Indecent Proposal by Molly O'Keefe Page B

wasn’t throwing up anymore. And she was outside on a gorgeous summer night. So all in all, things were looking good for Ryan Kaminski.
    Fantasizing about all the lattes she couldn’t have, she didn’t see the guy on the sidewalk in front of her building until she nearly tripped over him.
    “Excuse me,” she said, noticing the guy’s big camera. Maybe her neighbor in 3B finally made good on the threats she’d been making at high volume for over a year to kill her no-good cheating asshole husband.
    “You Ryan Kaminski?” he asked. His breath smelled like coffee and potato chips and he had crumbs in his mustache.
    “Who wants to know?” she shot back, which made the guy grin knowingly.
    “How do you know Harrison Montgomery?” He lifted the big camera around his neck to take her picture, blinding her with the flash.
    Oh. Shit .
    “I … I … don’t,” she said, stumbling up the path, glitter in the corner of her eyes.
    She opened the lobby door and once inside, turned back around to see the photographer take out his phone and make a call.
    “What the hell?” she breathed.
    “Paparazzi,” a guy said, and she turned to see a beautiful tall black man in a bad tie. He seemed vaguely familiar to her, but that was the life of a bartender. At some point it seemed she’d served everyone in the five boroughs a beer.
    But so scathing was his gaze, she felt the need to pull the carton of milk to her chest, an extra layer between her and the hate he clearly felt for her.
    “It will probably get worse,” he said.
    “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.
    “Wallace Jones. I’d like to say I’m the man here to make your life hell, but I think that guy is waiting for you in your apartment.”
    In a great rush she realized why he seemed so familiar: in the footage of Harrison she’d been relentlessly watching for the last few days, this guy was almost always in the background. Looking nervous.
    As she watched, he pulled a roll of antacids out of his pocket and thumbed one into his mouth. “Go,” he said. “It’s kind of making me sick looking at you.”
    “Listen, asshole,” she snapped. “I haven’t done anything!”
    “You might not have done anything,” Wallace interrupted, his dark eyes pulling her apart piece by piece. “But your brother sure has.”
    Her stomach fell to her feet. “Wes?”
    “Bearded guy? Definition of a loose cannon? Paid a little visit.”
    She didn’t stick around to hear the rest of the “How Wes Thought He Was Doing the Right Thing but Actually Managed to Screw Up My Life Even More” story. She bypassed the extremely slow elevator and went up two flights of stairs, pausing at the landing to get her breath back.
    Once upon a time she used to run a six-minute mile, her body strong and fueled.
    Now her ass was kicked by a flight of stairs.
    The hallway in front of her apartment was eerily quiet, like a scene in some horror film in which she was the dummy too stupid to realize she should just leave. Vanish into the night instead of reaching out with a slightly shaking hand for that doorknob.
    The door opened at her touch.
    These days she was pretty much a stripped wire, exposed to every element, every emotional whim, and despite her efforts to prepare herself for seeing Harry …  Harrison again, she was wasted at the sight of him.
    He stood in front of her dark windows, the city a bruised landscape behind him. He seemed bigger in his suit than he had in that Bulldogs tee shirt. Or maybe it was because he was Harrison Montgomery now and not Harry, and that came with its own weight. An extra few inches.
    At the sound of the door opening he turned to face her and she thought she remembered how handsome he was, how appealing his gravitas, but she hadn’t remembered the half of it.
    The lamplight gilded him in his tailored gray suit and his rich brown shoes, all of which cost at least four months’ rent. Gone was Harry’s grief and anger. This man was all cold and stony