Overview: The Manhattan Knitters’ Club invites you to apply to join them for their Friday night gatherings. If approved, and that’s a big IF, you agree to bring the following to each meeting: tiara, bottle of wine, and knitting supplies.
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By day, Wendy Travis is a stone-cold-accurate proofreader of contracts for individuals whose deeds bend toward the peculiar. By night, she’s the out-of-date fashionista president of the Manhattan Knitters’ Club. The club’s motto: What happens at knit club stays at knit club!
When the new upstairs neighbor interrupts her sleep with his nocturnal shenanigans, she’s suddenly not so accurate in her job. With the backup of her knitting friends, she confronts Mr. Can’t Keep It In His Pants.
Land developer, Jackson Adler, is in the wrong place at the…right time. When a posse of tiara-wearing, needle-wielding misfits—including one very animated, very sexy, and slightly tipsy woman—mistake him for the tenant of Apartment 5C, he doesn’t correct their error. Instead, he suggests a quid pro quo agreement. He’ll pipe down if Wendy agrees to buy him at an upcoming bachelor-auction…on his dime of course.
Wendy counters wither her own quid pro quo offer because she intends to find out if those late-night moans and squeals of pleasure are fake—or stone-cold accurate responses.
Conventional? No. Worthwhile? Time will tell.
%20by%20Lisa%20Wells%20Book.jpg "Her Night In Shining Armani (Manhattan Knitters' Club 1) by Lisa Wells Book") |
| Her Night In Shining Armani (Manhattan Knitters' Club 1) by Lisa Wells Book |
Her Night In Shining Armani (Manhattan Knitters' Club 1) by Lisa Wells Book Read Online Chapter One
Wendy cleared her throat, successfully garnering the attention of the other Manhattan Knitters—Eddy and Abigail. Tonight, she planned to do it. She would temporarily lower her principles and spill all the juicy details of the contract she had recently proofread at work for the Angelino family.
“Dollface, that’s the second time you’ve cleared your throat. Do you need medical attention?” Eddy asked. “Should I call the hunky firemen brigade?”
Abigail giggled. “They can attend to my needs any day.”
While the lowering of her principles wasn’t on Wendy’s Things To Do Before Turning Thirty list, if she didn’t tell the Manhattan Knitters about the booty-call contract, her brain was at risk of exploding. And that would not be a pretty sight. “So, you know how I never—”
A loud boom of thunder caused them all to yelp.
Wendy’s gut, a prim and proper thing, took advantage of the interruption to tell Wendy’s mouth to shut the daylights up. She ignored her gut. “You know how I never tell you—”
Lightning cracked right outside her living room window, resulting in more squeals.
“Wow, that’s some storm out there,” Abigail said. “Maybe—”
“Oh! Oh! Oh God! Yes! Yes, baby! Don’t stop, baby!”
“Fuck,” growled a deep baritone voice.
The surround-sound exclamations came from the apartment above Wendy’s. They filtered through the ceiling tiles, through the ancient pipes, and through the air vents. Her rude neighbor appeared to be entertaining…again.
Were the sexual murmurs the universe’s way of telling her—if you refuse to listen to your gut, then listen to me? Work Secrets, no matter how titillating, should stay unmentioned.
“Yeeeessssss,” screeched a female.
Wendy dropped her knitting, jumped up, and grabbed her broom, frustration tangling in her like a ball of yarn in the paws of a cat. She knocked the handle vigorously against her ceiling. “Try having a quiet orgasm like the rest of us.”
The female moaned even louder, the voice breathy and higher pitched than whoever her neighbor had been entertaining last night.
Wendy glanced at the other two members of the small but vastly fun Manhattan Knitters’ Club. Eddy had his phone out to record the sex noises, and Abigail’s mouth hung open.
“Sorry,” Wendy said to her friends. “The show usually doesn’t start this early.” Three a.m. seemed to be Mr. Upstairs’ favorite time to quote Marvin Gaye and say, “Let’s get it on.”
“Sugar, are they newlyweds?” A blush stained Abigail’s freckled cheeks. She looked about fifteen but was twenty-two, fresh off the cobblestone streets of a small, quirky town in Missouri.
Wendy scoffed. “Nothing that romantic. If my ears can be trusted, he never nails the same woman twice.”
