That Kind of Girl (Fillmore & Greenwich Book 2) (2 page)

Esme gasped, leaning in. "They're
beautiful
."

"They always are." George glared at the Comme Il Faut shoes, directly from Buenos Aires, where her parents had just returned from being on tour, dancing and teaching tango. Siobhan, her mother, always had the shoes shipped because she believed it was more exciting receiving them in the mail.

Siobhan had outdone herself with these tango shoes. All Comme Il Faut shoes were handmade and perfectly balanced so that a woman could dance all night long. This pair was a shimmery red, bold and brazen, with a crisscross strap that wound over the top of the foot and attached at the ankle. George knew that if she put them on they'd fit perfectly.

She knew that if she put them on, her heart would break. Or her mind—tango was for the insane.

She stuffed the lid back on the box and pushed it away.

"Wait." Pulling it back toward her, Esme took off the lid and held up a shoe like it was the Holy Grail. "It's so pretty," she said in a hushed, reverent voice.

They weren't pretty—they were fabulous. They were the kind of shoes that transformed a girl from an ordinary mechanic into Cinderella, which was exactly what her mother wanted.

"Will this fit you?" Esme bent over and studied George's boots. "I didn't know your feet were so big."

"Out." George pointed to the garage door.

Esme blinked with innocence and set the shoe on the desk, asking, "Are you always this grumpy in the morning?"

"Yes." George took her baseball cap from the desk and shoved it on her head, pulling her ponytail out the back.

"Good to know." The woman smiled and waved as she edged toward the door. "Don't forget to check your text messages, okay?"

"Why?" she asked suspiciously.

"Because you have texts," Esme said as though she were explaining it to a child.

But it was the look in her eyes that made George pause. "What texts?" she asked, a chill going down her arms.

"You won't know until you look, will you?" Esme just smiled beatifically as she walked out.

George watched the woman practically skip across the street back to her flat in the old run-down house that stood alone next to the fire station, like Greenwich Street was the frickin' yellow brick road.

She should check her messages.

No, she shouldn't. She wouldn't even look at her phone. She took it out of her pocket and tossed it onto the desk, away from her.

Pulling out her chair, she sat behind the desk and woke up her computer. Every morning in the garage started by looking for the Vincent Black Shadow, the same way her grandfather always had.

Of course, Poppy hadn't used the Internet. He'd scour the classifieds and auto trader magazines looking for his dream motorcycle.
His
Holy Grail.

She smiled, remembering sitting on his lap as he told her about the coveted bike. "Rare and beautiful, just like you, Georgie-girl," he used to say to her. And then he'd call her Red Molly and sing her the Richard Thompson song about the motorcycle:
"Oh says Red Molly to James, "That's a fine motorbike. A girl could feel special on any such like . . ."

George supposed she'd inherited that dream along with the garage. Not that she expected to find a Vincent Black Shadow. They were rarer than unicorns.

There was a knock on the doorframe of her office. She almost barked, but she looked up and saw her best friend, Ariana, holding a mug of coffee in her hand.

"Oh thank God." George held out both hands.

"Good morning," Ariana said with the bright smile of someone who'd just found her true love and was being thoroughly banged all night long.

George didn't remember the last time she'd banged a guy. Not that she had anything against sex. Sex was great. It was excessive emotion that she didn't do. People did crazy shit in the name of passion, and that was never going to be her.

"What's with the shoes on your desk?" Ariana asked, looking inside the box.

"Esme was by."

Her friend's eyes widened. "Uh-oh. Did she tell you to do something crazy like wear peppermint-scented lotion?"

"No, she told me to check my text messages."

"Well?"

Sipping her coffee, George shrugged.

Ariana gaped at her. "You
have
to check your messages. What if there's something from the man of your dreams?"

"You don't really believe in Esme's bullshit, do you?" she asked over the rim of the coffee cup.

"It's hard to deny that she knows some things." Ariana pointed to the cellphone on the desk. "There's a way to find out, you know."

She glared to seem put out, because it was better than showing she was scared of what might happen. She picked up her phone. "I'm only doing this for you."

"Because you're a good friend," Ariana said with a wry grin.

She snorted. Her hand shook as she put in her code and looked at her texts.

Two messages.

Swallowing, she stared at the screen, an impending sense of doom spreading out from her gut. They joked a lot about Esme and her psychic-ness, but Esme had pushed Ariana and Sebastian together.

George wasn't anti-love; she figured she'd find a nice, calm man eventually. One who worked nine-to-five, who drank beer as he watched baseball from their couch. A simple guy who'd be loyal and uncomplicated.

"Aren't you going to look at them?" Ariana poked her arm.

