The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs

Evernight Publishing

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2013 Cat Kelly

ISBN:
978-1-77130-241-8

Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

Editor: JS Cook

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.  No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To Polly

NUMBNUTS AND CHUBBS

NYC Confi
dential, 1

Cat Kelly

Copyright © 2013

Chapter One

Perhaps turning her face up to the rain and screaming "Fuck!" wasn't going to solve her problem, but it felt good. It felt necessary. Even if, in the back of her head, she heard her mother exclaiming in shock that this was no way for a Chartered Accountant to behave. Yes, it was always capitalized when her mother said it.

The cabby screwed his head around to yell through his safety window. "Hey, shut the door, lady, you're gettin' rain on the seat."

Take a breath, Bry. Count to ten.

She got to three. Almost. "I'll shut your damned door as soon as I get my heel out of this crack." Of course, he probably wouldn't care if he drove right over her foot. He just wanted to get on with his day and put her in his rearview mirror. A lot of people felt that way about her. It came with the job.

Hands pressing on the roof of the cab for leverage, she tried again, but her stiletto heel was definitely stuck fast in a thin split in the tarmac.

"Take your shoe off," the cabby suggested above the crackle of his radio.

"And then what?" The distance to the canopied front of Leonato's restaurant behind her was at least twenty steps. The pavement was wet and filthy. And she had a thing about her feet getting cold. Probably something to do with her father storing his beer bottles in the end of her baby carriage on the way home from trips to the corner convenience store whenever he was left in charge.

"Your feet ain't my problem, lady."

"No, of course. How silly of me. You just sit there in your warm dry cab. Don't worry about it."

"Ok." The cabbie cracked a smirk.

Again she crouched to pull on her trapped shoe and while bent over the bubbling gutter, hard rain beating on her head and running down the back of her neck, she heard another male voice call out, "Can I get a ride to East 61st and fifth?"

"Sure, if you can get Cinderella out of the drain."

She looked up angrily, squinting as rain stung her eyes and probably washed off half her mascara.
Unbelievable.
Some guy actually meant to step over her and claim the cab. Gotta love New York.

He'd already thrown a briefcase into the back of the cab and was looking down at his phone, thumbs working frantically. Apparently her presence had barely registered on his Richter scale. Why would it? She was not the type that warranted a glance in the street, let alone a second look from a man like him. Oh, she could sum him up in two seconds—the same amount of time it took him to dismiss her.

But... wait just a goddamn minute.

That face. That square chin. Those smiling, sensuous lips. The aquiline nose. Those dark, dark eyes.

Bry's heart dropped, to be washed away in the gutter along with two dimes and a quarter that just fell from her coat pocket.

This called for another "fuck".
Sorry, ma
.

Swallowing a groan, she renewed the life and death battle with her uncooperative heel.

"Excuse me," he said, somewhere above her. It wasn't an apology for being pushy, of course. It was his way of telling her to move.

"Shoe's stuck," she hissed.

"Perhaps you should take it off. The heel is broken now anyway."

"Yes, it would seem a painfully obvious solution, wouldn't it?" she muttered at the ground. "But curiously I'd like to continue my day with two dry feet and both shoes. They do come in pairs for a reason." She bit her lip and kept struggling.

"There's a tear in your shoulder," he added calmly. "At the seam."

That would explain the ripping sound earlier and why her coat sleeve now felt loose. Oh, fabulous.

Suddenly he hunkered down beside her. "Let me try."

And there they were. Face to face after five years.

"Miss Bryony Mulligan! As I live and breathe." Surprise flared bright in his eyes, but they quickly narrowed as a slow grin cracked across his face. "Chubbs!"

"Bene
dick
Numbnuts Petruska. Fancy meeting you here." Only nine fifteen and this day was already on its way to the record for humiliation. Couldn't wait to see what else fate would slide her way, just for kicks.

But at that moment, as he put his hand on her ankle—completely uninvited—and gave a slight tug, faux Manolo and foot were released. Just like that.

