She chuckles. “I have to—I’m in the home stretch. It’s down to me and Brenda Raven for valedictorian. I’ve already been accepted to NYU in the fall, but graduating first in my class would be a yummy cherry on my academic sundae.”
At first glance, Ellie Hammond comes off as kind of . . . ditzy. Like she’s got a little too much air between her ears. But nothing could be farther from the truth. She’s not an airhead; she’s just . . . innocent. Trusting. Joyful. Probably the most chipper young woman I’ve ever known.
“Did you go to college?” she asks.
“No.”
A counselor told me I was dyslexic when I was nine. It was a relief to know I wasn’t just a dumb fuck. She taught me how to get by, but even now reading doesn’t come easy.
“I was never real talented in school.”
I move closer to the counter, putting my hand on the handle of the rolling pin she’s using.
And Ellie freezes, like a delicate blond deer.
“I’ll do it,” I say. “So you can study. I’ve watched you make enough of them to manage.”
And she looks up at me like I just offered her the world on a platter. “Yeah?”
“Sure.” I shrug, ignoring the hero worship in her eyes. “I’m just standing here.”
I don’t like to be useless.
“Ah . . . okay. Thanks.” She opens a drawer and hands me a white apron. “You should put this on, though.”
She might as well be holding a roach.
“Do I look like the kind of guy who’d wear an apron?”
Ellie shrugs. “Have it your way, Mr. I’m-Too-Sexy-for-My-Apron. But that black dress shirt isn’t going to look so sharp when it’s covered in flour.”
I snort. But leave the bloody apron on the counter. Not a chance.
There’s an odd satisfaction to baking that I’d never admit to aloud. It occurs to me as I slide the last of two dozen pies onto the cooling rack on the center counter. They look good—with golden, flaky brown crusts—and they smell even better. Ellie closes her big textbook and shuffles her papers away with a bright white smile taking up half of her face.
“God, I needed that. Now I can make this exam my bitch.”
She’s relieved. And I feel satisfaction in that too.
We head out to the front dining room and take the chairs down from where they sit, upside down on the tables. Her gaze follows my every move—she tries being sneaky about it—skittering her eyes away when I glance back, but I’ve been checked out by enough women to know what’s going on. Ellie’s interest is weighted with curiosity and fascination, skimming over me like the touch of unpracticed, seeking hands.
She opens the window shade, revealing the crowd of customers that’s already gathered on the pavement. It’s smaller than it was a few weeks ago—now that the public knows the Crown Prince of Wessco has left the building, and the country.
Ellie goes back to the kitchen . . . and screams bloody murder.
“Nooooooo!”
Adrenaline spikes through me and I dart to the kitchen, ready to fight. Until I see the cause of her screaming.
“Bosco, noooooo!”
It’s the rodent-dog. He got into the kitchen, somehow managed to hoist himself up onto the counter, and is in the process of demolishing his fourth pie.
Fucking Christ, it’s impressive how fast he ate them. That a mutt his size could even eat that many. His stomach bulges with his ill-gotten gains—like a snake that ingested a monkey. A big one.
“Thieving little bastard!” I yell.
Ellie scoops him off the counter and I point my finger in his face. “Bad dog.”
The little twat just snarls back.
Ellie tosses the mongrel on the steps that lead up to the apartment and slams the door. Then we both turn and assess the damage. Two apple and a cherry are completely devoured, he nibbled at the edge of a peach and apple crumb and left tiny paw-prints in two lemon meringues.
“We’re going to have re-bake all seven,” Ellie says.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Looks that way.”
“It’ll take hours,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“But we have to. There isn’t any other choice.”
Silence follows. Heavy, meaningful silence.
I glance sideways at Ellie, and she’s already peeking over at me.
“Or . . . is there?” she asks slyly.
I look at what remains of the damaged pastries, considering all the options. “If we slice off the chewed bits . . .”
“And smooth out the meringue . . .”
“Put the licked ones in the oven to dry out . . .”
“Are you two out of your motherfucking minds?”
I swing around to find Marty standing in the alley doorway behind us. Eavesdropping and horrified. Ellie tries to cover for us. But she’s bad at it.
“Marty! When did you get here? We weren’t gonna do anything wrong.”
Covert ops are not in her future.
“Not anything wrong?” he mimics, stomping into the room. “Like getting us shut down by the goddamn health department? Like feeding people dog-drool pies—have you no couth?”
“It was just a thought,” Ellie swears—starting to laugh.
“A momentary lapse in judgment,” I say, backing her up.
“We’re just really tired and—”
“And you’ve been in this kitchen too long.” He points to the door. “Out you go.”
When we don’t move, he goes for the broom.
“Go on—get!”
Ellie grabs her knapsack and I guide her out the back door as Marty sweeps at us like we’re vermin.
Out on the pavement, it starts to rain—a light, annoying mist. From the corner of my eye, I see Ellie pull her hood up, but my gaze stays trained ahead of us. If your eyes are on the person you’re supposed to be protecting, you’re doing it wrong.
I take note of who else is on the street, reading their body language—pedestrians on their way to work, a homeless guy on the corner, a businessman smoking a cigarette and yelling into his phone. I stick close to Ellie, keeping her within reach, scanning left to right for potential threats or anyone who might make the poor decision to try and get too close. It’s second nature.
“Do you need to head to school?”
“Not yet. It’s finals week, so I have free study periods first and second.”
Without needing to look, I text Tommy that I’ll get Ellie to school—he should meet us there.
The rain grows stronger and there’s a flash of lightning in the gray sky.
“Is there somewhere particular you want to go?”
I don’t want her getting ill from the rain.
“I know a place.” And her little hand wraps around my wrist. “Come on.”
By the time we pass through the stone arch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, it’s full-out pouring, the water coursing over the entrance steps in a hundred little rivulets. Inside the marble-floored foyer, it’s warm and dry. Ellie shakes the water from her hoodie and wrings out her long, multicolored hair and I catch her scent. It’s sweet—peach, orange blossoms and rain.
“My mom used to bring me and Olivia here all the time.”