Eddy put his phone down and repositioned the tiara he wore. A prop from the Off-Broadway musical he’d been an understudy in last summer. “Who is he? What does he do?”
“I’ve never met him. The only time he’s up there is when he’s doing someone.” Wendy adjusted her own tiara. Eddy had ordered one for Wendy and Abigail the night their club was born.
That night, Wendy had brought her knitting to open mic at a newly opened comedy club. You know…just in case there was time to knit between sets. Upon arriving, Wendy had immediately spotted another knitter in the club—Abigail—and had requested permission to sit with her. Then Eddy had waltzed in with his hot-pink knitting satchel, and they had waved him over.
The tiaras weren’t his only addition to the club. He’d also suggested they try a different wine at their weekly meetings. More of an insistence. Said he couldn’t knit a lick when sober. Tonight, they were drinking Broke Ass, a smooth red blend from Spain that had been on sale.
“I used to know a boy who couldn’t keep it in his pants,” Abigail said with a sweet lilt. “Ended up with crabs, bless his heart. Made me happy I was the only girl he never did hit on.”
“The guy obviously needed glasses if he never hit on you,” Eddy said, before turning to Wendy. “Spill. Give us all the sordid details and don’t leave out anything.”
For a moment, Wendy thought he was asking about the contract secret she’d been about to discuss. Then she realized he meant Mr. Upstairs. “The night noises started a little over a month ago.” Which coincidentally was also the time Pencil Thin, the cubicle dweller next to hers, had failed to show up for work. On that fateful day, she’d been given his client load complete with all the bizarre shit that went with his very special clients—the Angelinos. Bizarre as in she had to sign on the proofreader line as John Smith when proofing their contracts. She had even been made to practice the signature so that it matched Pencil Thin’s. Weird. Weird. Weird.
And her BFFs knew none of this.
“A month! You’ve had Romeo living above you for a month, and you’re just now mentioning him?” Eddy pursed his lips. “Girlfriend, I can’t even with you right now.”
Wendy lifted a shoulder. “Didn’t seem newsworthy.”
“Bless your heart,” Abigail purred. “Your idea of newsworthy and my idea certainly aren’t kissing cousins. Tell us more.”
Abigail had lots of sayings that went right over Wendy’s head. “Like what?” She really didn’t know a thing about her upstairs Romeo.
“Straight? Bi?” Eddy crossed his legs at the knees.
“I’m assuming straight. Only because I’ve never been bombarded with the wailing of two baritones up there.”
“You hear that?” Eddy placed a hand over his heart. “That’s the sound of my heart breaking.”
“I wonder what he does for a living.” Abigail had a thing for men in manly careers. Like firefighters, construction workers, cowboys.
Wendy pointed toward the ceiling with the broom handle. “No matter what he does for a living, this seems to be what he does for pleasure.”
As if on cue, a loud moan filtered down to their ears.
A huge smile stretched Eddy’s lips, showing off his cranberry-orange lipstick. “Sounds like he’s damn good at his pleasure-sport.”
“Well, his damn good is messing with my damn good,” Wendy replied tartly. She was a proofreader for Contracts R Us. A job that required perfection…as in the company had a two-strike policy. Strikes were given when errors were discovered on a contract you’d proofed. Upon receiving your second strike, you also received your pink slip, and an escort out of the building with whatever of your personal items you could fit in a shoebox.
“You have a new sex life?” Eddy laid his knitting needles down and leaned in as if ready for an all-night gossip session. “Dish it with a dollop of whipped cream. Eddy’s listening.”
“I was talking about my job,” she corrected. “I almost made an I’m-too-tired-to-concentrate mistake today on an asinine contract. Too tired because Mr. Upstairs kept me awake.”
“Asinine in what way?” Abigail asked.
Wendy was over the urge to talk about the booty-call contract. Between her gut and the Universe, it was obviously not meant to be told. “It was on a contract between the owners of a pair of cocker spaniels who want them to marry and then mate.” Can’t have any bastard cockers in the world of the rich and insane.
“Oh my God,” Eddy squealed. He placed his hand over his heart. “That is so cute, it’s gross. I want to go to the wedding. Can you get me an invite?”
