“Which you’ve done already,” Kit said. “So run along. We wouldn’t wish to keep you from your skyscrapers.”

Preston shook his head, though his eyes danced with mirth. “This is going to be fun. I am definitely looking forward to Friday. Thank you for your help, Miss Lusk. Kit, try not to stab yourself with a knife.” He strode out of the kitchen, whistling the entire way.

“I like him,” Alice said as she inspected the crates on the counter.

“That makes one of us.”

“Oh, you’re not serious. You have been friends a long time.”

True, but Kit still wished to punch Preston every now and then.

Speaking of, the kitchen door swung open again. Preston’s expression was more serious this time. “Forgive me for interrupting, but, Kit, I forgot to tell you that Forrest is back from Chicago.”

He forgot? How could Preston have let that information slip his mind? The last time Forrest was in New York, he’d nearly drank himself to death. “Where?”

“A boardinghouse over on West Twenty-Eighth Street.”

Not a great neighborhood, then. A far cry from Forrest’s Fifth Avenue upbringing. “You have the boys on it?” he asked, referring to the guards Preston had hired to tail their friend.

“I do. Wouldn’t hurt for you to stop by and check in, though. I would, but my day is packed.”

Kit nodded. “I’ll go tonight.”

“Good—117 is the street number.” He tipped his hat at Alice. “Farewell, again.”

“Farewell,” she said.

When Kit didn’t say anything, Alice leaned forward to catch his gaze. “A friend of yours?”

“Yes. He’s not doing well, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry. Do you want to go visit him now?”

Even though there was a mountain of work to do and no one to help her but him, she was still thinking of others before herself. She was absolutely remarkable. “No, I’ll go tonight.” Rubbing his hands together, he gestured to the mountain of food on the counters and floors. “What should we do first?”

“Anything we aren’t using today needs to go into a cooler.”

“It’s back there.” He pointed to the wooden door in the far corner.

“Then let’s get busy.” Picking up a crate of Bibb lettuce, she held it out. “Here you go.”

“I see how it is.” He took the crate from her hands. “You just want me here for my muscles.”

She didn’t laugh, as he’d expected. Instead, she put her fingers on his upper arm and squeezed. “You are more than a pretty face, Christopher.”

The comment struck him as odd, but his tongue thickened all the same, his mouth suddenly cotton. He couldn’t handle the way she was looking at him, as if she understood. “You won’t be saying that after you see me in the kitchen,” he joked.

“Yes, I will. Now, get moving. I don’t have all day.”