Page 35 of Once Upon a Lie

“I know I said I don’t like banana bread. But your shop’s been living rent-free in my head.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Asiago.” I shrug. “You clocked me immediately.”

“Glad to hear it.” She laughs, and something in her shoulders loosens as she taps the button to call the elevator. “A strong-personality bagel usually works for a strong-personality guy.”

Unfortunately for me, the elevator dings its arrival, and she steps inside before I’ve figured out my next move. She turns back to look at me, brows knitting together in confusion.

“You coming?”

“Stairs,” I say, gesturing vaguely. “Only one floor up.”

It’s the truth, but it’s also a huge fucking mistake and completely un-fucking-like me. I don’t move slowly. I don’t act with caution. I don’t pull back when I’m this close, and I never—ever—avoid risk to protect my delicate fucking man feelings.

What the hell am I doing?

“Right.” She nods. “Well, thanks again, Shane.” The doors slide shut. And just like that, she’s gone.

“Anytime,” I say to the silver doors where she used to be like an idiot. “See you around, Valentina.”

I exhale and drag a hand down my face. It’s Detective fucking 101, for shit’s sake. Don’t let doors close when there’s still information to be gained.

Instead, I’m hesitating.

If I don’t get my head back in the game and fast, this assignment—and its Tommy Cordone danger factor—isn’t going to be the thing that takes me down.

I’ll burn my career right out from under myself all on my own.

10

Valentina

5:00 p.m.

I’m late. Which is impressive, considering I left The Hole Story at exactly three o’clock and I was ready to head out of my condo early, but neither of those things will matter to my mother. She won’t care that it wasn’t my fault or that I was distracted by a very attractive man at my door holding a box of industrial-strength trash bags or that she’s the one who put me in cotillion in seventh grade, during which I was browbeaten about all the ways a woman shouldn’t be rude.

She won’t care because, by all measures and through a million excuses, I should have been overly prepared.

I lock my car and hurry inside Goldleaf Culinary, the glass doors opening into a space that smells like citrus, roasted garlic, and money. Everything is white marble and brushed gold, with long tables laid out in precise rows, each one dressed in small placards and immaculate plating.

Francesca Cordone stands near the center of one of the tasting tables with a perfectly manicured hand wrapped around a crystal water glass. Her other hand gestures as a cluster of staff fight valiantly to keep up with her every command. Her brown hair is smooth and glossy, not a strand out of place, and is swept into a low chignon. She’s dressed in tailored black trousers and a cream silk blouse that drapes effortlessly—while clearly costing more than my monthly utilities.

Luxury clings to my mother the way flour clings to my hands.

“Absolutely not,” she says to a few of the staff members as I approach. “That foam collapses under warm lighting. We’re not serving sadness in a martini glass.”

A harried man with a clipboard nods furiously, scribbling something down. Another staffer in a white chef’s coat whisks a tray of bite-size somethings past us. They look like tiny works of food art that could only be arranged with freaking tweezers. My mother paces between stations like a general preparing for war, a tablet in one hand and a pen tucked behind her ear.

The second she sees me, relief somehow softens her. It’s the only nudge I need to remind myself that while this may not be important to me, it is to her, and I owe it to our relationship to be lenient with the gap between the two. Peace has always felt like something I’m responsible for maintaining.

“Teeny,” she breathes out. “Thank God, you’re here. We need to talk about the hors d’oeuvres.”

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic,” I offer on a white lie and slip my purse off my shoulder. “Do I need to emotionally prepare?”

“Yes,” she says, already frowning. “Because I think the mushroom tartlets are wrong.”

“Wrong how?”