Leanne Banks - Hot Stuff

“No. He’s new.”

“You should go flirt with him. He looks like fun.”

“Think I’ll pass on that. I’ve had about all the fun I can handle for one night,” Cate said. “My mom invited another Mr. Right to dinner. He tried to kiss me when I left for work, I instinctively kneed him in the groin, and he said he liked a feisty woman.”

“Obviously you didn’t knee him hard enough.”

“Seemed pretty hard to me. He went down to the floor and rolled around some before he said I was feisty.”

Gina’s attention was fixed on the hot guy. “Did he look like him?”

“Not even a little,” Cate said.

The guy at the end of the bar was fine. Black hair, styled short, but long enough from its last cut to wave a little over his ears and fall onto his forehead. Nice mouth, dark eyes, broad shoulders. He had his button-down shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms. Clearly he had some muscle. He caught her looking and his face creased into a full-on smile showing big-bad-wolf-perfect white teeth.

Cute, Kellen McBride thought, readjusting his former opinion of Cate Madigan. She looked like she should be tucked away in an old Celtic castle, wearing a flowing dress of emerald green, waiting for a knight in shining armor. He’d been watching her refill glasses and mingle with the regulars and had reached the conclusion that she was confident, spirited, and in control. This dragged a mental sigh out of Kellen. Cate Madigan was not the type who would ever need rescuing. She would make the dragon into a pet, defeat the villain, and use the moat of fire to bake cookies. Cate was, in a single word, enchanting. And the second word that came to mind might be intimidating. Not that any of this mattered. Kellen had a plan, and he was sticking to it until something better came along. He was going to finesse himself into Cate Madigan’s life.

Kellen did a little come here crook with his finger, aimed at Cate.

“Me?” Cate mouthed.

“Lucky you,” Gina said. “He’s delicious.”

Cate added to the tab for one of her regulars and ambled down to the hot guy.

“What can I do for you?” Cate asked. “Another draft? Bar menu?”

“It’s what I can do for you,” he said. “Tai mina fhear chun tusa a thogail on gnathsaol.”

This got a bark of laughter from Cate. “Okay, I’m impressed. This is the first time I’ve had a guy try to pick me up in Gaelic.”

“Seemed appropriate. Do a lot of men try to pick you up?”

“No. I look like everyone’s little sister. Mostly people try to get Marty’s attention. And I know the translation to your Gaelic pickup line. You said I’m the man to take you away from everyday life. I appreciated the sentiment, but I actually like my everyday life… and sorry, I don’t date customers.”

Plus her mother’s words echoed in her ears. If a man is too easy on the eyes, he’s likely to be hard on the heart. This had always presented Cate with a dilemma. Was she supposed to actually look for an ugly man?

“I have very good references,” Mr. Hot Guy told her. “And my name is Kellen McBride. Your Irish father would love me.”

“You aren’t the banker, are you?”

“If I said yes what would it get me?”

Cate did an eye roll and moved to the other end of the bar to refill a wine glass.

Cate was in the kitchen, making breakfast decisions, when Marty bustled in, fully dressed in black Armani slacks, Gucci loafers, and a white shirt that was left unbuttoned enough to display an elaborate gold chain. Marty was in man mode this morning.

“Omigod,” Marty said, eyeballing the cereal box in Cate’s hand. “Are you still eating that dreadful stuff? It’s filled with chemicals. It really has no redeeming value. And it’ll go right to your ass and stay there.”

“I love this stuff,” Cate said, pouring out a bowl, admiring the pretty colors of the worthless, sugarcoated, puffed whatever. “What are you doing up so early? It’s only nine o’clock. You always sleep until eleven.”

“I have a long day. A meeting with my agent. Followed by brunch with Kitty Bergman.” Marty grimaced. “Ick to Kitty Bergman. And a private party gig tonight.”

The phone rang and Marty pressed his lips tight together. “Crap. I just know that’s someone I don’t want to talk to.” His eyes fixed on Cate. “Sweetie, would you get it?”

Cate stuffed the cereal box into the crook of her arm and answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Is Marty there?”

The voice was deep and raspy. A man’s voice. Either a big smoker or someone very old.

Cate gave Marty raised eyebrows. A silent question.

Marty shook his head no.

“Marty isn’t available right now,” Cate said. “Can I relay a message?”

“Tell Marty I’m not waiting forever.”

“Great. You want to leave a name or number?”

“Marty knows who I am.” And he disconnected.

“Some guy isn’t waiting forever,” Cate said to Marty. “You’re such a heartbreaker.”

