Over a Barrel, page 6
Chapter Ten
They were barely outside Dram’s backdoor when Colby launched into her interrogation. “Okay, spill.”
CC had expected as much but had hoped—against all odds—that maybe Colby would wait until they made it the three blocks home.
No such luck. “That’s twice now you and Al have been at Dram together,” Colby continued as she tugged a wagon full of baking supplies behind her. “And both times you’ve been flirting up a storm.”
“She’s the opposing counsel on the year-end deal I’m working,” CC said, addressing the first part of her sister’s question.
Colby wasn’t letting her skip the second. “Yes, and I’ve lived with you for six years while you’ve been practicing and you’ve never looked like this”—she made a sweeping gesture in front of CC’s face—“over a deal.”
CC continued her evasive maneuvers. “What all did you put in that wagon?”
“Everything I need to make babka, challah rolls, dreidel cookies, and more sufganiyot.”
She was stress baking, like she always did before a long flight. Colby loved to travel—she’d been all over the world—but she was a nervous flyer. She coped by staying up and baking the entire night before so she’d pass out as soon as the plane hit cruising altitude. But this was extreme, even for Colby. “Are you planning to take some home because I can’t eat that many doughnuts?”
Colby shot her a do-you-need-more-coffee glare. “One, yes, you totally can, and two, it’s for you to take to Al’s tomorrow.”
“How—”
“I heard her tell Tony to add one.”
“I was thinking of skipping out.”
Colby shook her head hard enough to dislodge the rest of her flagging topknot. “Nope. You like her, she likes you, and I don’t want you to spend First Night alone.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know. Al is fucking hot.”
“Colby!”
She shrugged and flicked her hair out of her face. “I’m not wrong.”
CC didn’t see a way out of this convo; Colby was relentless. And maybe she needed to have it anyway, to work out where she was with things in her own head, where things might go with Al and if she was okay with that. Colby was the only person who knew her entire story, what it would mean for CC to put herself out there again. “You’re not wrong,” she admitted.
“She strikes me as the Domme type too.”
“You’re not wrong there either.”
“Ooh, score for you, sis!”
“She’s another attorney, Col. After San Francisco . . .” Her words died as they turned the corner onto their street, as she remembered another much hillier street where hope had died a swift and fiery death. “I can’t start over, not again. I don’t have another bar exam in me.”
Colby snorted. “Not sure I would survive another one either.” They both laughed, but it was half-hearted, tinged with sadness and shared commiseration. Colby only spoke again once they reached their house. “You have to do what feels right, CC, but if you do pursue something, I don’t think it’ll be like last time. I’ve been working at Dram for a while now, with Al’s family, and they’re good people. She seems like good people too. She doesn’t seem like an immature, power-hungry, shitty Domme.”
CC both winced and laughed at the succinct, too accurate description of her ex. And she tended to agree. Al was mature, successful, and completely at ease in her skin, nothing like Quinn. But that wasn’t the only concern CC had when it came to a possible postdeal relationship with Al. And that was what it would need to be: a relationship, not just the occasional hookup. CC didn’t do casual; she knew that about herself and wasn’t about to lie and say otherwise for even the best lay. “I don’t even know how long she’s in NOLA for. Her family is in California.”
“Well,” Colby said as they climbed the couple of steps, carrying the cart, “you are barred there. Isn’t that convenient?”
“I have no intention of leaving here or you.” CC waited while Colby unlocked the door to her side of the house, then rolled the cart in behind her. “In any event, nothing can happen until after we close this deal. I can’t compromise this for my clients.” CC closed and locked the door, only to be bear-hugged by her sister.
“You’re a good attorney, sis. And a good sister and friend.”
She rested her head against her sister’s temple. “And I will take you to the airport at fuck-off early because I love you, but I will not make it there and back safely if I stay up all night with you baking.”
“Just snore from the couch and keep me company?”
CC returned Colby’s cheek-smacking kiss from earlier. “I can do that.”
