Thick As Thieves: A Romantic Comedy

  Thick As Thieves

  Julie Olivia

  Copyright © 2020 by Julie Olivia

  julieoliviaauthor@gmail.com

  www.julieoliviaauthor.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by C. Marie

  Cover Design & Illustration by Elle Maxwell

  Contents

  About “Thick As Thieves”

  Playlist

  1. Francesca

  2. Owen

  3. Francesca

  4. Francesca

  5. Owen

  6. Francesca

  7. Owen

  8. Francesca

  9. Francesca

  10. Owen

  11. Francesca

  12. Francesca

  13. Owen

  14. Francesca

  15. Owen

  16. Francesca

  17. Owen

  18. Francesca

  19. Owen

  20. Francesca

  21. Owen

  22. Francesca

  23. Owen

  24. Francesca

  25. Owen

  26. Francesca

  Epilogue / Francesca

  Nice to See You!

  About “In Too Deep”

  1. Grace

  2. Grace

  3. Grace

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Julie Olivia

  About the Author

  About “Thick As Thieves”

  Thick As Thieves is a full-length, standalone romantic comedy!

  Some people have a voice for radio, but I must have a fanny for infidelity. This is why I bought a one-way ticket from London to New York and decided to ignore all men forever. And then I meet Owen.

  Owen holds all the red flags I can’t resist: mysterious and handsome, sarcastic with a clever smile… Plus, he works in tech like I do? Here’s my knickers, good sir.

  But, a few cybersecurity breaches at my job means I don’t have time for anything, especially not a classic New York City romance. The bad part is I think the break-ins are coming from the same source. The worst part is that Owen is quickly stealing my heart.

  The more time I spend with mysterious, handsome Owen, the more I wonder if maybe he’s the man I’ve been looking for all along. And unfortunately for me, I think that statement might be true in more ways than one.

  Playlist

  “Digital Love” - Daft Punk

  “Retrograde” - James Blake

  “Kiss the Sky” - Shawn Lee’s Ping Pong Orchestra

  “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” - The Beatles

  “If I Can’t Have You” - Zero 7

  “Think” - Kaleida

  “Every Other Freckle” - alt-J

  “Glory Box” - Portishead

  “Good Morning Mr. Wolf” - Patrick Watson

  “The Game of Love” - Daft Punk

  “Breezeblocks” - alt-J

  “Always Been but Never Dreamed” - Hydelic

  “Strangers in the Night” - Frank Sinatra

  1 Francesca

  I do not play with fire. However, if I could burn anything to a crisp, it would be my ex-boyfriend’s recliner. More like ex-saw-my-knickers-too-many-times. Ex-moved-in-but-never-paid-rent. Ex-never-made-it-official. But I don’t have the guts to burn his recliner. Thankfully, my five-dollar candle doesn’t have a moral compass, so it does the job for me.

  Now he’s an ex-recliner-owner.

  All this to say I’m hunched over my laptop, scouring the internet for a new recliner and wishing ex-man-friend David hadn’t bought such flammable furniture. I also wish I hadn’t paid the exorbitant fees that came with having it shipped to New York from London. It was my mistake for being sentimental over one object.

  Being in a studio apartment, I should have noticed the candle’s flame resting too close to the arms of the chair. It wasn’t until I saw rising smoke that the whole event started to occur in slow motion. The flame licked the side like a teasing tongue prepping a woman for a good time, but far less sexy—unless you’re a pyromaniac, I suppose. Admittedly, the crackling of the burning chair really lit a flame in my soul. I stared at it for nearly ten seconds, so fueled by convenient comeuppance that I somehow developed a devilish smirk that would nearly melt the pants off a man too passive to handle it. But that was the initial problem that led to the satisfaction tied to the chair-burning, wasn’t it—weak men?

  Unfortunately, I went full-on staring-at-the-flames crazy ex-girlfriend for a bit too long, because two toasted towels and one terrified ginger cat later, suddenly I need a new place to sit in my apartment and my cat, Leia, may need a new comfort blanket.

  For an animal named after a fierce Star Wars rebel general, I’ve never seen something so frightened by everything.