“Considering I’m not supposed to talk about my work, that’s going to be a hard no.” The upside to her job at Contracts R Us was her employer paid her the big bucks because she had a reputation of being stone-cold accurate. Five years on the job and zero errors. Plus, they paid for her to live in this very apartment. Not to mention, she was allowed to use her work cell as her personal cell and thus spend that saved money on yarn.
“But you caught the mistake? Right?” Abigail asked.
“Thank God, yes.” If she hadn’t, they would have given her strike one and deducted a day’s pay from her next paycheck. This harsh repercussion upon receiving your first strike was why, when Wendy had read over the contract to be employed at the company, she’d chosen not to report the error on it. The legal document had her listed as living in the apartment above. For better or worse, she’d kept the mistake to herself.
“I don’t think I could handle that kind of pressure,” Eddy said. “I mean none of us are perfect. Mistakes happen. Hell, I slept with two of mine. Last week.” Eddy was currently the understudy for the star of an on-Broadway show.
A good point but not the point. “It’s my job to find mistakes, not make them.” Her career was her strength. A place she ruled. A place she never blundered. Unlike her personal life, which was littered with missed chances, misplaced faith, misguided love, and misfortune. Thoughts of the latter caused her heart to pinch.
“I want you to pick out my next lover,” Eddy said. “Someone mysterious, moody, and meant for moi.”
“Oooh, me too,” Abigail chimed enthusiastically. “Only I want kind, handsome, and not afraid to walk down Wooster Street after dark. And believes in ghosts.” Considering she grew up in Mayhem, a town known for its ghost population, that addition didn’t surprise Wendy.
“How about you, Dollface?” Eddy asked. “What adjectives describe your dream man?”
“Well, let me see…” Wendy considered the question. “Successful, sexy, honest.” Emphasis on honest. Dealing with contracts all day, she’d discovered the world was full of weirdos and deceit.
Ever since the Angelino contracts had been reassigned to her, she’d been plagued with apprehensions that perhaps her place of work wasn’t entirely on the up-and-up.
“Gag. Honest. I hate it. I love it,” Eddy said. “Add truthful to my man.”
“I don’t know. I think the world runs better when little white lies are on the table,” Abigail said.
The Manhattan Knitters had two things in common. They met every Friday night to knit, and they sucked at the under-thirty dating scene. Abigail was the youngest at twenty-two; Wendy twenty-four; and Eddy was three months away from thirty. Oh, they dated—they just weren’t any good at it. Abigail too shy. Eddy too shallow. And Wendy too much of a perfectionist. She could pick a flaw in a man at twenty paces with her eyes closed.
The sound of a door slamming directly above them had them all running to the window to watch who left the building.
A couple emerged. “Do you think that’s them?” asked Eddy.
“Maybe.” The couple was huddled under an umbrella, making it impossible for Wendy to see what either of them looked like.
The Manhattan Knitters simultaneously sighed, turned, and went back to their drinking and knitting.
An hour later, a sound from upstairs had them all pausing their needles. Heavy thumping, but no vocal noises.
“That’s odd.” Wendy cocked her head to listen harder. “He normally doesn’t come back.”
“Do you think he brought back a different woman? A quiet one?” Eddy asked.
“Maybe.” Wendy didn’t think so.
Eddy tittered. “He’s such a fabulous T. R. A. M. P.”
“That’s a nice way of describing him.” Man-whore would have been Wendy’s choice of word. Who would have ever thought she’d wish for her old Mr. Upstairs to come back? His major crimes had been farting loudly and playing his music after ten p.m.
Much like Pencil Thin, old Mr. Upstairs had simply disappeared. One day he’d been up there farting, and the next, the new Mr. Upstairs had been up there making women squeal.
The sound of a thud and maybe a male grunt came from above.
“I don’t thump during sex,” Abigail said. “Do you guys thump? What do you think is causing the thumping?”
“Maybe he’s into kinky sheets,” Eddy said, “and the sound effects are a result of some type of dungeon stuff.”
“What are kinky—”
“Do you do dungeon—”
A thunder-like thunk shook the pictures on the walls.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” Wendy jumped up from her chair. “That’s it. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”
“You go girl.” Eddy clapped his hands twice.
Wendy yanked at the bottom of her T-shirt. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, send in the cavalry.”
Eddy stood and slipped on his heels. “Oh honey, you don’t get to have all the fun. We’re coming with you.”
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