Chapter Eleven
CC stood on the sidewalk in front of a gorgeous two-story Irish Channel home, its siding painted seafoam green, its trim and balconies white, and the front door a bright canary yellow. Lights shone from the floor-to-ceiling windows, a string of metallic letters spelling out CHAG SAMEACH! stretched across the upstairs balcony, and a matching wreath of blue, silver, and gold was hung on the front door.
Said door swung open, and CC had to do a double take. If it weren’t for the mohawk of black curls and the familiar smile, she might not have recognized Tony in cargo shorts and a tee instead of his usual behind-the-bar jeans, vest, and starched shirt.
“Hey, CC.” He jogged down the front steps and joined her on the sidewalk. “Let me help you with that.” Bending, he lifted one end of the cart full of baked goods while CC picked up the other, the two of them carefully navigating the brick steps.
“Colby went a little overboard,” she said.
“You should see the pastry freezer at Dram.”
Inside, they lowered the cart and CC shut the door behind them. “She loves to travel but hates flying, so she works herself into a frenzy the night before she leaves. Helps her sleep on the plane.”
“As much as we wouldn’t want to lose her, there are plenty of gigs for a talent like hers in SF.”
CC laughed out loud. “She would never live that close to our parents again.”
Tony’s answering laugh was drowned out by a wave of noise from the back of the house—banging pots, a pressure cooker whistle, more laughter—all of it echoing down the long narrow hallway. Typical double gallery side hall floor plan for this neighborhood, and no surprise this bunch of foodies would be gathered in the kitchen and living areas at the back. And with the enticing aromas drifting from that direction—brisket, onions, fried potatoes—no one could fault them.
She and Tony were halfway down the hall when a mini commotion reached them first. Amos, Tony and Greg’s son who CC recognized from around Dram, was careening in their direction, two other kids on his heels, both of them freckled gingers.
Arms spread, Tony stepped in their path. “Slow down before someone gets hurt.”
Likely the smallest one. The little boy couldn’t have been more than three, and he was struggling to keep up with Amos and the redheaded girl, his sister if CC had to guess.
“Say hello to CC,” Tony said to Amos. “And introduce your cousins.”
“Hey, CC.” Amos waved, then elbowed the girl at his side. “This is Molly.”
She elbowed him right back, then jutted her thumb over her shoulder. “That my brother, Michael.”
CC smiled to cover her awkwardness, unsure if she should bend down and make conversation or maybe offer the kids something from Colby’s cart. She’d babysat the neighbor’s kids once as a teen and known right then that she’d never have children of her own. Decades later, she still didn’t know how to relate to them. But as with most kids, Amos and the redheads weren’t that interested in her either. Another quick round of waves and they skirted around Tony and into the room to their left where a blanket fort was pitched between two twin beds, Legos scattered on the floor beneath it.
“Don’t take it personally,” Tony said as they started down the hallway again. “They’re always like this when they see each other. In their own world, no adults allowed.”
“Colby and I were the same with our cousins whenever we—” They emerged from the hall, through a wet bar she would have drooled over if she weren’t too busy drooling over the kitchen spread out before her. She and Colby had upgraded their own kitchens when they’d bought their place, but this was next level.
“Dessert is here,” she vaguely heard Tony say, and barely registered Greg throwing her a wink and a “You know she is.” She was still too caught up trying to take in the kitchen of her and Colby’s dreams. A massive cooking and serving island stretched the length of the space, and on either side were wide aisles, an artfully set banquet dining table to the right, and three massive chefs to the left, including Greg, operating between the sixty-inch range top on the island and the double sinks and prep space beneath the wall of windows.
“Miller Sykes,” Tony said, and the chef in plaid flipping latkes in a skillet on the range raised a hand. “Noah Rosin,” he said next, and the one chopping fennel who had more hair on his chin than on his head raised his hand. “This is CC, Colby’s sister.”