  “Embrace the fire, kitten!” I urged, fists clenched in victory. “Feel the hate flow through you!” Panicked meows ensued.

  Alas, Leia will never turn to the dark side. Ah well. Had the chair belonged to the tweety bird that nests outside our window near Leia’s cat tower, we might be hearing a different tune more akin to “The Imperial March”. As it was, I spent thirty minutes coaxing her out from under the bed.

  I locate a promising low-end furniture store a couple blocks down the road that’s easy walking distance according to online maps. Ironically, the cost of having the recliner shipped from Britain was what did me in monetarily, so it’s a no-go for finding any other options.

  Good job, Fran. Excellent.

  I almost convince myself to shuffle to my bed and pull the sheets over my head, but my mobile buzzes and I snap out of it.

  What do we say to the god of self-pity? Not today.

  I open the international call app and pull the mobile to my ear.

  “Hello, Natalie,” I say.

  “Were you seconds away from getting in bed, love?”

  My cousin is strikingly perceptive. I hate it.

  “My bed is actually still made, thank you.”

  “Proud of you. So, how are you settling in?” I can hear her gum-smacking through the phone. Natalie’s habits mirror an aging widow in Vegas, switching from slot machine to slot machine, a dream that’s the cherry on top of her current identity as a young go-go dancer at one of the oldest nightclubs in Britain. Natalie tells me when we’re old and grey, we’ll have the old woman Vegas life, sharing a hotel room fully paid for by her future sugar daddy—one she has yet to get—and living happily ever after.

  Ah, one can dream.

  “Two weeks living in New York and I still have no idea what I’m doing,” I say.

  “Two weeks isn’t that long,” she muses.

  “Yes, but I should know what I’m doing.”

  “It’s okay if you don’t. You’re making mistakes just like the rest of us.”

  “My perfectionist bones are quaking.”

  She laughs, her light tone carrying an air of posh royalty. Where she ever got that laugh, I have no idea. “Struggling to penetrate them tests?”

  I roll my eyes and return the laugh. “That’s not what it is, and you know it. Anyhow, the job is the least of my concerns.”

  “Yeah, I have no idea what you do.” I can practically hear the nonchalant shrug.

  “Penetration teste
r,” I correct. A penetration tester isn’t an abnormal job and she knows it, but she still finds joy in teasing me about the name.

  It’s common in tech companies to have a role that is, for lack of a better term, an internal hacker. I see the inconsistencies in security, attempt to break in through them, and then try to fix it. Like if a construction worker attempted demolition on a building in order to find its structural cracks and patch it up once more. I was recently offered a completely remote position, and due to this newfound job freedom, I chose to relocate to America—no reason in particular, but anything to get out of London. Despite the piles of paperwork and hoops to jump through, I finally made it, and I thankfully don’t regret the decision. The only thing I miss so far is Natalie.

  “Right. Penetration tester,” she says, slow and musing. “That could be my title on Saturday nights, yeah?”

  “Natalie!”

  Her suppressed giggles barely make it through my protestation.

  “Darling, maybe you need some penetration yourself,” she says.

  “I absolutely do not,” I scoff. “We should note that penetration generally involves a man, and I’m quite done with men for the time being as they seem to only function by penetrating everything in sight. I want nothing to do with hopeless horny heathens at the moment.”

  “Say that five times fast.”

  “Men are trash.”

  “No, the other thing.”

  I open my mouth to argue my point further, but Natalie’s heard enough of my ‘man ranting,’ as she puts it—unfortunately, it’s a common occurrence since David—so I save her the follow-up complaint and instead attempt to change the subject. “I’m actually getting a new recliner.”

  “Fun,” she says, following the lead.

  As if announcing it out loud cemented the errand for me, I stand and gather my cross-body purse along with the keys hooked on the back of the door.

  There’s a moment of silence before she emits a low hum then says, “I bet you’re wearing your white overalls.”

  I pause, twisting my mouth to the side.

  “And what does that have to do with anything?”

