Клео Коул - Latte Trouble

“His man wouldn’t cooperate anyway. The guy was tough, but he couldn’t swim to save his life.” Matt shook his head. “I ended up keeping him afloat until the crew dragged us aboard again.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He actually thanked me before we got ashore.”

I smiled. “Well, at least someone in this place avoided prosecution this week.” My remark began as a joke, but it reminded both of us of Tucker’s plight and brought us down again.

“Doesn’t matter,” he replied. “I saw Mother’s face before I went overboard, so maybe it’s for the best. The Blend still belongs to her.”

I was about to tell him what Madame had told me—that she was actually pleased her son was finally taking an interest in the future of the business, even taking it to a new level, though it was not where she would have chosen to go with it. But I stopped myself from saying a word. I assumed Madame herself would want to break that news to her son—and that Matt would prefer to hear it directly from his mother instead of through his ex-wife.

We finished our espressos without saying anything more, just listened to a smooth, almost melancholy number by Four on the Floor, which was currently playing over the Blend’s sound system. Suddenly, a noisy group of late-night revelers came through the front door, chatting and shrieking with laughter as they approached the counter.

“Oh, god,” I muttered, checking my watch.

Matteo took one look at my overwrought expression and said, “Let me pitch in, Clare. Go upstairs, change, relax. I’ll close up.”

With that, Matt rose from his seat, and came around the counter to begin taking drink orders. As I turned to go, I heard him add with an edge to his voice—“It’s about time I did something useful around here.”

That’s when I hesitated. Should I have told him? Tad’s investment seminar wasn’t all that important in the scheme of things. Matt didn’t know that now, but he would soon realize that Madame was with him instead of against him. Once she discussed her feelings with him, I knew she’d help him secure all the investment money he might need from her late husband’s business contacts.

I turned back to tell Matt not to worry. To assure him that Madame did understand what he was trying to do—what he needed to do as a man—and she was sure to help him now. But when I stepped back to the coffee bar, the new customers were already swarming the counter and shouting out their drink orders. Resolving to wait up for Matt instead, I turned once more and headed for the back staircase.

My ex and I had been over a lot of bad road together, but that didn’t mean I didn’t care about him. No one , I thought, especially my own business partner, should have to go to bed thinking himself a failure .

“Clare!”

The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t see the person calling my name. Darkness surrounded me, my legs and arms were buoyed, and the rhythmic sound of waves lapped against my ears. The lights of Manhattan towered above me, and I realized I was floating in the Hudson River.

“Clare! Help!”

Nearby, the rank water began splashing back and forth like the agitation cycle in a washing machine. Not more than twenty feet away, Tucker was flailing around in the river He was drowning!

“Clare, help me!”

I swam toward him, but a thick fog suddenly descended, obscuring the monumental towers of light. I peered into the dark mist. “Tucker, where are you? I can’t find you!”

“Clare, hurry! Please!”

I swam forward again, tried to cut through the fog. Finally, I saw his face ahead in the water. His eyes were fearful, his expression panicked. He was going under! I lurched forward to take hold of him, but suddenly I couldn’t move. My arms felt weighted, my legs paralyzed. Now I was sinking too.

“Tucker, hold on!” I tried to shout, but my mouth slipped below the surface and the foul smelling river water swallowed my words.

“Hi, cupcake!”

My father, the short, wiry Italian with the manic energy of an excited terrier, rowed by on a dinghy, chewing the stub of a cigar. Forward and back, forward and back, he leaned with carefree ease, pulling the oars that glided him along right past me.

“Just remember what I told you, cupcake. Before they try to scam you—and they always will—stick it to ’em and twice as hard!”

“Dad!” I cried.

“Gotta, go, cupcake. Another day, another half dollar.” Then he was gone, rowing right along, disappearing into the fog.

“Clare!”

The voice was male but not my father’s or Tucker’s. I looked up from beneath the water. Above the undulating surface of the river, the foggy night had magically turned into blazing day. A large yacht drifted nearly on top of me. Standing on its deck, Matteo wore a white suit and bow tie. His hair was neatly trimmed, his face closely shaved, and his smile nearly blinding. But after he spotted me in the water, his brilliant smile faded.

“Clare, sweetheart, hold on! I’m coming!” he cried.

He was about to climb over the rail and jump in with me when Breanne Summour, head-to-toe in a hot pink nightgown, the color of Ricky Flatt’s corpse, strode up and whispered in his ear.

He nodded, then laughed and swung his leg back, behind the rail. Suddenly, Joy was there on the yacht’s deck, moving up to the rail, squeezing in between them. “Bye, Mom! See ya!” she called, waving happily in her white sundress.

As I sunk deeper and deeper into the river, I watched all three of them wave, then turn from the rail and disappear, laughing and raising glass latte mugs. I closed my eyes, devastated beyond words…

I opened my eyes—

Matteo’s face was next to mine. His jawline was no longer clean-shaven but shadowed with dark stubble. His brown eyes appeared tired.

“What the…” I murmured.

“You were having a bad dream,” Matt informed me. “You were moaning.”

I was also still floating, I realized, but not in water.

“Where am I?”

“On your way to bed.”

I blinked again and saw that Matt was carrying me with ease in his muscular arms. He was cresting the short flight of carpeted stairs and heading into the duplex’s master bedroom—my own. Matt had his own, smaller room at the other end of the short hall, for his infrequent layovers in New York.

On and off since I’d moved into the Blend duplex, I’d tried to get Matt to see reason and stay in hotels for the ten or so days a month he came back to New York. But he balked, claiming the cost was an outrageous expense that would bust his budget, especially when he had legal permission from the duplex’s owner (his mother) to reside here for free. He suggested that if I didn’t like it, I could always move out. But I couldn’t afford to live anywhere near the Blend without taking on roommates—and at my age, I wasn’t about to go back to collegiate living. Neither did I want to give up my residential right to the duplex or end up driving any great distance to do the sunup to sundown job of properly managing the business. So Matt and I agreed to be French about the whole thing and try to make the arrangement work by giving each other our distance and our privacy.

At the moment, neither was in play. I was wearing nothing more than a white cotton nightgown, beneath which were slight lace panties and no bra. I was small but my breasts weren’t, and the intimate grip of my ex’s hands was quickly having an unwanted effect on them.

“Matt, it’s okay,” I told him gently. “You can put me down.”

He did, on the four-poster bed of carved mahogany—part of Madame’s exquisite antique bedroom set. Then he sat down beside me, sinking into the white cloud of a comforter. I shifted into a sitting position, pressing my back against the gaggle of goose feather decorative pillows piled up against the headboard, and yawned, aware my ex-husband was no longer wearing the Good Humor Man white suit and bow tie from my bizarre dream. His faded blue NO FEAR—CLIFF DIVE HAWAII T-shirt stretched across his hard chest, gray sweats covered his legs.