Page 3 of Stick to the Deal (Friendship Springs Romance #3)

Pastry in the Park

M y sunglasses slip down my nose as I strut down the empty streets.

Well, empty for New York City, anyway. Sunday mornings bring a strange mix of folks out.

There are the brunch goers in a variety of fashions and social standings rushing to cafes to gossip over mimosas and Bloody Marys.

The working class scrambling to open shops and stalls.

Wide-eyed tourists, snapping photos and staring at the skyscrapers overhead rather than where they’re walking.

And my favorite, the walk of shamers who own the raccoon eyes and rumpled clothes in hand.

Chin high and strutting like they’re on some couture runway. You go, girl.

Even at ten a.m., the streets echo with the sounds of horns and trucks bouncing over construction plates. Every corner features a trendy restaurant, gallery, or boutique. It is a city of artists and my heart swells as I breathe in the talent. Ugh. And the constant smell of piss and garbage.

As Grandmama always reminds me, everything comes at a price.

My smile fades at the thought of my grandmother.

Refusing to dim my last day in the city, I take a sip of my iced chai and take the final turn to Bryant Park.

This is my favorite spot to eat alfresco in the city.

I can read, work, or people-watch all while enjoying a delicious panini or giant croissant.

Everything about this place feeds my soul.

From the modern turquoise glass skyscrapers, to the ancient white marble of the New York Public Library.

The hard bronze busts and the soft dripping periwinkle wisteria.

It is an absolute delight to the senses.

So why does a photographer like me live in a small town in central Florida instead of this bustling hub?

I come here for commissions and to refill my creative battery, but my heart lives in Friendship Springs with my family.

Well, not technically family. My only blood relation lives in England.

I’m talking about my two best friends, Brianna Chance-McLeary and Annabel Bennet.

They are the sisters of my heart. Photography gigs keep me traveling a lot, but missing them always brings me home to Florida.

Grabbing a free table, I perch on the green slatted chair and unpack my pastry bag.

The first bite explodes in my mouth, eliciting a lusty moan.

An older woman at the next table looks at me reproachfully, but then smiles as she spots my croissant in hand and chipmunk cheeks.

Smiling an apology, I pull out my cell and open an email from Time.

Ms. Kato-Atherton,

We are absolutely thrilled with the initial images you’ve provided. This is exactly the tone we were hoping for. I’ve marked which photos we would like to select for the article and look forward to seeing the final edits. We’ll definitely be looking to work with you again in the future.

Regards,

Rebecca Green

Senior Editor, Time Magazine

With a mental fist pump, I take another bite of my pastry. The rest of my inbox is easy to sort through, mostly inquiries or spam.

I scroll through the photos from last night on my phone. Most are still on my camera memory card awaiting editing, but I’d snapped a few candids on my cell. Choosing one, I send it to my bestie group chat. The reply is almost instant.

Breehive

Holy shit! How did you find front row seats to Kenzo Star? Did you drain your trust fund?

I chuckle as I take another healthy bite of my pastry.

Oh, the dreaded trust fund. While I appreciate not being the stereotypical starving artist thanks to my family’s generational wealth, I don’t appreciate all the strings that come with it.

More than once, I’ve thought about telling Grandmama exactly where she can shove her money.

My Jimmy Choo sneaker taps the gravel under my feet.

I like nice things, though, and a deal is a deal.

Lettygo

Kenzo was part of the Time article and he asked me to cover his concert. VIP Pass completely FREE.

Annabanana

No way! That’s an awesome shot. My brother would die if I showed him this .

Anna is the head chef of the restaurant, Pop, we co-own. She’s sweeter than chocolate and one of her four brothers is an aspiring musician.

Breehive

OMG did you sleep with him? I swear your life rivals the novels I read.

Lettygo

Don’t let Irish hear you. Your dear hubby would be so hurt. Oo... let me tell him!

Breehive

He’s very satisfied. These pregnancy hormones are no joke.

I like to give Bree’s husband, Colin, a hard time, but I can’t dislike a guy who makes my best friend so happy. In one year, he’s managed to loosen her neurotic, tightly wound persona better than I have in a decade. He’s kind of like the brother I never had. Not that I’d ever admit that to him.

Annabanana

How much longer are you in NYC?

Lettygo

I fly out for London tomorrow morning.

Breehive

How long are you staying this time?

Lettygo

Not sure. Grandmama was most insistent, and I have some family stuff I need to handle.

My phone vibrates in my hand as the Wicked Witch Theme softly plays. I sigh and curse under my breath. It’s like the woman has me under constant surveillance. Begrudgingly, I answer, “Hello, Grandmama.”

“Nicolette.” Her crisp London accent echoes through the line. “When are you arriving? What are you thinking being photographed with rock celebrities? Was I not clear you are expected to keep a low profile?”

With a slow breath through my nose, I count to five.

This is exactly why I didn’t give in to dinner and yet it still bites me in the ass.

“You have been most clear. I was attending a concert for work. Kenzo Star is a client, I met him while doing a piece for Time Magazine. He’s apparently more interesting than the twenty other professionals I’ve photographed in the last month. ”

A faint tut sounds over the line. That’s about as emotive as the ever proper Vivienne Atherton gets.

“Really, Nicolette. I know I agreed to give you some space to find yourself, but gallivanting with rock stars and landing in the gossip columns is unacceptable. It’s about time you grow up and accept your place in this family.

Need I remind you that you’ll be thirty in a few months? ”

My delicious pastry turns to lead in my stomach. “No, Grandmama.” There’s no use defending myself or trying to shock her with how ‘inappropriate’ I could have been. “I fly out in the morning and will be at the estate by supper.”

“Very well. Do wear something appropriate. I’m sure the paparazzi will be waiting outside Heathrow after your latest dustup.” Without so much as a goodbye, the line goes dead in my ear.

Appetite lost, I gather my breakfast and dump it in the bin. Four hours later, after extensive retail therapy and a visit to my favorite stylist, I once again have a spring in my step. Or maybe that’s the bounce of my new chin-length bob? Nothing can get me down now!

“Ms. Atherton.”

Dammit. Spoke too soon.

I turn towards the doorman. He’s worked here as long as I remember, yet still calls me by my grandmother’s last name despite my staunch insistence on including my father’s surname. That’s the downside of using the family apartment, I guess. “Yes, Peter?”

“Package arrived for you, miss.” He steps around the imperious desk and hands me a packet wrapped in brown kraft paper and tied with twine, my name and address written on the front in a majestic, feminine hand.

“Thank you, Peter. I’ll need a car at nine a.m. for the airport, please.” I may rebel against my socialite standing, but I’m not an idiot. Why haul my suitcases through the subway when I can afford a town car?

He dips his head as he returns to his post, fingers already flying across the keyboard to mark the request. “Shall I send a cart up at quarter of for your luggage, miss?”

I thank him again and drag my bags and parcels into the elevator.

Very quickly, I realize my love of fashion has outgrown my luggage capacity over the last month.

Sorting through the clothes I’ve accumulated during my visit, I sort them into two piles.

Unfortunately, the more casual or daring outfits won’t be welcome in London.

Those I box up and ring Peter to ship them back to my penthouse in Friendship Springs.

Once every Grandmama Dearest-approved item is carefully packed and my carry-on ready, I eye the parcel over a slice of cold pizza.

Beneath the plain wrapping is a cerulean blue folder with the words “Something Blue” embossed in gold foil. Atop the file is a single white Post-it note.