“Oh!” Miller flashed her a grin, wide and bright in his gray and chestnut scruff. “So you’re the person I need to convince to move to Boston.” Except Chef Plaid sounded way more Southern than Bostonian, and what did he mean move there?
Before she could voice her confusion, Greg flicked him with latke batter. “I’m not letting you have Colby. Not when Eater goes on for paragraphs about how good our desserts are now.”
Have Colby?
“Give up, y’all,” Noah said, the y’all at odds with the New York accent. He tossed the chopped fennel in a large bowl, added what looked like grapefruit pieces, then went to town with a pepper mill. “She’s from California. I win.”
“Oh, shut up, Mister Lives on a Vineyard.” Miller flicked batter on down the line. “Unfair advantage.”
“Times two!” Greg agreed, but then said to Miller, “Though in fairness, you used to live there too.”
More batter flew, and CC’s head spun just as fast, struggling to keep up with the rapid-fire banter, the choreographed kitchen operation, the mentions of moving, and chefs fighting over Colby. It was a storm she hadn’t been prepared for, and it was tilting her world off-balance.
Until a familiar laugh from the far end of the room on the other side of Chef Mountain focused her attention.
She stepped right, out from the end of the island, and the rest of the living area came into view. Past the kitchen and the fireplace that divided the back wall of the house in half was a cozy space filled with two oversize chairs angled at either end of a corner sectional and a giant ottoman-slash-coffee-table. All the furniture—and the people on it—faced the kitchen, including the casual version of Al who CC had first met at SFO. Her maxi skirt tonight was navy with gold starbursts, her sweater a matching dark blue, and her bare feet poked out from under the hem of the skirt. She looked relaxed and happy, tucked under the arm of a strikingly attractive older man with copper and silver curls. They were totally caught up in whatever the redheaded woman on the arm of the chair to their right was saying. In said chair sat a ginger man, and for perhaps the first time in her life, CC thought maybe her own red hair was in the majority tonight. It was the only thing that remotely made her feel like she belonged here.
Tony rejoined her, glass in hand. “Manhattan for you,” he said, handing her the cocktail. “It’s a lot, I know. Let’s leave Larry, Moe, and Curly to it.”
That earned him a flick of latke batter, then like the children in the hall, the chefs quickly forgot they existed, arguing who was which Stooge. She and Tony continued on toward the living area, Al finally glancing their way just as they cleared the end of the island. Her bright smile made CC’s pulse pound, and her dark eyes, filling with that same smoldering heat from their first encounter, made all of CC’s pumping blood race a different direction. Neon Danger signs blinked in her head, and yet CC didn’t turn and run, too intrigued by this woman and her unconventional family.
“Someone’s husbands are misbehaving,” Tony said.
“Including yours?” Ezra, CC assumed, given his age and accent and the easy affection between him and Al.
“Of course,” Tony replied. “Which is why I’m here with this beautiful lady.”
Smiling, Al unfolded from the couch and stepped around Ezra’s knees. “They’re as much trouble together as the kids.” She crossed to CC’s side and looped an arm through her free one. “This one’s trouble too, so watch out. Everyone, this is CC, Colby’s sister. She’s also across from me on a deal at the moment.”
“My condolences,” Ezra said as he stood. Al swatted his stomach, and he gasped in mock outrage. “What? You’re the best.” He extended a hand to CC. “Ezra Rosin, forever her number one fan.”
“CC,” she said, returning the shake. “Nice to meet you.”
“These are our kids,” Ezra carried on, gesturing first to the pair of redheads in the one chair. “Our son, Tyler, and his wife, Sloan.”
“The two little redheads running around are ours,” Sloan added, the same trace of Southern in her voice as in Miller’s.
“The gravy monsters from Thanksgiving,” Al said before she ruffled the brown hair of the younger man in the closest chair. His arms were full of strawberry blond baby. “And this is Miller’s husband, Clancy, and their daughter, Holland.”
CC stepped closer so Clancy wouldn’t have to stand or reach far to shake her hand. “You two have a connection there? To Holland?” she asked Clancy.