The heel was snapped and dangling, but she could hobble inside the building now. Obliged to mutter a "thanks", she did so with all the enthusiasm of a squashed, wet lettuce leaf on a depressingly uninspired salad. Which was exactly how she felt.

"You going in there?" He gestured at the restaurant behind them.

She clutched her bag. "Yes, Numbnuts. Why?"

"It's closed. They don't serve breakfast anyway."

"I know." Bry stuck her chin in the air, ignoring the fact that mascara trails were probably winding their way down her cheeks. Of course he inferred she was on her way to eat. What else would he think? "This is official business."

"Oops." He winced. "Are they being audited?"

"Not yet, but they need someone to put things in order."

"Take care with that broken heel. Might be embarrassing. Wouldn't want you to get off
on the wrong foot
with the management." He laughed at his own joke as if it was so hilarious he might split his pants.

Hobbling onto the curb she cleared the way for him to jump into the cab. He winked at her. "See you around, Miss Mulligan."

"I  hope not."

* * * *

Official business? In shoes like those? Hmmm that was the kind of official business he enjoyed best. Pity he didn't have time to stick around.

As the cab pulled away, he watched her limping for the restaurant entrance, one heavy bag pulling her shoulder down—which is probably how she tore her coat sleeve—and a suitcase, tied together with ribbon, clasped tight to her chest. That woman ought to have an "out of order" sign on her back, he mused, shaking his head. Always had been an absolute mess and he'd known her since they were teens, when they met at their cousins' wedding sixteen years ago. He was a groomsman and she was the fat bridesmaid. There was always one. He got landed with escorting her down the aisle, because his girlfriend at the time wasn't in the wedding party.

"You be nice to that young girl," his grandmother had exclaimed in her thick Russian accent when she saw his expression at the wedding rehearsal. "She's just what you need. Not like those sluts you run around with."

"Grandma, she's thirteen."

"A good age. Snap her up now." She was only half joking. His Grandmother had escaped a rural, impoverished Siberian village and, according to her, lived through more atrocities than he'd had dinners—hot or cold. Where she was raised, girls married young to bear as many children as possible and populate the labor force in the fields. Folk lived simply, but they took in every breath as if it might be their last. They clawed their way to survival. That was where he got his ambitious streak, no doubt.

Bryony Mulligan's sulking face didn't trouble her either.

"She's a fine, strong, healthy girl," his grandmother had said. "Hearty bones. Not one of these dirty girls you like."

"That's not dirt, grandma. That's a tan."

But, just to please the old lady, he'd tried to make his reluctant partner smile. And he soon found Miss Bryony Mulligan to be far more than just an awkward adolescent in an ugly, too-tight, shiny orange dress. She looked right through him with her wide, curious blue eyes and whatever she saw apparently amused her no end. A cynical laugh never seemed far from her lips and one eyebrow was quirked in permanent bemusement. When he quarreled with his girlfriend at the reception and received a bony knee to the groin, Bryony—who'd witnessed the attack and his subsequent girly squeal— joyfully christened him "Numbnuts". In retaliation, his seventeen year-old pride wounded, he called her "Chubbs", because he'd caught her stealing pastries in her napkin. The names stuck.

He smiled, shaking his head as he thought of his grandmother, tirelessly trying to marry him off to a "nice" girl ever since kindergarten. Even at the end, when he visited her in hospital after her stroke, she was trying to fix him up with nurses, recommending him as if she worked a market stall and he was a cod she had to shift before he went rotten. Somehow he'd evaded all her sales ploys.
Sorry, grandma
. He was thirty three, single and loving every minute. It was his firm belief that man wasn't meant to be monogamous, just like a tiger wasn't meant to be a domesticated pet. If women understood that, everyone would be as happy as him.

Ben looked down at his phone and quickly tapped out another text to the sous chef who was the only soul still inside to greet the rep from the accounting firm.