She looks at the coffee cup in front of her. “I have two brothers.”
I push for more because I crave knowledge about this woman more than anything at the moment. “Younger or older?”
“Younger,” she confesses. “One is twelve. The other is ten.”
“Do they live in the city?”
“Ohio,” she blurts out with a sigh. “I grew up there.”
Surprised by that, I press on, “I assumed you were a born and bred New Yorker like me.”
That lures a soft smile to her mouth. “I was born in Buffalo. My dad got a promotion when I was a few months old. The position was in Ohio, so we moved there.”
A roar of laughter comes from a table near us, so we both look in that direction to find two women having an animated conversation.
Astrid exhales. “My parents never married. They split when I was three because my mom wanted to move to California to pursue her career. After Sweet Night Sky was released, she did a cross-country tour playing sets at small venues. That brought her to New York City. She always loved the energy of Manhattan, so she decided to plant roots here. My dad got married around that time to my step-mom.”
That’s a hell of a lot for a young kid to handle.
“I visited my mom often.” Her gaze drops to her wrist, but the tattoo I sense she’s searching for a glimpse of is hidden under the sleeve of her sweater. “Coming to New York to see her was the best.”
“She must have loved those visits too.”
“She did,” she agrees with a nod. “She bought Vinyl Crush a few months after she got here. The store meant everything to her.”
“It means a lot to you too,” I say.
Her hand circles around the half-filled coffee mug in front of her. “I promised her I’d take care of it.”
“From what I’ve seen, you’re doing a great job, Astrid.”
Her expression softens at the compliment. “I hope I am.”
We both fall silent as she takes a sip of coffee.
As soon as her cup is back on the table, she clears her throat. “Do you have a place in mind for dinner on Wednesday?”
I haven’t given it much thought, so I shake my head. “If you have a preference, I’m good to go there.”
Her brows perk. “Meet me at the store at eight.”
Unsure if that means she’s made up her mind about where we’ll eat, I smile. “You’ll handle the reservation?”
“I’ll handle all of it,” she says with a glint in her eye. “All you need to do is show up.”
I tug on the lapels of my jacket. “Suit or no suit.”
“Suit,” she answers quickly. “I like that look on you.”
I rub my jaw. “A suit is it.”
“You never bring me lunch,” Keats says suspiciously as he eyes the sandwich I picked up for him on my way to his office. “What the hell do you want?”
I don’t call him out on the swearing because he does it himself.
“I owe a hundred to the fund. I fucking know it,” he scoffs.
I perk a brow.
Two of his fingers dart up. “All right, two. I wouldn’t owe anything if you hadn’t shown up.”
I laugh that off because he’s grinning. “You’re welcome.”
He sniffs the air. “Is that pastrami I smell?”
“It’s turkey on rye with lettuce, tomato, and light mayo.”
“Light mayo?” He shakes his head. “Why deprive me of the good stuff?”
I jerk a thumb over my shoulder toward his office door. “It’s what your wife usually orders for both of you. I picked her up one too.”
Maren may have started as Keats’s assistant, but now she’s his partner in this multi-million dollar business.
Her office is down the hall. I stopped in there first, dropped off a sandwich for her, and asked the same favor I’m about to ask my brother.
Maren happily agreed to help out. She did that without any questions.
I could have left it at that, but I want to clue Keats in on the plan for Wednesday night.
“Maren’s been ordering me sandwiches with light mayo?” He narrows his green eyes. “Fuck me. She’s always looking out for what’s best for me. She loves me a hell of a lot.”
“You’re on a roll,” I point out. “If Stevie were here…”
“She’d tell me that this tie doesn’t go with this suit.” He glances down at his pink necktie. “That kid told me to only wear this tie with my navy blue suit. I should have listened to her.”
I take in the light gray three-piece suit he’s wearing. “You look fine.”
“Not Stevie fine, but it’ll do,” he mumbles.
“Speaking of Stevie,” I effortlessly shift the subject to that favor I’m about to ask.
“When, where, and how long do I get to enjoy her company?”
I chuckle. “Wednesday night. Can you feed her after the piano lesson and tuck her into bed. I’ll be home by midnight.”