Page 10 of The Woman at the Funeral (Costa Family #11)

Nico

One minute, I was sure my connection with Blair was going to be over for good.

The next, I could see her falling in love with the apartment above mine, could hear the regret in her voice when she told the real estate agent she just wasn’t sure.

Likely because she didn’t want to make it weird by moving into my building.

Especially after the two of us started to uncover more lies about Matt’s life together.

The thing was, after she ran for her life toward me, her bloody hands clenching my shirt, I decided I needed to keep a closer eye on her. Especially since I had no idea why Matt had been killed. Or by whom.

If there was even a small chance that she’d been chased through the North Woods because of her late husband instead of some random, opportunistic crime, I wanted to make sure she was safe.

“Consider it,” I urged her when I drove her home. “I could see how much you liked it. There’s no reason it has to be weird.”

But as the days passed and I heard nothing, I figured she’d written the idea off.

Until a moving truck pulled up out front.

And a very familiar couch was being carried inside.

There was no good reason for the way my heart sank that she hadn’t told me she’d made the decision, that she was going to be moving in. Other than, of course, all those pesky unrequited feelings I was clearly still dealing with with regarding her.

I sighed, forcing myself to move away from the window.

If she wanted to tell me, she would have told me.

Clearly, she wanted to start over without any attachments to Matthew and all his lies—lies I’d been implicated in. Even if I’d been as in the dark as she’d been, I was still a reminder of all of it.

I wasn’t going to make that transition harder for her by doing something desperately needy like going out there to greet her.

Instead, I made sure I didn’t see her, then made my way out, deciding to spend the day catching up on errands I’d let slide all month while trying to find anything on the car that did the drive-by. To no avail.

By the time I made it back home—arms loaded down with dry cleaning bags and groceries—the moving truck seemed long gone.

I hated that I looked for Blair through the lobby and hesitated with my finger over her floor before punching in my own instead.

The thing I liked best about these condos when I first moved in—the thick walls, the great insulation, things that kept the city sounds outside where they belonged—were the very things I cursed when I could hear nothing from above me. No moving around, no music, nothing.

“Get a fucking grip,” I grumbled as I gathered the ingredients to throw dinner together.

It was right then that I heard a knock on the door.

My lips curved up, mentally swearing that my brothers could sense when I was about to cook something and made their way over to mooch off me instead of cooking for themselves.

Lord knew I’d forced all of them to learn the basics, rambling off things about “life skills” being mandatory (cleaning and laundry included) while they grumbled and dragged their feet.

“I haven’t even gotten started yet,” I called as I reached to slide the locks and pull the door open.

But it wasn’t Leo, Gav, or Zeno at the door.

It was Blair.

She stood there in a pair of tan high-waisted slacks and a tight black top with a square neckline. Her hair was pulled back. Understated golden loops were at her earlobes. Her trademark locket was around her neck.

She looked effortlessly classy and put together.

And she had an olive green enameled cast iron roasting pan in her hands, top still on to keep in the heat.

“I know this is Manhattan and new-neighbor rules don’t apply,” she said, giving me a slightly unsure smile. “But I feel like this situation is different.”

“I think I’m the one who is supposed to bring you a welcome gift,” I told her, stepping back so she could move inside.

“Well, you didn’t know I was here,” she said, walking into my kitchen, her low heels clicking across the hardwood floors as she went. It was absurd, but I really loved that sound. Especially when she was making it.

“So, what did you cook?” I asked as she placed the pan on the wooden cutting board I’d set out to start chopping vegetables.

“Don’t feel obligated to eat it,” she said, something close to insecurity slipping into her voice. “I see you were already planning something else. I know my cooking isn’t for everyone. I used to have to force Matthew to even try anything I made. He usually got fast food instead.”

I didn’t give a fuck if she burnt it all to hell; I was going to eat everything on my plate. Then ask for seconds.

“Of course I’ll eat it. It’s nice not to have to cook for a change,” I said, coming up to the end of the island as she reached for the lid and pulled it off.

“It’s lemon and herb chicken over rice. With asparagus. Because, well, vegetables.”

There it was again. The self-doubt.

Put there, I was sure, by Matt.

Who had no fucking idea how good he had it.

“Smells amazing,” I told her, meaning it. “Did you eat already?”

