No Sweeter Love (Sweeter in the City Book 3) (15 page)

Chapter One

M
ary Harris liked to say there was an ice cream flavor for everyone. Her sister, Lila: mint chocolate chip. Her soon to be brother-in-law, Sam: cookies and cream. Her friend Hailey who ran the best café in Lincoln Park? Coffee bean, of course. And her ex, Jason, who had ceremoniously dumped her on New Year’s Eve via text message and then had the nerve to suggest she cross the “friendship bridge” when she told him, also via text, where to go . . .He was straight up rocky road.

Mary sighed as she poured the cream, sugar, and vanilla into the ice cream machine. It was another quiet afternoon in the shop, and there had been too many of those lately. She’d prepared herself for a slow winter; after all, who really craved ice cream when it was ten below zero with three feet of snow on the ground? Spring was just around the corner—technically—but the forecast was calling for another eight inches by tonight, and the snowflakes had been falling steadily since daybreak. She should know, because she’d been up since then, trying to occupy herself with things like making coffee and watching a little morning television—anything to get her mind off that nagging thought: Had all this been a mistake?

She blinked away the question just as quickly as it formed. Ridiculous! Running Sunshine Creamery was the only job she’d ever loved—the only thing she’d ever really been passionate about, ever since she was a little girl sitting in the corner booth, watching her grandfather make waffle cones.

So things were slow. So her frozen eggnog and candy cane ice cream flavors had only been popular during the holidays . . .It was only a winter slump. She should embrace it. Use the time to come up with ten fun flavors for spring, maybe create some new signs for the windows, or just take a few weeks to relax. She hadn’t done that in a while. In fact, Jason had said she didn’t do it at all, or at least that was the excuse he’d given for breaking up with her when she’d finally dragged one out of him.

Mary sunk a spoon deep into a tub of raspberry chocolate truffle ice cream and brought it to her mouth. Savoring the sweet, smooth taste, she stared out the window as the snow continued to pelt the glass and coat the sidewalks. She had to admit, it was pretty, the way the tree branches were frocked, and the fire hydrants seemed to wear perfect white hats. But come tomorrow, when the city’s traffic had taken its toll, the white and sparkling wonderland would be replaced with brown, murky slush, and grumpy Chicago residents who, like herself, were just ready for spring already!

The streetlight turned, and as the walk sign appeared, a kid darted across the street, straight toward her door. Mary guiltily dropped the spoon in the sink and straightened her shoulders, feeling downright embarrassed for her little burst of self-pity. She smiled eagerly as the boy pulled the door open and stepped inside, brushing snow from his hair as he glanced around the painfully empty room.

“Hello!” Mary said from behind the counter. From the smoothness of his cheeks to the weather-inappropriate canvas sneakers he wore, she pegged him to be around sixteen, seventeen at the most. Cookies and cream, she decided, and then waited to see if her hunch was right.

Instead the kid looked at her and asked, “Restroom?”

Mary blinked as the smile slipped from her face. Careful not to overreact, she swallowed and said, “End of the hall.”

Maybe he’ll want a sundae when he returns, she told herself, as he disappeared through the door. What kid can resist ice cream?

Outside the wind howled, forcing the door open a few inches. Mary frowned. Who couldn’t resist ice cream in weather like this?

Moments later, she heard the flush of a toilet, the running of water. Quickly, she tried to look busy by straightening some glass sundae bowls.

“Thanks,” the kid muttered, his shoulders hunched as he beelined for the door.

Mary tried to hide the swell of disappointment that was building in her chest. “Anytime,” she lied. She had a strict policy about this type of thing, usually. Desperately, she grabbed a coupon from the top drawer near the cash register and waved it with forced cheer. “Buy one cone, get half off the second.”

The kid hesitated at the door and then, with great reluctance, reached out a hand for the small slip of paper Mary had designed and printed herself, one equally quiet day a few weeks ago. She kept the smile frozen to her face until he had left, telling herself surely he’d hold on to it, come back with a friend, spread the word around school, until she spotted him dropping her cute little handmade coupon into the overflowing bin on the corner across the street.