She didn't want to, but she opened the first one. She almost wilted in relief when she saw it was from Sebastian, Ariana's boyfriend. "I hope this isn't my long-lost love," she said, holding the phone out to show Ariana.

Her friend laughed. "Me too."

George read the text. "He has a painter coming by to look at the outside wall, for the mural."

"He's been doing a lot of research for your wall," Ariana said. "He's really excited that you're embracing the changes."

"They were good ideas." A niggle of uncertainty bit at her, but it was ridiculous, because a facelift was exactly what this place needed.

"What's the other text?" Ariana asked

She shrugged, not recognizing the number. Whoever it was, she didn't have them listed in her phone, because there was no name. She opened the text; it was just a URL.

Ariana leaned over her arm to take a look. "What is that?"

"No idea." She clicked on the link and a web page opened on the screen. She gasped, unable to believe her eyes.

"A motorcycle?" her friend asked.

George shook her head. "That's not just any motorcycle. That's a Vincent Black Shadow."

"Oo-kay," Ariana drawled. "I take it that's a good bike, then."

"This isn't a bike. This is a rare work of art." She pointed at the picture. She herself would have changed the design a little, added a few more curves, but it was a beautiful piece of machinery.

Ariana pursed her lips, looking at it. "It's for sale."

"Impossible." She frowned, reading the ad. "They only made a limited number, and they're way too expensive when they're ever for sale."

"You really like the bike, don't you?"

No, but Poppy had. She stared at the picture, hearing him tell her how one day a Black Shadow would show up and he'd know it was the universe giving it to him.

But he'd died before that happened.

Only now it was here.

"You're right. It's crazy expensive," Ariana continued, unaware of George's thoughts.

She looked at the price tag. "Actually, it's low. It says it needs work. It probably doesn't run."

"I know a really great mechanic." Ariana smiled brightly. "Are you going to get it?"

She had the money Poppy had left her, which was oddly just about the same amount as the bike.

She didn't need a motorcycle. It was crazy to spend that much money on something that wasn't necessary.

But it'd be a collector's item. And it'd be like having a piece of Poppy with her. She missed him so much.

"Are you actually thinking of spending that much money on this?" Ariana asked, sounding intrigued.

"No." She pressed the phone's keys, already calling the seller. "I'm doing it."

The bleak landscape stretched ahead of him, sand and rocks, no sign of life. No sign of anything.

Then over the roar of his Triumph's engine, he heard Giselle's voice:
You don't have to be alone, love.

Remy pulled his motorcycle onto the side of the road and yanked the helmet off his head. He got off the bike and paced, his boots crunching the gravel. "It's not that simple."

Actually, it is.

"Easy for you to say," he mumbled, raking his hair back. "I bet you have a cushy velvet lounge you're draped across up there in heaven, and servants to bring you tea."

Giselle had loved tea. Tea and writing letters. She used to tell him that she'd have made the most proper Victorian.

God, he missed her. He lifted his head to the sun, eyes closed, remembering the last morning they'd been together. He'd been in a hurry to get to his studio—he'd had a revelation in the middle of the night about the sculpture he was working on, and he was eager to start working. Giselle had wanted him to stay with her just a little while longer.

But he hadn't, and several hours later she was gone, hit by a taxi.

If only he'd stayed.

If only she hadn't been on her phone as she crossed the street.

If only she were still with him.

He waited for the familiar pain to squeeze his chest, but he felt nothing. Feeling nothing was worse than the crippling grief he'd felt after his wife had died.

He had trouble remembering the exact shade of hazel eyes, and the smell of her skin had completely dissipated.

His cellphone rang, the sound jarring in the stillness of the desert and the desolation of his thoughts. He unzipped his jacket pocket and pulled it out. He sighed when he saw who it was but answered it anyway.

"Where are you?" his manager, Marty, asked instantly.

He and Marty were the same age, but Marty liked to think that he was the paternal figure in their relationship. Marty definitely made a better father than Remy's biological one. "I'm on the road."

"You've been on the road for over two years." The
since Giselle died
was implied. "When are you coming back to New York?"

He wasn't. "New York isn't the same, Marty. You know that."

"Of course it isn't, but it's home."

He wasn't sure about that anymore. He wasn't sure about a lot of things.

"I was talking to a potential buyer," Marty said, his tone a dare.

Remy almost smiled. He'd told Marty he was done sculpting, but the poor fool hadn't believed him. "No, Marty."

"Just listen to the offer—"

"I told you I'm done. I lost my inspiration." His muse was dead, and his talent had died with her.

Marty sighed a blustery gust of wind over the line. "Listen, I know your loss. I loved Giselle, too, and I'm sad every day that I don't get to see her face, but she'd hate what you're doing to yourself."