“I, uh, saved a serving.”

I wasn’t sure if she was being honest about that. The tray looked full. Six chicken breasts and a ton of rice and veg filled the pan.

Maybe she just didn’t want to make it seem like she was trying to invite herself to dinner.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind company if you don’t have plans. I think I have the perfect Albarino to go with this.”

“You drink wine?” she asked, a hint of wonder in her voice.

Matt was a beer or vodka guy.

I’d gotten many a snide comment from him if he saw me having wine with dinner.

“Of course,” I said, grabbing the bottle of white that I knew would have a bright, citrus taste to it. “The plates are right next to the stove,” I told her as I twisted the screw into the cork.

She grabbed plates, then a serving spoon, and carefully plated the food, being careful to wipe any spilled sauce off the plate—ever aware of the aesthetics. Which I knew Matt found “anal-retentive,” but I thought it was charming.

She brought the plates to the table.

I brought the wine.

And I put a little classical music on before joining her.

“How did moving in go?”

“Nothing got broken or went missing. I’m impressed,” she said. “I’ve moved a lot in my life. And I always seem to have something broken beyond repair or disappear on me.”

“Moved around the country, or just throughout the city?”

“Oh, I meant mostly the city. I grew up in Inwood with my grandmother. In and out of five or six apartments. After college, I lived temporarily in a few cities overseas.”

“Let me guess. London, Paris, Berlin. Maybe a little Tokyo and Venice.”

“Wow. How did you know that?”

“Aside from New York and L.A., they’re the biggest art scenes in the world.”

“Yeah,” she said, watching me with something soft and sweet that had my heart swelling in my chest. “Though, I never did get to Tokyo. I ran out of money. In Venice. I took a bunch of cooking classes there,” she admitted. “And ate out way more than my pocketbook would have liked.”

“But if you’re going to do it, you should do it right,” I said, finally taking a forkful of food. “And the cooking lessons really paid off.”

“You like it?”

“Best lemon chicken I’ve ever had,” I told her, meaning it. It was a fucking crime to choose fast food over this kind of cooking.

Blair’s cheeks tinged pink at the praise, making me think it had been a long time since she’d received any.

“What were you going to make?” she asked, reaching for her glass of wine.

“Pasta primavera. I always fall back on pasta when I don’t know what to make. I think it’s a holdover from growing up, when I’d have to cook for my siblings who objected to just about everything but noodles.”

“I think that’s a phase all kids go through. Along with ketchup on everything.”

“I don’t mind the ketchup. But I have a nephew who dips everything in French dressing. Chicken nuggets, fries, you name it—it’s covered in thick orange salad dressing.”

“I can’t judge. When I was little, I ate nothing but boxed macaroni and cheese for months on end. The powdered cheese boxes,” she added, wrinkling up her nose.

“Not gonna lie; I still pick up a box here or there when I’m feeling nostalgic,” I admitted. “It holds up.”

“I’ll have to grab a box too. It’s strange cooking for one now. I mean, I guess I was always cooking for one, technically, but—”

“Anytime you want to share a meal, I’m game. And you’re welcome to try out mine sometime. Though, if this is your typical, you might be disappointed by mine.”

“I’ve never had a man cook for me. Well, no, that’s not fair. A very nice elderly gentleman I rented a room from in Italy made me ravioli when he caught me crying one night. It was the anniversary of my grandmother’s death.”

“Did she like to travel?”

“Oh, God no. My grandmother was the definition of a homebody. She said that if she wanted to travel, she would grab a book. She said she couldn’t imagine anything more exhausting than airports and lugging around bags everywhere. She wasn’t wrong about that part, actually.”

“You didn’t like traveling?”

“I was traveling for work, honestly. I wanted to be able to say I’d seen all the best art in all the most famous galleries and museums. I figured it might help me land a good job.

I wasn’t wrong. But traveling itself was definitely draining at times.

And a little scary. I’d never been anywhere, mind you.

Before going to college, I’d never even been out of Manhattan.

“In a sad kind of twist of fate, it was my grandmother’s book collection that paid for my travels.”

“Really? She had that many?”

“Yes, but that’s not really the reason. She came from a long line of readers. And people who refused to get rid of books. When I’d been going through her things to clean out her apartment after she passed, I found two first editions of some very rare books. And signed copies of others.