Suddenly One Summer
Page 28
“So. That’s some coincidence, huh?” Charlie asked her. “You two living next to each other now.”
“Like a freaky, kismet kind of thing,” Tucker agreed.
Charlie snorted. “Kismet? Who uses that word anymore?”
“Um, lots of people,” Tucker shot back.
“Yeah, lots of people like my grandmother.”
“Well, then your grandmother must be cool as hell, because Kismet happens to be the name of a comic book character. Marvel and DC,” Tucker emphasized victoriously.
Charlie rolled his eyes, then turned to Victoria. “Anyway.”
“Yes. Anyway,” Tucker said, looking a bit peeved.
Both men stared expectantly at Victoria.
“So, just to clarify . . . is Ford actually home?” she asked.
“Right. That.” With a chuckle, Charlie pushed open the door. “He’s in the shower—we just got back from the gym. He didn’t know what time you’d be stopping by, so he asked us to hang around until he got out.”
Victoria stepped inside the loft, checking out the place as she followed Charlie and Tucker. Layout-wise, the condo was the mirror image of hers, and the kitchen granite and shelves were basically the same, but that was about where the similarities ended.
“Wow,” she said, both surprised and impressed. Clearly, he’d invested a lot of time and effort into the place. Half of the open floor plan was designated as a living space, with a leather couch and chair, brick walls, and a sliding door that led out onto the terrace. But the other half appeared to be a combination dining/work space, with a striking reclaimed-wood-and-steel table and matching stools, and two entire walls of built-in reclaimed-wood bookshelves.
It was a great space, masculine and urban and yet also warm and inviting, too. The wall shelves were various heights and filled with a mixture of books, artwork, framed photographs, and other interesting odds and ends: an antique clock, a sculpture of a hand, and something that looked like a replica Star Wars blaster.
She walked over to take a closer look. Good thing this wasn’t a date, because if it had been, she would’ve been tempted to spend a good, long time examining all the nooks and crannies of those bookshelves, trying to discover what they said about the man who owned the place. “This is nice. Really nice.”
“Try not to sound so surprised,” said a dry voice.
Victoria turned and got her first look at the shower-fresh version of Ford Dixon. Gorgeous as ever; six-foot-plus inches of incredibly blue eyes; wet, mussed hair; low-slung jeans; and a T-shirt stretched across his broad, solid chest.
And bare feet.
She heard the tiny cry of a hundred unfertilized eggs as one of her ovaries exploded.
She cleared her throat, pointing to the wall shelves. “Did you do this yourself?”
“I did.”
“With our help,” Charlie said, waving from the kitchen. “Well, mostly Tuck and I just drank beer and held a few boards. Speaking of which . . .” He tossed his empty beer into a recycle bin under the sink and opened the fridge. He grabbed another beer, then stopped short when he saw Ford staring at him.
Charlie looked between Ford and Victoria, then smiled innocently and put the beer back. “I’m guessing you two have work you want to get to.”
“What are you guys working on, anyway?” Tucker asked. “Is this something for the Trib?”
“It’s a project for one of Victoria’s clients,” Ford said ambiguously, giving Victoria a subtle look.
“Huh. Sounds very . . . boring.” Tucker pointed a finger at each of them. “Well. I guess we’ll let you two worker-bees get down to it. Shall we, Charles?” He headed to the door with Charlie, then turned and walked backward the last few steps. “Victoria, it was a pleasure.” Putting his thumb and pinky to his ear, he mouthed Call me as Charlie yanked him by the back of the T-shirt and pulled him out the door.
“Yep. That would be Charlie and Tuck.” Ford turned to Victoria. “Nicole asked me to not say anything to my friends about the fact that she doesn’t know who Zoe’s father is. That’s why I was vague about what we’re working on tonight.” He went to the couch and pulled his laptop out of his messenger bag. Absentmindedly, he ran a hand through his hair, giving it a rakish, finger-combed look.
One stubborn, errant lock fell across his forehead.
He caught her looking at him. “What?”