Well! Mary counted to ten and talked herself out of marching across the snowy crosswalk, reaching into the trash, and salvaging her hard work. Instead, she plucked a fresh spoon from the canister and indulged in a hefty scoop of cookie dough—without the ice cream. Because yes, it was freezing outside, the wind was picking up, and the hair on her arms was still on end from the icy blast that had ripped through the door when that ungrateful coupon tosser had left.

Mary rubbed her arms, pressing her wool sweater a little closer to her skin. She hated to turn up the heat—just thinking of those bills made her stomach heave—but she couldn’t stand it much longer.

With a glance at the clock, and a silent promise to herself that it was okay to turn the sign a little early tonight, what with a borderline blizzard and all, she wandered to the back storage room to check the thermostat.

Her step slowed as she detected the sound of running water, and, pinching her lips, she marched to the bathroom, cursing under her breath when she thought of how quick that boy was to dismiss her efforts, how nice she had been to break her own policy and let him use the facilities, and flicked the light switch. The room was still, the sink off, and with a sudden pounding of her heart, Mary pivoted on her heel and stared with growing dread at the storeroom door, where, God help her, a trickle of water was seeping through the crack at the base.

She crossed the hall and flung open the door, her mouth gaping as her gaze shot up to the ceiling where water had formed a large brown stain on the freshly painted surface. A thick, icy drop hit her square in the eye, and she brushed it away quickly, her eyes dropping to scan the shallow puddle she was standing in, and the soggy, industrial-sized bags of sugar and chocolate chips that she kept back here. Another drop hit her on top of her head, and, when she looked up again, her cheek, and that’s when she decided her optimism had officially expired for the day.

Mary balled her fists and screamed. She screamed because she could. Because there was no one around to hear her. Because she’d been holding her frustration inside since the first of the year, when her Santa Sundae had officially stopped luring customers and spring was still nearly three months away. It had been festering and bubbling and building inside her and now, now just weeks before the final arrival of spring, there was a damn blizzard, and now she finally had a real reason to just let it all out. She screamed again, and then, realizing how good it felt, screamed a little louder. She could have screamed all day, except for the fact that every second she spent doing that, the big, rusty, scary patch on the ceiling grew a little bigger.

She thought fast. She had to turn off the water. When the contractors were here last summer helping her spruce up the place, they’d shown her how to do that. Of course, she hadn’t really bothered to pay much attention to the boring stuff, not when her mind was racing with new ideas for the menu, and struggling to decide between fourteen different shades of pastel-colored paint for the bathroom . . .

She sloshed to the utility room door at the back of the storage room and began frantically looking for something that would jog her memory. There were all sorts of knobs and switches. One did look a bit familiar . . .She blinked, hovering her hand just above it, and then, deciding she didn’t have much of a choice, gave it a good hard turn.

Okay, so the place hadn’t blown up. That was a good sign.

What wasn’t a good sign, she realized when she scurried back into the storage room, was that the water continued to drip.

Deciding not to let herself think about what she might have just turned off, she bit her lip, said a silent prayer, and cranked the handle in the opposite direction, back in place.

Still no explosion. She blew out a sigh. See, she could handle this.

Except that she still didn’t know where the water shutoff valve was. Yes, that’s what it was called. A water shutoff valve.

She stopped. Told herself to calm herself down, and tried to focus. It was no use.

Reaching into her back pocket for her phone, her finger paused over the digits. You didn’t exactly call emergency for this type of thing, did you? The contractors didn’t answer her calls even when they were being paid a pretty sum by the hour.

It was times like this when she wished she still had a dad. Or a grandfather. Or a boyfriend . . .

She thought of Jason, and his perfectly random text message he’d been planning for God knew how long, timed on a day she’d been looking so forward to. Then she thought of the carefully wrapped present she’d already purchased for Valentine’s Day, even if she had been getting a bit ahead of herself, which was now resting neatly at the bottom of her garbage chute.

