F*ck Marriage(8)

Satcher makes a face. “I’m an investor. I didn’t buy the blog to work there for the rest of my life.”

“So what? You want to hire me to run the blog for you?” I stop in front of the wall of mailboxes, resisting the urge to cross my arms over my chest.

“Exactly.”

“And Pearl?”

“You’d be her boss.”

I study his face. “Woods won’t let that happen. They’re engaged. He’s part owner…”

Satcher is already shaking his head. “I’m sixty percent shareholder, Billie. Woods only retains forty percent of Rhubarb.”

My mouth drops open. “You’re kidding.” I had no idea Woods sold out most of his percentage, but then I guess I never asked. I was too intent on hightailing it out of town so I could go lick my wounds.

“Why did he sell?” I ask. This is none of my business, and normally I keep my nose out of things that have nothing to do with me. But this was my company, the one I started, the one I felt forced to walk away from.

Satcher grins. It’s the sort of wicked grin that says he has information I’ll enjoy.

“Pearl wanted to buy a place in the Upper East Side. She was in competition with your loft, I think. I once heard them arguing about why you got the loft in the divorce. She wanted it.”

That’s right, I think—Pearl’s obsession with my loft. Woods and I often had people over, especially in those early days when we’d just started Rhubarb. I remember glancing up from the pitcher of margaritas I was making in the kitchen to see Pearl with her phone out, taking pictures of various parts of my home. I’d convinced myself to be flattered, but I remember thinking there was definitely something strange about it too.



“So, what do you say?” Satcher asks. “You help me, I help you? You breathe life back into the blog for me, I help you irritate the shit out of Pearl.”

My older neighbor, Mr. Morse, bustles through the door just then carrying his teacup Yorkie under his arm. I see that he’s wearing the same mauve sweater vest he was when I first met him. No matter how hot it is outside, he always dresses like it’s fall. Mr. Morse brought over a vegan casserole and a bottle of expensive tequila when I first moved in, telling me his partner had died six months earlier of cancer. I’d been charmed by his manicured hands and southern accent. We’d become fast friends in our mutual state of sadness.

His smile freezes when he spots Satcher, his eyes aligning with mine in interest.

“Hi, Mr. Morse,” I say, reaching out to pet Bluffin.

“Wendy,” he says in greeting.

“This is Satcher Gamble,” I pause to look Satcher in the eye meaningfully, “—my new boss.”

One corner of Satcher’s mouth lifts in a smile, his dark eyes moving from mischief to laughter.

“Ahh,” he says. “It’s a good day to be alive.”

Mr. Morse looks between us in amusement. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” he says to Satcher. “I’ll just be going up to give Bluffin his lunch.”

We watch him go, climbing the stairs with the energy of a much younger man. Satcher turns back to me and I don’t know if it’s the air conditioning in the lobby or the way he’s looking at me, but my arms erupt in gooseflesh. Look at you, I think. Getting all worked up under the eyes of a handsome man.

“Still want to get that beer?” He shifts my bag from one arm to another, and I blush in apology.

“Sorry, I got all preoccupied with my new job.”

I lead him down the hall to the stairs. “I’m on the third floor,” I say.

“Nice building.” Satcher climbs the stairs beside me. “Why did Mr. Morse call you Wendy?”

“I’m subleasing it from a friend,” I say. “And Wendy is what I go by now.” We step into the hallway and I fumble with my keys, cursing under my breath. Satcher laughs behind me and I shoot him a look.

“Try that one,” he says of my keychain.

Jules has a million keys on her ring; I’ve yet to separate the ones I actually need, which results in a ten-minute session every time I get home. I curse myself for my procrastination as I stick the key Satcher suggested into the keyhole, and miracle of miracles, it turns. The door swings open. I stand aside to let him through and he carries my bag to the kitchen without asking where it is. Oh, to be as comfortable in one’s skin as Satcher Gable. I grin at the back of his head as he starts unpacking my groceries and setting them on the counter.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say.

“Are you kidding? I want to see what you bought.”

I laugh, taking the bottle of amaretto cherries he hands me. “You soak them in whiskey,” I say when he looks at me quizzically. “Delicious.”

His only response is a slightly cocked eyebrow and the dip of his dimples.

“You know, I have beer here,” I say, staring into the fridge. “Unless you’re eager to be in that heat again.”

Jules has three air-conditioning units in her cavernous living room, which sets the apartment’s temperature at a reasonable seventy-five degrees.

“I’m all about it.” Satcher nods.

He stacks some cans in the pantry for me and then moves over to the living room. I set about making our drinks, grabbing supplies from Jules’ teal fridge. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him standing at the window looking out over the street.