Marty Longfellow lived in a building that had at one time been a dress factory. The exterior was red brick and sturdy. The interior had been gutted and remade into four floors of midrange, two-bedroom, two-bath condos. It was a South End address, and the inhabitants were a reflection of the eclectic mix of people found in that neighborhood… young professionals, gay men, and a smattering of senior citizens.

Marty’s condo was on the fourth floor and was a candidate for Architectural Digest. The carpet was white plush. The furniture was black leather and chrome. The walls held original art. The chandelier was Murano art glass. Very beautiful. Very expensive.

Cate’s single, small room to the rear of the unit was a candidate for Yard Sale Digest. After paying tuition, buying books, and paying a token amount for rent, there wasn’t a lot of money left for interior design. Cate had taken the yellow-and-white flowered quilt that had been on her bed when she’d moved out of her parents’ house and coordinated it with Martha Stewart sheets, pillows, towels, and bath mat.

Cate’s room was cheery, but not fabulous by Marty’s standards. Marty had a sheared mink throw on his bed and thousand-thread-count sheets. And he deserved all of that luxury, Cate thought. After all, the man shaved off acres of hair every day. Plus, he moisturized, he conditioned, he worked out, he tweezed, and he lasered, peeled, and Botoxed.

It was midmorning and Cate was alone in the kitchen, frosting a cake. The phone rang and Cate gave it the fish eye. The phone was ringing on the hour, every hour. Three calls so far. All had hung up when Cate answered. She suspected it was the guy who was tired of waiting.

Cate snatched the phone and gave a curt “Hello.”

“Yikes,” Sharon Vizzalini said. “You sound cranky.”

Cate had two best friends in the building. Sharon Vizzalini was one of them. Sharon was a realtor who lived one floor down in a condo crammed chock full of a former life. Four years ago, Sharon caught her husband bare-assed in the minivan with the babysitter. The very next day Sharon backed a U-Haul up to her four-bedroom, four-bath colonial in Newton. When the U-Haul couldn’t hold any more Sharon drove it to Boston’s South End, parked it in a lot, ran her finger down her listing sheet, and went condo hunting. Three weeks later she moved into Marty’s building.

Sharon was older than Cate, and three inches shorter. She had curly black hair cut into a bob, a constant tan, a body toned in the local Pilates studio, and enough energy to make coffee nervous. Sharon favored animal prints for upholstery and clothes. She accessorized with big, clunky jewelry and didn’t own sneakers. Sharon was total Dolce & Gabbana in slingback heels. Sharon wore heels to the Pilates studio.

“Not cranky. Just distracted,” Cate said. “What’s up?”

“I was hoping you could bring me a sandwich. I’m watching 2B. I think this is the day. I think he’s finally going to walk out of his condo and show himself.”

Cate swallowed a groan. Sharon was fixated on learning the identity of the mysterious resident in 2B. The unit had been bought by a holding company three months ago, and while occasional sounds and cooking smells oozed under the condo door, no one had seen the occupant.

“I love you, but you’re sounding a little psycho,” Cate said.

“It was bought by a holding company,” Sharon said. “Only celebrities and mobsters do that sort of thing. Aren’t you curious?”

“Curious, yes. Obsessed, no.”

“That’s because you don’t have the realtor personality. We need to know these things. We worry about property value.”

“I’m frosting a cake. I can bring you a sandwich as soon as I’m done.”

“Cake?”

“Does that interest you?”

“Can I have some?”

“If you’re willing to help me sing happy birthday to Mrs. Ramirez in 3C.”

“The hell with 2B. I’ll be right there.”

Minutes later, Cate answered Sharon’s knock.

“Wow, I could smell the cake from the hall,” Sharon said. “Fresh-baked cake. From scratch. With frosting.”

“From a mix,” Cate said, returning to the kitchen and sticking a single candle into the middle of the cake. “But you got the rest right.”

“I think it’s great that you make everyone birthday cakes.”

“It’s my thing,” Cate said. “I love making cakes. If I wasn’t going to teach school, I’d be a baker. And I like Mrs. Ramirez. She’s a good person, and I think she’s lonely. Her kids have all grown up and moved away, and now it’s just Mrs. Ramirez and her cat.”

Sharon wandered into the living room while Cate tossed a handful of rainbow-colored sprinkles onto the cake top.

“Have you every wondered how Marty can afford this apartment?” Sharon asked Cate.

Cate pocketed her key and carried the cake out to Sharon. “Marty sings at the bar and at private parties.”