For some reason, she couldn’t resist teasing him. “Your friends said you were quite taken with me that night at The Violet Hour.”
He walked over, moving in close. “My friends say a lot of things. I learned a long time ago to ignore ninety-nine percent of them.”
She smiled to herself as he strode over to the table, laptop in hand.
That wasn’t a denial.
* * *
“SO TONIGHT, WE come up with our list of baby-daddy contenders,” Ford said, setting his laptop on the table.
Victoria took a seat on the stool next to him. “Great. How do we do that?”
“That’s what I’m about to show you, Ms. Slade.” He typed in the Web address for Tracers Info Specialists, and entered the log-in and password he had via his status as a Tribune reporter. Then he angled the computer toward Victoria so she could see what he was doing. “This is a people-search database. From here, we can generate a list of all possible Peter Sutters in Chicago.”
“Are we even certain the guy lives in Chicago?”
Good question. “Nicole said he mentioned being a Cubs fan. So keep your fingers and toes crossed that he’s somewhere in this city, or we’re essentially screwed.” Next, he clicked on the link to run a new search. “First, we enter the information we do know.” He typed in the blanks he could fill—all two of them. “Name: Peter Sutter. City: Chicago.”
When Victoria leaned in closer to watch, Ford noticed her perfume. Something light and feminine. And kind of sexy.
“How do we know that’s how he spells his last name?” she asked. “What about S-u-d-d-e-r? Or just one ‘t’?”
He blinked, refocusing. “Nicole remembers him making a joke about being nicknamed ‘Peter Butter’ and ‘Peanut Butter’ when he was a kid. So I think we should start with a double ‘t’ spelling and then try other options if we strike out.” He clicked “search” and, within seconds, onto his screen popped a list of approximately twenty Peter Sutters and their respective info. “Okay. Now we have something we can work with.” He pointed to the screen. “This gives us dates of birth. Nicole said she thought her Peter Sutter was between twenty-five and forty years old, so let’s be overcautious and go with an age range of twenty to forty-five. That means we take out anyone with a birthday before 1970 and after 1995.”
“Like a freaky, kismet kind of thing,” Tucker agreed.
Charlie snorted. “Kismet? Who uses that word anymore?”
“Um, lots of people,” Tucker shot back.
“Yeah, lots of people like my grandmother.”
“Well, then your grandmother must be cool as hell, because Kismet happens to be the name of a comic book character. Marvel and DC,” Tucker emphasized victoriously.
Charlie rolled his eyes, then turned to Victoria. “Anyway.”
“Yes. Anyway,” Tucker said, looking a bit peeved.
Both men stared expectantly at Victoria.
“So, just to clarify . . . is Ford actually home?” she asked.
“Right. That.” With a chuckle, Charlie pushed open the door. “He’s in the shower—we just got back from the gym. He didn’t know what time you’d be stopping by, so he asked us to hang around until he got out.”
Victoria stepped inside the loft, checking out the place as she followed Charlie and Tucker. Layout-wise, the condo was the mirror image of hers, and the kitchen granite and shelves were basically the same, but that was about where the similarities ended.
“Wow,” she said, both surprised and impressed. Clearly, he’d invested a lot of time and effort into the place. Half of the open floor plan was designated as a living space, with a leather couch and chair, brick walls, and a sliding door that led out onto the terrace. But the other half appeared to be a combination dining/work space, with a striking reclaimed-wood-and-steel table and matching stools, and two entire walls of built-in reclaimed-wood bookshelves.
It was a great space, masculine and urban and yet also warm and inviting, too. The wall shelves were various heights and filled with a mixture of books, artwork, framed photographs, and other interesting odds and ends: an antique clock, a sculpture of a hand, and something that looked like a replica Star Wars blaster.
She walked over to take a closer look. Good thing this wasn’t a date, because if it had been, she would’ve been tempted to spend a good, long time examining all the nooks and crannies of those bookshelves, trying to discover what they said about the man who owned the place. “This is nice. Really nice.”