She didn’t need a man. Not to hold her at night. Not to tell her how to shut off a damn water valve.

She could do this. She set a hand on her hip, thought long and hard, studied another knob for a few minutes, and, finally, turned it.

Within a few minutes the water had stopped dripping, and in less than an hour she had managed to mop most of the puddle from the floor. Two urgent voice mails to the contractor later, and not a customer in sight, Mary decided that it was officially time to call it a day.

***

He’d done it again. Ben Sullivan shook his head and muttered under his breath as he fished his transit card from his wallet and turned back to the “L” station, his steps feeling heavy as he climbed once more to the platform opposite the one he’d just exited.

He turned his coat collar to the wind and craned his neck down the dark tracks, frowning at the lack of headlights in the distance. He should be home by now. Home in the house he and Dana had moved into eight years ago, the one with the kitchen he’d personally designed and installed, the one with the sunroom addition he’d built four years ago. The one with his daughter sleeping upstairs.

Instead, he was in for another long night in front of the television, with a frozen pizza and an ice cold beer while the nanny put his daughter to bed, and his ex-wife focused on the real love of her life: her job. He squinted into the distance, through the heavily falling snow, past the restaurants and bars and buildings he had memorized over time, thinking of how close the house was, and how inconceivable it was that he didn’t live there anymore, and never would again. That an entire part of his life was now just a chapter, closed and shelved, distant and murky, and almost impossible to believe had ever once been real.

Ben jammed his hands into his pockets and turned back to the tracks, straightening when he noticed the lights appear in the distance. The train slid to a stop, its doors opening in front of him, and he stepped into the brightly lit compartment once more, eager to get away from his past and back to his new reality. The one he was still struggling to accept, even if he knew it was for the best.

When they’d first separated, Ben had assumed the apartment he’d rented would be temporary. It was small, but with a second bedroom for Violet on the nights she stayed with him, an efficient enough kitchen, given that he didn’t cook, a close walk to the train, and a carefully calculated three stops from his then soon to be ex—just far enough so he didn’t have to worry about running into her; just close enough so he could easily pick up his daughter on his scheduled nights and weekends. He’d assumed that by the time the divorce was finalized, he’d be back on his feet, establishing roots again, hell, maybe even dating.

So much for that.

And as for the apartment . . . Somehow he just hadn’t dragged himself to look for something better, and the longer he stayed in it, the easier it was just to go with the flow instead of pushing for something more. After all, that’s how he’d ended up in this mess, wasn’t it? By pushing for something more? His sister told him his complacency was due to the fact that he was secretly hoping he would get back together with Dana, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. It was more that he still couldn’t believe his life had come to this, and picking up the pieces, starting over properly, meant accepting that it had.

The wind raced through the warm train car when the doors opened again, and Ben hurried the four blocks to the tall brownstone building that still felt foreign and strange, more like a temporary hotel room than an established residence. He collected the mail and jogged up the steps to the third-floor landing, keeping his head bent and his eyes forward. His sister had thoughts on this, too. Claimed he was becoming a hermit. Said at thirty-three he was too young to close himself off to the world. Maybe he was. But he just wasn’t ready to let anyone back in just yet.

He reached the top floor and quickly slid his key in the lock, eager to close the door behind him and tune out the world for a bit, but a sudden noise made his hand still. He paused, waiting to see if he’d just imagined it, but there it was again, only louder this time, as distinct as the freckle next to his left eye. A woman was crying. No, not crying. Wailing. A woman was wailing. And it wasn’t just any woman. It was his neighbor. The neighbor he had been dutifully avoiding since she moved into the building two months ago and dared to toss him that big, friendly smile and say hello. He’d all but frozen on the word, grunted something of a response, and vowed to keep his distance going forward. A girl like her would have made him cross a crowded room back in his single days. But he’d changed since then. A bad marriage could do that to you.