Page 205 of Silver Sweet

I choked on a sound. “You’re joking?”

“Nope.”

I gave her shit the rest of the night, and she took it in stride.

Harriet and I haven’t really hung out one-on-one outside of the Cobalts’ apartment. Ben or Tom has always been around, but there’s no hesitation about wanting to change that now.

PHOENIX

Sure. Send me the location.

She texts back quickly, and I sputter to a stop right at Tom’s door. Towel knotted at my waist, beads of water roll down my chest.The fuck.She just sent me the address to the Cobalts’ building—but a different room number.

This dinner is happeningdownthe hall.

Who the fuck lives down the hall? To afford even the smallest square-foot apartment here, you’d need more than a million bucks.

It doesn’t take me long to jump into a pair of cargos, a Henley, and walk the twenty steps to room 2172. The last door on the hall.

My hair is still wet when I knock.

The door flings open, and I get a waft of a sharp, putridodor. I pull my Henley over my nose.

“Fuck,” I curse harshly.

“Shit,” the curly-haired brunette grimaces at the door. She shouts back into the apartment, “Harriet, the shrimp is confirmed spoiled!” She twists to me. Loose raven-dark curls frame her heart-shaped face. I’m drawn more to the bruise purpling the golden-brown skin underneath her left eye. She explains casually, “We couldn’t figure out if it was normal-shrimp smell or bad-shrimp smell.”

“Wow. Feeling great about eating dinner here now.”

“Warranted.” She swings the door wider for me. I already considered she might be a trust-fund brat who’d judge my attire, but she’s not dressed up. Just in black sweatpants and a cropped hoodie with fuzzy pale purple socks.

When I walk in, I see Harriet in her usual 2000s low-rise plaid pants, and she’s throwing shrimp into the trashcan.

“St. Pierre,” she nods.

“Fisher,” I greet and watch the brunette, who looks around my age, move to the marble counter where food is piled unsystematically. Cheeses, grapes, salami.

She uncorks a wine bottle. “I promise we won’t poison you. Intentionally, at least.”

“Thanks,” I say flatly, taking in the dark woods, vaulted ceiling, and industrial lighting. The studio apartment resembles more of a standard bachelor pad, and I can see a bed in the loft. It’s still fancy as fuck. The view.

Just wow.

“I’m Joana Oliveira, by the way.” She pours a glass of white wine. “Master of picking out the spoiled shrimp at the supermarket.”

“Oliveira…” I recognize the last name. “You’re related to Charlie’s bodyguard?”

“Oscar, yeah,” she says into a nod. “Big brother. Also lives here when he’s in New York. He coerced me to move in so that he could keep an eye on me. As big brothers do.”

“Wouldn’t know,” Harriet says.

“I am one,” I say and explain to Joana how I have one younger brother. I take the wine that she offers me, staring too long at her bruise. It looks like she’s been sucker punched in the face. I’m not against throwing fists at someone I don’t know. If I find out who hit a girl?—

“Professional boxer,” Joana abruptly says. “Before you go tie a cape around your neck.”

“I wasn’t?—”

“You were. You have thelook. Believe me. I see it all the time.” She takes a casual sip of wine. “So what’s your deal exactly? Born in Quincy, Mass. Graduated from Berklee. Trying to make it big in New York.”