Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(73)

“Here.” She touches a panel and it slides open to reveal a giant refrigerator.

“Huh. No problem, then. Want to watch a movie or something?”

Alex dries her hands on a dish towel. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I had to hang those shelves. It’s harder than it looks, though. The nails didn’t want to stay in the walls. So I had to use screws, and a thing called…a micky?”

“A molly?”

“Right! That. But you need a drill, which I borrowed from the super. And then I drilled two holes that weren’t level.” She throws the dish towel onto the counter. “But now I think I’m on the right track. It might take me another half hour. And then maybe I could watch a movie?”

“Okay,” I say easily. She still looks strung out to me. But maybe the food will help.

“There might be beer in my fridge. I usually have some in there for when my dad stops by. Help yourself?” She pads out of the kitchen and heads back toward the baby’s room.

I go to the foyer and open the front door.

Duff looks up. He’s holding an empty take-out container. “Hey! How’s it going in there?”

“Good,” I say, taking the container from his hands. “Why don’t you take the night off? Go to the gym. Go out for a beer. I’ll hold down the fort.”

“Really?” His eyes widen. “I’ve worked a lot of hours this weekend because Max is a little freaked, too.”

“Is he now?” I don’t know why I like hearing that my brother is capable of panic. It makes him more human, I guess.

“You know. For him.” Duff shrugs. “I’ll call in and see if they would mind if I went home for a nap.”

“Good plan. I promise not to leave until you’re back.”

“I knew you were my favorite hockey player.” Duff pulls out his phone.

“Thanks, man.”

I go back inside and finish tidying up Alex’s kitchen. I brought enough food for six people and half of it is gone. It makes me weirdly happy to feed her, and I have no idea why.

Afterward, I get a beer and then take a tour of her den, turning on the TV and then looking at the magazines spread out on the coffee table. The Economist. Barron’s. I flip one of them open. The first article is “The Upcoming Currency Crisis.”

Nope. I flip it closed again.

And then there’s a loud crash in the bedroom.





26





Alex





“Fuck!” I shriek, clutching the star-shaped unit before it can fall all the way to the floor.

Eric hurries into the room, stopping when he sees that I’m unharmed, but surrounded by chaos.

“Everything is fine!” I say in a voice betraying more hysteria than light home repair usually calls for. “All it takes is a couple of simple steps, and I can’t even get it right on the fourth try!”

“Hey, Alex,” Eric says in the sort of calm voice you’re supposed to use on crazy people. He eases the unit out of my hands. “Can I ask how much shelving you’ve hung before?”

“None. Obviously.”

“Then why the hell wouldn’t you let me just help you for a second?”

I take a deep breath of air all the way into my diaphragm. “Please take your manly self into the next room and watch some television. I need to do this myself.”

“Because?” His pretty eyes are stormy.

“Because I just do.”

“Are you trying to make me crazy, here? Or does it just come naturally?”

“Hey, guess what? This isn’t about you. This isn’t even a little bit about you. I just want to build my own freaking shelf.”

“Is it the pregnancy hormones? You live in a fucking gorgeous apartment. But I would bet my left nut that there isn’t a single thing in this place that you built yourself. Why start today?”

“I’m having a child.”

“I noticed that.”

“I was once a child, as were you. However, I lived in a house where everything was done by the help. My parents never did a thing for me with their own hands. That summer you spent with us on the Vineyard — do you remember my father ever making us a sandwich?

“No.”

“That’s not the kind of parent I want to be. So I am hanging my child’s bookshelves. Even if they are the worst bookshelves ever seen in New York City. Perfection is not the point. I’m doing it because I care, and I want my child to know that.”

“Oh,” he says quietly. “I see.”

“You know that expression: born with a silver spoon in your mouth? My kid’s spoon is from freaking Cartier. Money is not our issue. But we are going to have plenty of issues.”

“Okay.”

“You think I’m crazy.”

“No.” He shakes his head vigorously.

“You’re still looking at me like I might flip out at any moment.”

“Only because you’re swinging a screwdriver around while you talk. I’m just trying to make sure I stay out of the way. I’ve had enough injuries already this year.”

“Oh.” I look down at my hand where there is, indeed, a rather large screwdriver. “Sorry. Thank you for listening.”