“Try not to sound so surprised,” said a dry voice.
Victoria turned and got her first look at the shower-fresh version of Ford Dixon. Gorgeous as ever; six-foot-plus inches of incredibly blue eyes; wet, mussed hair; low-slung jeans; and a T-shirt stretched across his broad, solid chest.
And bare feet.
She heard the tiny cry of a hundred unfertilized eggs as one of her ovaries exploded.
She cleared her throat, pointing to the wall shelves. “Did you do this yourself?”
“I did.”
“With our help,” Charlie said, waving from the kitchen. “Well, mostly Tuck and I just drank beer and held a few boards. Speaking of which . . .” He tossed his empty beer into a recycle bin under the sink and opened the fridge. He grabbed another beer, then stopped short when he saw Ford staring at him.
Charlie looked between Ford and Victoria, then smiled innocently and put the beer back. “I’m guessing you two have work you want to get to.”
“What are you guys working on, anyway?” Tucker asked. “Is this something for the Trib?”
“It’s a project for one of Victoria’s clients,” Ford said ambiguously, giving Victoria a subtle look.
“Huh. Sounds very . . . boring.” Tucker pointed a finger at each of them. “Well. I guess we’ll let you two worker-bees get down to it. Shall we, Charles?” He headed to the door with Charlie, then turned and walked backward the last few steps. “Victoria, it was a pleasure.” Putting his thumb and pinky to his ear, he mouthed Call me as Charlie yanked him by the back of the T-shirt and pulled him out the door.
“Yep. That would be Charlie and Tuck.” Ford turned to Victoria. “Nicole asked me to not say anything to my friends about the fact that she doesn’t know who Zoe’s father is. That’s why I was vague about what we’re working on tonight.” He went to the couch and pulled his laptop out of his messenger bag. Absentmindedly, he ran a hand through his hair, giving it a rakish, finger-combed look.
One stubborn, errant lock fell across his forehead.
He caught her looking at him. “What?”
For some reason, she couldn’t resist teasing him. “Your friends said you were quite taken with me that night at The Violet Hour.”
He walked over, moving in close. “My friends say a lot of things. I learned a long time ago to ignore ninety-nine percent of them.”
She smiled to herself as he strode over to the table, laptop in hand.
That wasn’t a denial.
* * *
“SO TONIGHT, WE come up with our list of baby-daddy contenders,” Ford said, setting his laptop on the table.
Victoria took a seat on the stool next to him. “Great. How do we do that?”
“That’s what I’m about to show you, Ms. Slade.” He typed in the Web address for Tracers Info Specialists, and entered the log-in and password he had via his status as a Tribune reporter. Then he angled the computer toward Victoria so she could see what he was doing. “This is a people-search database. From here, we can generate a list of all possible Peter Sutters in Chicago.”
“Are we even certain the guy lives in Chicago?”
Good question. “Nicole said he mentioned being a Cubs fan. So keep your fingers and toes crossed that he’s somewhere in this city, or we’re essentially screwed.” Next, he clicked on the link to run a new search. “First, we enter the information we do know.” He typed in the blanks he could fill—all two of them. “Name: Peter Sutter. City: Chicago.”
When Victoria leaned in closer to watch, Ford noticed her perfume. Something light and feminine. And kind of sexy.
“How do we know that’s how he spells his last name?” she asked. “What about S-u-d-d-e-r? Or just one ‘t’?”
He blinked, refocusing. “Nicole remembers him making a joke about being nicknamed ‘Peter Butter’ and ‘Peanut Butter’ when he was a kid. So I think we should start with a double ‘t’ spelling and then try other options if we strike out.” He clicked “search” and, within seconds, onto his screen popped a list of approximately twenty Peter Sutters and their respective info. “Okay. Now we have something we can work with.” He pointed to the screen. “This gives us dates of birth. Nicole said she thought her Peter Sutter was between twenty-five and forty years old, so let’s be overcautious and go with an age range of twenty to forty-five. That means we take out anyone with a birthday before 1970 and after 1995.”
