said, nodding toward the fabric pile. “After this particular job I refuse to do another throw pillow in it for as long as I live.”
Kit laughed. “What about West 87th Street? You said in your email there were some problems.”
“Oh, the husband’s suddenly bullied his way into everything. He thinks blue is for sissies and that the slipper chairs in the bedroom look like they were made for Tinkerbell. Says he’s a ‘Mission furniture kind of guy’ and thinks the place should have a huskier feel. The man actually said that. I once had a woman say she wanted a bedroom like a harlot’s, but in forty plus years I never heard anyone ask for husky.”
“I thought the wife said she had free rein.”
“Apparently she did until the bills started to roll in.”
“You’ll work it out,” Kit said, smiling. “You always do.”
Baby was brilliant at many things but one of her specialties was negotiating what she called ICDC: Intense Couple Decorating Conflict.
“Where’s Dara?” Kit asked, referring to their assistant.
“I had her run to the D&D building, and she’s going home from there.”
“Don’t stay late on my account, Baby. We can do a real catch-up tomorrow, and I’ll go through paperwork tonight.”
The next few days rushed by. Kit spent a good chunk of her time on site at a Greenwich Village apartment she was decorating, checking on the paint job the contractors were doing in the study. It ended up perfect, a gorgeous, gleaming shade of aubergine. When the clients, the Griggses, saw the final results on Thursday they were agog. Kit felt both thrilled and relieved. The wife, Layla, had turned out to be a fussbudget, and Kit had been micromanaging the project even more intensely than normal.
But she knew there was another reason for her good mood. Her dinner with Matt Healy was just hours away. She felt herself craving both his company and his touch.
She chose a pale gray jersey dress for the night, one that was loose fitting, but clung in the right places. And she picked the sexiest bra and panties she owned.
She treated herself to a cab uptown so she wouldn’t feel frazzled. The building turned out to be a high-rise luxury, not far from Lincoln Center. She gave Matt’s name to the concierge and he nodded, lifting the intercom phone out of its cradle.
“Is he expecting you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. She felt a rush of nervous excitement.
Before the concierge could buzz the apartment, a woman interrupted, asking about a package delivery.
“18C,” the concierge told Kit, confirming what she already knew. “I’ll tell him you’re on the way up.” Then he redirected his attention back to the other woman.
Kit rode the elevator to eighteen, feeling her pulse rate accelerate. “Easy, girl,” she told herself. “You don’t want to be foaming at the mouth when you arrive.” After finding the right apartment, she pressed the buzzer. The door began to swing open and she smiled expectantly.
But the man standing on the other side of the threshold wasn’t Matt. Kit’s eyes darted toward the number on the door. Yes, this was C. Had she heard the letter incorrectly?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m looking for Matt Healy. I must have the wrong apartment.”
“Well, I’m Matt Healy,” the man said. “Who are you?”
chapter 2
For a moment she couldn’t process what he’d just said. Instead, as she stared at the man’s unfamiliar features, other phrases kept tumbling through her brain: wrong apartment, wrong building, wrong street, wrong day, wrong something.
But then, finally, his words computed: “I’m Matt Healy.”
So where was the other Matt Healy? The one who was supposed to be serving her chili or stir-fry or whatever guys whipped up when they invited you for dinner? It felt as if she’d accidentally exited a building from a different door than the one she’d entered and was on the wrong street now, momentarily discombobulated.
“I—I don’t understand,” Kit stammered. “Is this some kind of joke?”
He smiled. Pleasant seeming, not acting at all cagey. For the first time, she really took in his appearance. Nice enough looking. Strawberry-blond hair. Blue eyes. He was dressed casually, in an untucked, long-sleeved dress shirt and a pair of brown cords, but he exuded a buttoned-up vibe. Lawyer/banker type.
“Well, not a joke I’m playing,” he said. “Why exactly are you here?”
“To see a man I know named Matt Healy. We had plans.”
He shrugged. “Like I said, I’m Healy and I don’t believe we’ve ever met.”
“But the doorman,” she said, really flummoxed now. “He—he told me