Come Fly With Me (12 page)

“Thank
you,
Natalya,
this
is
really
helpful.
I
see
why
my
father
spoke
so
highly
of
your
abilities.”
Natalya
smiled
genuinely.
Allison
wasn’t
above
laying
it
on
a
little
thick.
Making
sure
Natalya’s
claws
stayed
sheathed
would
only
expedite
matters.
And
besides,
she
held
a
grudging
respect
for
Natalya.
Anyone
who
could
put
up
with
her
father
for
the
last
twenty
years
must
have
a
substantial
set
of
cojones.

Allison
walked
into
her
loft
after
eight
that
evening.
She
loved
the
Art
Deco
influence
of
the
building,
nestled
in
the
heart
of
SoHo.
Though
she
was
too
drained
to
notice
much,
as
she
opened
the
door,
the
aroma
of
delectable,
homemade
coffee
cake
hit
her.
She
stood
at
the
kitchen
table
and
stared
at
the
perfectly
shaped
mound
of
doughy
cinnamon
cake
with
its
creamy
glaze
oozing
down
the
sides.
It
was
like
a
mirage—so
starved
was
she
for
simple
comfort.
She
touched
it;
it
was
real
and
still
warm.
The
propped-up
note
read:
EAT.
CALL
ME.
She
smiled
with
a
fatigue
that
was
deep
within
her
grumbling
belly.
Allison
kicked
off
her
shoes
and
walked
back
to
her
door.
She
opened
it
and
at
the
top
of
lungs
called
out
“KENYON!”

The
other
door
on
the
floor
flung
open.
“No
need
to
shout,
doll,
you
should’ve
known
I’d
be
waiting
for
you
on
your
first
day
back
home.
I'm
sorry
I
missed
the
funeral,
but
you
didn't
give
me
much
time
to
get
back
from
Paris.
But
I'm
here
now,
so
tell
me
all
about
it,”
he
said
as
he
walked
toward
her
and
swept
her
into
his
six-foot
two
frame.

She
took
big
gulping
breaths
as
she
leaned
into
him.
When
she
finally
pulled
away,
she
looked
into
his
chocolate
brown
eyes
and
patted
his
chest,
“Been
laying
off
the
Twinkies?”

“Ah,
my
bitch
is
back.
Changing
the
subject
is
your
specialty.
Avoidance
will
rear
up
and
bite
you
in
your
firm,
shapely
butt.”

“No
one
else
could
make
me
feel
so
good
on
the
third
worst
day
of
my
life.”

“Was
the
office
chaotic?
Was
it
a
teeming
mass
of
testosterone
gone
awry?
Oh,
I
think
I
just
turned
myself
on.”

Allison
laughed,
“Only
you
can
turn
a
tragedy
into
a
comedy.
The
company
is
functioning
as
a
well-oiled
machine—just
what
I
expected.
It’s
the
original
old
boys’
club.
“

“So,
dish.
Who
are
the
front
runners
for
the
head
honcho
spot?”

“Let’s
eat
this
cake
while
it’s
still
warm.”
She
reached
into
the
cabinet
and
pulled
out
a
couple
of
plates.

“That
hot,
huh?
And
I
don’t
mean
the
cake.”

“Not
talking
about
it.”

“Tall?
Blonde?
He
has
to
be
very
smart.”

“I’m
ignoring
you,”
Allison
sing-songed.

“Evading
question
number
two.
And
now
going
for
the
Triple
Crown—who’s
his
tailor?”

“He
desperately
needs
a
makeover
and
the
directions
to
Barneys.”

“So
he’s
smokin’,”
Kenyon
sighed.

“Seriously,
Ken,
I
love
you
dearly,
but
cut
the
cake
right
now
or
I’m
sending
you
back
down
the
hall.
Your
job
is
to
calm
me
down,
not
rile
me
up.”

“I’m
not
the
one
doing
the
riling,”
he
muttered
under
his
breath.
He
put
a
chunk
on
a
plate
as
Allison
went
to
put
on
the
coffee.

“My
hearing
is
excellent,”
she
called
over
her
shoulder.
He
was
sitting
as
meek
as
a
mouse
when
she
pulled
out
a
chair
and
plopped
down.
She
reached
for
his
hand.
“You’ll
have
your
fun—but
not
today.”

“I
know.
I’m
just
trying
to
keep
it
light.”

“And
I
love
you
for
that.
You’re
the
best
fairy
godmother,
ever.”

“You
just
be
careful
who
you’re
calling
a
fairy.”
He
laughed
good-naturedly.

She
took
a
bite
of
cake.
Tears
sprang
to
her
eyes.
“It’s
my
Bubby’s
recipe!”

“Of
course
it
is.
We’ll
worry
about
the
calories
next
week,
for
now,
you
need
the
comfort
only
fattening
food
can
provide.”

“I
knew
you’d
put
those
recipes
to
good
use.
No
one
bakes
with
real
butter
anymore.”
She
sat
silent
for
a
few
minutes.
A
thousand
images
flared
up
in
her
mind.
The
summers
in
Maine—her
beloved
grandparents,
those
memories
competed
with
the
present
and
the
stress
of
the
last
few
days.
The
combination
brought
out
a
vulnerability
that
she
hadn’t
given
into
in
many
years.