Double Trouble by Deborah Cooke Page A

a few hours in the kitchen, such as mine is. And I was in need of some serious soul sustenance.
    The root of the problem here was that James wasn’t his father’s son. It was hard to believe, you know, because the two of them really did seem to be cut from the same cloth.
    At least I’d thought so up until now. The last twenty-four hours were making me reassess James’ Jerk Quotient. He certainly had nothing on the old man in that department.
    Not just the dimple, then. I liked that he was more worried about his kids than himself. Probably because it surprised me. I like unpredictability, and I’d thought this guy was as predictable as milk curdling two weeks past its Best Before date.
    I was getting curious. A dangerous proposition.
    And okay, I liked that he could hide his thoughts like a pro.
    Danger, danger, hormones on full alert.
    Time for sushi.
    Yes, it’s a huge pain to make your own sushi. It takes eons to get it just right, but it’s soothing in a way. Nice repetitive, detail-oriented gestures. Not unlike writing code, come to think of it. Two things I do well.
    Very well.
    I like sushi, like it a lot, but am always a bit leery of buying it already prepared. You do not want day-old sushi, or at least I don’t. If it’s not prepped right, the nori becomes soggy city once it’s all assembled. Yuck.
    Fresh would be the point of sushi, right?
    So, I put on some tunes and set to work—if the sushi didn’t perk me up, then the soundtrack from “Cabaret” and that box of Passionate Persimmon hair color ought to do the trick. I’m blessed with thick and healthy hair, though I’ve tried my best to mess with it over the years. I can’t bear to cut it, so I color it. Often. Wildly. It’s a hobby.
    It was perhaps the fourth time I had belted out the soundtrack with Liza, and I was just realizing that, as usual, I had gotten enthused and bought too much fish, when the freight elevator clattered and groaned into action. I listened, fully expecting that one of my neighbors was arriving, but naturally suspicious all the same. Here’s the problem—I’d been so excited about getting to the fishies that I hadn’t locked down the hatch.
    There are a few disadvantages to my living circumstances. Here’s a big one—the isolation-lack-of-personal-security combo-pak. I don’t worry about it too much, but when that elevator goes in the night, my pulse certainly picks up. Usually, I’m the only one in the building after six or seven.
    This is not a good feeling.
    The elevator made the unmistakable sound of halting at my floor. I hadn’t invited anyone—as if!—and a quick glance at the glass bricks revealed an impressionist interpretation of a night sky. All I could see through the industrial grade mesh surrounding the elevator was a silhouette tall enough, broad enough and male enough to be a serious problem.
    Don’t tell anyone— anyone , you hear!—but this kind of thing scares the living crap out of me. I have far too vivid an imagination and in moments like this, I think it should be against some law for me to live alone.
    Fortunately, the moment of potential dependency usually passes and leaves few discernible scars.
    And even more fortunately, the elevator door takes a few weeks to open. I grabbed my trusty fourteen-inch cast-iron skillet and assumed position. The grate groaned open, I lifted the skillet over my head, and a man stepped into my loft. He moved cautiously into the shadows, as though uncertain what he would find.
    I had a surprise for him.
    “Hey!” I shouted, then swung the skillet. It’s not sporting, after all, to just bash someone on the head from behind.
    I like to see the whites of their eyes.
    He turned, swore, and I saw in the nick of time that it was James. I averted my swing just as he caught my wrist.
    “What kind of greeting is that?”
    “Security system,” I said, my heart still going like a trip hammer. “Crude but effective.”
    He exhaled, the epitome of skepticism.