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I pulled out of the parking lot and headed down the gridded streets of Queen Anne. I loved my hood, loved the ornate, gorgeous homes built in the style that the neighborhood was named for, loved the rolling hills that took you to the top of the north side of the city, allowing for a sweeping view of Elliot Bay. Most of all I loved the fact that my apartment had been a steal.
I wasn’t far from Hailey’s place, the five-minute drive passing in no time at all. My place was nondescript, a five-story building comprised of a few dozen studio apartments, all of them housing people like me who were at work more than they were at home. I parked and headed into the lobby, taking the elevator up to the top floor.
Seconds later I was throwing open the door to my pad, the smell of crab cakes hitting me square in the face the instant I stepped through. I lived the crab cake life, making them in the apartment then slinging them in the truck. The place was a mess—dishes on the small counter that separated the kitchen from the tiny living room/bedroom/TV room. I flicked on the light, put on some FKA Twigs, and went to work.
I danced and sang as I cleaned, the view of the city and the bay beyond always a pleasant sight. If I craned my neck a bit, I could see the towers of downtown Seattle and the amazing apartments that I’d dreamed of living in since I was a girl.
I had fantasies that played out every day in my imagination, of turning my single crab cake truck into a crab cake empire. I imagined a whole fleet of trucks setting out every morning, a staff of hundreds slinging uncountable amounts of cakes and soups to hungry Seattleites, each day bringing in record profits. And I didn’t want to stop there. I wanted our cakes shipped across the country to anyone who wanted them.
The fantasies were my way of picturing future success. Because at that moment, living in a tiny studio, my car on the verge of collapsing into a pile of rust, and a schedule that leftzerotime for dating or a social life, fantasies were what kept me going. The day-to-day bottom line of the business was looking good, but it was going to take a long period of good days to get us out of the red and into the black, and then we had to keepthatgoing.
It was going to be a lot of hard work. Lucky for me, I’d never been afraid of that.
When I was done cleaning up, I threw a kettle on the stove and turned to watch the rain come down in soft patters on the slanted windows that overlooked the city.
That’s when Luc appeared in my mind. Who the hell was this guy, anyway? And what was the deal with Europe—did people over there have no tact when it came to talking to people they’d never met before? The way he’d just stormed up to the front of the line and demanded to talk to me was enough to make me want to sock him right in his impossibly chiseled jaw. Part of me wished that he wasn’t possibly the best-looking man I’d ever seen in my life; that little detail made it hard to think clearly about the whole thing.
The kettle whistled, and I started my tea. As I did, I thought more about Luc, about the strange things he’d said to me. Had he really known my mom? Or was he some Eurotrash sleazeball making up stories to get closer to me? Maybe he was some employee for a Swiss billionaire sent to trick women into getting sucked into some human trafficking operation.
Alright, alright, I told myself as I headed over, mug in hand, to the big, overstuffed couch near the window.Let’s not get too carried away.
Still, who was he? As I set down my mug and dimmed the lights, lighting a few candles here and there, I found myself gripped more and more by this mysterious man and what he wanted with me.
The encounter brought so much to mind. I found myself thinking about Mom, how it’d been more than ten years since I’d lost her to cancer when I was a teenager. Never once had I had any sort of suspicion that Mom led some secret life that she’d kept from Hailey and me. Now, all of a sudden, here was some weird guy from Europe demanding that he speak to me and that he knew my mom.
I sipped my tea, trying to force myself to pick up the book placed upside down on the side table next to the chair, some non-fiction about small business ownership. However, my eyes kept drifting to the phone. All I’d have to do is send one message to Luc telling him I wanted to meet. Hailey was right—I could meet him in a public place where I’d be safe if he did turn out to be some weirdo perv.
With a sigh, I set down my tea and went over to my purse, fishing out the card and taking it with me back to the chair, plopping down into it. I snatched up my phone and put in Luc’s number, typing up a quick text.
Alright, you want to meet? Let’s do it.
My thumbs hovered over the send button for a moment. Something told me that once I’d sent the message, a process would begin that I’d have little control over.
I sent it. The message turned into a green text bubble and that was that.
Figures he’d be an Android guy.
I set the phone down, hoping for at least a few minutes of peace before I had to deal with a response.
No such luck. The phone buzzed on the table with an incoming message.
Glad to see you came around. We will meet at the restaurant at my hotel at 9:00 AM.
God, even his texts were stiff and stern. I didn’t like his suggestion, not wanting to meet on his turf.
There’s a coffee shop near me called The Mellow Roast. Meet me there at 10:00.
I allowed myself a small smile for taking control of the situation.
Fine. See you then.
I thumbs-up’d the message and set the phone down, my eyes drifting to the rain pattering down on the window.
Here goes nothing, I thought as my mind began to race with all of the possibilities the meeting tomorrow morning could hold.
Chapter 4
Luc
