Page 45 of Hate You Later
“Oh, shut up!” I say out loud to nobody as I exit the elevators. “I am here to see this project through, profitably. Nothing more.”
And then I’m struck again by the altered view. It still hits me fresh every time I come up here. Pride. I’m proud of this place. And not just in a dollar-sign way.
The roofline of the original warehouse has been dramatically changed by the multi-level penthouses, each with their own balconies and decks. A breezeway between the units leads to a lush roof garden with a view.
I can imagine a crowd of people enjoying the roof garden area. Such an inviting spot, with its sweeping riverfront views. There’s a circular firepit, a small bar, and several cocktail-style, cement tables sheltered beneath a portico. My mind paints in the twinkling lights and space heaters we’ll be adding in order to make the space functional nearly all year round.
It will be the perfect place to host friends or for neighbors to dine together.
Who am I kidding? This project isn’t like all the others. It’s special. You can take the boy out of Ephron, but apparently …
I settle myself at one of the small tables and scroll through the messages I’ve been avoiding all day. The first one is from Jackson.
Hey, I’m home. Ready for that drink?
Want to meet at The Onion?I suggest.I’d love your opinion about something. I’m hosting an event at the warehouse next month.
Pet masquerade fundraiser?Jackson replies.
Yes, I answer, wondering how he knows.
I wouldn’t put much past Lilly, but she doesn’t really know my friend.
Lucky guess. My cohost from the podcast is volunteering. She asked if I’d help get the word out.
Interesting. Talk over beer and burgers?I type, suddenly feeling the emptiness in my gut. Jackson thumbs-up this message.
I can be at The Onion in twenty,he answers.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and head back to the loft to grab my car keys. But before I can get through the door, the phone dings again. I check to see if Jackson has changed his ETA, but this time, it’s Cookie.
Relief washes over me. It isn’t like her to go the whole day without a single post or text. I was actually starting to get worried. I read her message.
I finished the assignment, Oliver! Let me know what you think? Do you drool on your human like a little savage too? Xoxo, C
I follow the link and read the caption before studying the image. It reads: “Don’t Bite the Hand That Feeds You.”
In the image, Cookie is cross-eyed, staring at a treat being held out in front of her. Long rivulets of drool appear to be suspended, midair.
I can only assume the outstretched hand belongs to Cookie’s owner. I study the woman’s palm, because itisclearly a woman.
Her hand is small and delicate. The focus is on the dog’s face, so the hand is slightly blurry. The details are softened. I follow the lifeline crease in her palm down toward her wrist. There’s a tattoo there. Most of it is covered by her sleeve, but there are tiny shooting stars peeking out. They remind me of sparks.
I settle back into my chaise lounge and open the challenge portal to chat, but almost as soon as I do, I realize that I really can’t do this now. I’ve got to go if I’m going to be on time to meet Jackson.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I’m starving.
Taking one last look at the photo Cookie’s just posted, I excuse myself, promising Cookie that I’ll be back later.
Maybe I’ll find a way to tell her about the lofts.
georgia
Somehow,I make it through the rest of the day, phone free and with a bandaged hand. I use a landline to call a cab to get me home. I’m lucky to find someone who’s okay with my dog accompanying me in their vehicle.
“Tough day?” the taxi driver asks.
“You have no idea …”
