Love Handles (Oakland Hills #1)(30)

Bev laughed, but he kept a straight face, and she sighed. “Forget Carrie.” She got up. “I want you to give me the tour. That will look better anyway. Some of your authority might rub off on me.”

The thought of him rubbing any part of her was bad. He got to his feet and strode to the door. “I have time for a quick run-through. Then you can get comfortable in Ed’s lair.”

“Lair?”

“You’ll see.”

She followed him. “Is there a security badge or something I need to worry about?”

“Security badge? Like a sheriff?”

“No badge, then.”

He shook his head. “We’ll start at the back door. Where the magic begins.”

She followed him down the tiled hallway, past the vault of old clothes, into a loading area that opened to the back alley. Old George in his Oakland A’s cap sat perched on a stool, reading the paper and eating an apple.

“This is where our deliveries come in and out,” Liam said. “Thanks to George here.”

“Not like I do anything,” George said. “Damn company should put us both out of my misery.”

Bev bit her lip and glanced at Liam, who was hoping George would be his typical trollish self and knock some reality into Bev’s head. With Ellen gone, all he needed was to show Bev how much happier she’d be owning Fite from the other end of the state.

“George, this is Beverly Lewis. Ed’s granddaughter.” Liam’s eyes fell for a moment to her mouth, then were drawn down to her body for a quick peek before snapping back over to George. “She’s the new owner.”

George stopped mid-chew and stared. “No shit,” he said, his mouth full.

“Nice to meet you, George.” She smiled. “Yummy apple?”

That made George raise his white, untrimmed eyebrows and take another bite. He looked at Liam without moving his head. “You kiddin’ me?”

Bev kept smiling as though George had welcomed her with open arms. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

George’s eyebrows stretched up even higher, suggesting there wasn’t. “Never seen you around before, have I?”

“You will now,” she said. “How long have you worked here, George?”

Crunch. Another bite, apple-spit drooling down his chin. “Too long.”

She nodded, smiling, apparently oblivious to his hostility. “Then I bet you’re an incredible resource for a newcomer like me,” she said. “If you see me screwing up, you let me know.”

George scowled at her, took another bite, and looked at Liam with a What the f*ck? expression.

That was just the first dose; she couldn’t maintain that good cheer forever. Liam pulled her away, past the morning delivery of white bunting rolls propped on their ends, each fuzzy cylinder five feet tall and three feet in diameter, to the freight elevator. “Moving on up.” He punched the call button. “This is the easiest way up to the engineering floor.”

After a couple of minutes the car appeared above them, visible through the grate, jerking and squealing. Liam waited for it to settle before he tugged the cage open. He stepped aside for her to get on first, then climbed in after her and banged the door closed. “Let’s start at the top floor and work our way down.” He held down another button and the elevator lurched and rose.

She tilted her head back to watch the floor above them approach, slowly become level with them, then sink below. He noticed her neck was long and pale and had a faint blue vein pulsing below her jaw. He leaned his shoulder against the car wall as the floors groaned past. “You must love kids, to teach preschool. Aren’t you going to miss them?”

“It’s not just about liking children, like I’m just some glorified babysitter who never wants to grow up.”

He’d found a nerve. Filing that away for future use, he asked, “Who said that?”

She turned aside and watched the next floor appear through the gate. “The education of children, especially young ones, is not highly compensated. Some take this as evidence of its unimportance.”

He tried to remember more about her branch of the family. Hollywood types, lots of money. Not the kind to live in a dumpy apartment like hers, or value her teaching career.

“The education of children is more important than anything,” he said. “Certainly more important than exercise clothes.”

Looking suspicious, she tried to catch his eye, but he focused on the elevator controls until the car reached their floor. The elevator jerked and he pulled the gate aside, then shoved the metal door open for her. They walked into a bright, white-walled corridor filled with a dozen women huddled over a row of sewing machines. The rattle and thrumming of their work echoed across the tile. “Behold, the sewing ladies,” he said.

Most of the women glanced up for a second, then went back to their work. “Ladies?” Bev asked in his ear.

“Traditional title.”

At the machine closest to the window, Shirley Hwang, the floor manager, held up a piece of black fabric.

“Mr. Liam.” She wagged it at him, her red bifocals falling to the cord around her neck. “This new stuff. It keeps getting holes. Very crappy material.”

Looking around for one of the assistants, he went over and took it from her. “Do you have the original roll?”