He laughed. “No. It was Sloan’s idea. None of our husbands can make a hollandaise that doesn’t break.”
“And that one”—Sloan nodded to the bundle in Clancy’s arms—“is sure to break them all. I thought it was funny.”
So did CC, especially as an argument broke out behind them, Miller and Greg debating what sauce to serve with the brisket.
Clancy rose and adjusted Holland in his arms. “I’m going to go break that up since our window to eat is quickly closing. She’s got maybe forty-five minutes left on this nap.”
“Give her to me,” Al said, arms out, careful not to wake the baby as Clancy gently handed her over. CC shifted on her feet, giving them more room, which only served to draw Al’s attention. “Do you want to hold her?”
CC shook her head. “I’m not a natural.”
“That’s fine.” Al’s smile didn’t falter, a pleasant change from the judgment CC often received for the truth. Al bent and kissed the baby’s forehead. “I’ll keep her all to myself.”
Ezra lowered his voice, whispering, “You always were a sucker for a redhead.”
CC sipped her drink and took another step back. She braced herself on the arm of Clancy’s vacated chair, the earlier storm winds kicking up again and tipping her off-balance, her earlier intrigue veering more toward wariness. She liked this family. Colby was right. They seemed like good people—warm, open, and accepting—but they were tight. Tighter than most she’d experienced. They had their own rhythms and language and a world in common. It felt a bit like that time she and Colby visited the French village that made Col’s favorite cheese. CC couldn’t understand a word or thing going on around her and had felt lost all afternoon. And she was rarely lost with a plate of cheese in front of her. Maybe she should have asked Colby for a crash course on the Rosins last night instead of falling asleep on the couch. Could Col spare five minutes to give her one now? Her flight had landed a couple hours ago, and dinner was still a few hours away there.
She tipped back the rest of the drink, then set the glass on the end of the island. “I’m going to go call Colby,” she told Al. “Make sure she got home.”
“Use my office,” Al said. “Less chance of arguing chefs or gravy monsters.”
Sloan pushed off the arm of the other chair. “I’ll show you the way.” She opened the patio door off the living room, led CC down a short set of steps and around the steaming in-ground pool, to the structure at the back of the lot. “The owner flipped it so the other side is the garage,” Sloan explained as she pulled open the black-framed accordion doors where garage doors clearly used to be. “Made this a pool house that Al uses as her office.”
CC’s gaze roamed over the space. A comfy-looking chaise lounge and minimalist table and office chair for furniture. White walls like the rest of the house, another marble-top wet bar, a flat-screen television over it, bookshelves along the other wall, a large black-and-white framed photograph of a rainy Central Park on the opposite one.
“You okay?” Sloan asked behind her.
CC turned from the framed photograph. “Yeah, of course.”
Sloan leaned against the doorjamb. She was around Al’s height, probably around CC’s age, with long red barrel curls and blue eyes that sparkled with even more mischief than Al’s. If there was a chief troublemaker in this family, Sloan was probably that person. “It’s a lot when you first get pulled into their orbit. Miller and Greg and I were our own island for years until we met Tyler and got pulled in. Hang tight. It’s worth it, I promise.”
“Al and I are just work friends.”
“Sure,” Sloan drawled. Definitely Southern. “Ask Tony how that went.” She turned on her heel and threw a wink over her shoulder. “And you’re totally Al’s type.”
Chapter Twelve
When the chefs finally gave the ten-minute warning and CC still hadn’t returned from the office, Al handed Holland off to Ezra and went looking for her missing guest. Earlier, CC had looked like a deer caught in the headlights, too many moving pieces to process. Maybe throwing her right into the frying pan wasn’t the best idea. At the same time, there was no use hiding the ball. If anything were to develop postclosing between them, CC needed to know Al came with a big family full of love and chaos. She needed to be okay with ex-spouses who still loved each other, with family that transcended blood, and with a mix of people and cultures that usually worked well together but did also occasionally butt heads. Though any argument always ended in laughter.
