Levi’s referring to was taken during the unattractive phase of her adolescence. It’s a typical photo of farm life – Kip and Shelby standing in the bed of a pickup truck with crates and buckets. A cardboard sign leaning against the back bumper that reads: Sinclair Farm. Kip – President, Thessaly – Vice President, Shelby – Treasurer. Perched on a bucket near the sign, is a teenaged Thessaly, dressed in overalls, combat boots, and a face with enough angst to start a girl band. The only reason the photograph is hanging in her store is because she loves the field of sunflowers in the background.

“The tomboy with the scowl? Yep, that’s me.” She reaches into the wire basket and removes the jars of jam. “Good choice, peach is my favorite. I add a dash of cinnamon to the recipe,” she blurts without thinking.

Impressed, Levi confirms, “Wait, you make the jam and honey here?”

Relieved that he appears interested, Thessaly answers, “Most of it. I buy local fruit and prepare the jam in the kitchen. The honey comes from my family’s farm in Asheville, but sometimes I infuse seasonal fruits and herbs into the raw honey.” Thessaly pauses, studies Levi’s perfect smile, and fights a fit of nervous laughter. “It’s really simple.”

“Tess, can I be honest?”

“Maybe.”

“I really don’t need four jars of peach jam. And six jars of honey seems like a lot for a single guy.” Picking up the expensive set of sterling silver jam spreaders, Levi adds, “And what do I do with these fancy little knives?”

“Okay, we can put a few things back.” Thessaly lowers her head, slightly offended, but mostly embarrassed.

“Thing is, I followed you in here.”

“Oh?”

“Well, not like a creeper. You bumped into me – at the crosswalk. I almost dropped my cone.”

“I was distracted,” she defends.

Meg charges from behind the kitchen door, flashes a sly smile, and then bursts out in song. “This piggy is going to the market!”

With a high, crackly pitch, Thessaly shouts, “Um, have fun.”

As she passes Levi, Meg cranes her neck to check him out. Stopping at the screen door, she spins around and mouths, holy shit, that ass, before turning to leave the shop.

Wanting her undivided attention, Levi moves directly in front of Thessaly and clears his throat. He smiles, and she smiles, and then he repeats, “So, Tess, you bumped into me.”

“And I’m sorry! I can offer you something at a discount – but since you don’t need jam, would you be interested in a cookbook or a honeypot?”

“Yours?” he asks with a smirk.

Blushing, Thessaly sputters, “Le Creuset.”

“I meant the cookbook.”

“Oh,” she says.

Crossing his arms and showcasing his tan, muscular forearms, Levi asks, “How ’bout you go out with me and we call it even?”

“Oh, I um, have these new labels and cornbread . . .” Thessaly trails off.

Furrowing his brows and scratching his chin, Levi says, “Huh, I don’t know what that means.” Reaching for his wallet, he removes a business card and slaps it on the counter. “But cornbread has to be the best excuse a woman has ever used.”

Thessaly picks up the plain white card with a single green stripe and reads, “Levi Jones, Director and Managing Partner, Brooklyn Soil.” She glances at Levi and asks, “The rooftop farm?”

With hooded eyes and a velvety voice, he replies, “So you’ve heard of me?”

Fighting a smile, Thessaly deadpans, “Sure – most of the fruit I buy comes from your farm.” Testing the frisky banter, Thessaly adds, “And the name Levi Jones sounds familiar, too – like the leader of a religious cult.”

Leaning against the counter again, Levi whispers, “What if I told you my sister’s name is Dandelion?”

Thessaly leans toward him and matches his whisper. “I’d wonder if there were marijuana crops in your rooftop greenhouse.” Placing a jar of jam and the set of silver spreaders inside a small, brown shopping bag, Thessaly rasps, “Enjoy your peaches.”