  “You are, aren’t you?” Natalie asks again. I gaze down and, sure, she’s a mind reader: I’m sporting my favorite pair of baggy white overalls complete with a discreet stain just below my left bazonker. I attempted to look cute with my maroon long-sleeved shirt underneath, embracing the current autumn spirit by complimenting the seasonal color palette of rust oranges and browns—but seeing as I paired it with the stark white of my main clothing item, I’m hopeless. Labor Day even recently passed, so I’m truly a walking fashion disaster.

  “I don’t like your tone,” I say, narrowing my eyes even though she can’t see my disdain.

  “You’ll never meet someone new if you keep dressing like your old self.”

  “Old self?” I say. “I’m not trying to be someone new. I like me. I’m good at me. It’s all the other non-me people I didn’t want to be around anymore.”

  “Poetic.”

  “Did you call to give me a therapy session?”

  “No, but it seems like it’s turning into one, yeah?”

  “I can hang up.”

  She laughs. “Calm your tiny tits, Frannie.”

  “And back to the recliner…” I feel general prep school guilt when she talks about my tits, mostly because it’s normally followed by poking fun at how large my arse is in proportion to my other quite small features. I’m a very healthy 5’7”, petite up top with a decently shaped figure I’m not at all ashamed of, but a very huge, round peach butt that I resent wholeheartedly. “I’m going for a stroll. Want to join me?”

  “Ooh,” Natalie coos, “switch to video. I want to see the city.”

  I pull the phone away from my ear and tap the video option, triggering the X that initially slashed through the camera icon to disappear and causing my cousin Natalie’s face to fill the screen.

  My view shows the interior of her very well-kept apartment. Every surface is covered by a different plant, some of whom were the dads and mum of my own beauties. My ‘Plant Mom’ mug is Natalie’s fault, as well as the lack of room near my windows to house a proper reading corner. String lights twist over the railing of her stairs and curl around every edge of her cottage house. The remainder of her perfectly decorated home is obscured by her leaning forward on her elbows, looking into the phone, which appears to be propped on the kitchen counter. I can see right down the middle of her cleavage, barely held together by a bright pink bandeau.

  “Ah, there are those overalls,” she says, squishing her nose in a ‘why, aren’t you so cute’ way. Her copper brown curls bounce as she shakes her head. Natalie is a beautiful mix of my mother’s brother, a droning Englishman, and my aunt, the Greek wild child who caused him to make the change from Steven to Steve. They say opposites attract, and it’s never been clearer than with Natalie’s parents, who are still married thirty years later—quite a different story to my own parents.

  I pat the front pocket of the overalls and stand taller, puffing out my chest. “They get the job done.”

  She scoffs. “And what job is that—repelling blokes?”

  I laugh and shrug. “Clearly they send men off to other women.”

  Natalie instantly cringes, exposing her slight front tooth gap. Her thought filter is nonexistent, but I’m all too familiar with it. “Unintentional jab—sorry. Well, have you met anyone nice? Man or no?”

  “Should I have to?” I ask, closing my apartment door and locking it shut. I walk down the hall, taking the small stairwell down to the main floor. “I can do this alone.”

  In the mailroom is one of my neighbors, an older woman well past the age of greying and into the ‘grandmotherly hunch’ era of life. I’ve seen her once or twice, mostly when we’re getting mail. At the moment, she’s doing her usual—which, to my limited knowledge, is getting her mail.

  “It’s not an either-or decision, Fran,” Natalie says with a laugh. “You’re allowed to be both on your own and have friends—as long as they’re not wankers.”

  A slight smile tugs at the edge of the old woman’s lips, as if Natalie’s sentence amused her.

  “Well, sure, I have friends,” I say.

  That is pure bollocks. In fact, I do not have friends. I’ve made zero efforts to make friends while in New York. It’s been two weeks of getting accustomed to my new job, a new country, and trying to soothe Leia’s moving anxiety. I think she’s still panicked from the airplane ride over. Eight hours stuck in a carrier took a toll on her—would on anyone, for that matter. I have a sneaking suspicion she also peed on the now burnt recliner. Wait, will those fumes be toxic?

  “Oh yeah? Tell me one mate you have,” Natalie says, a small smirk spreading on her face. My face grows hot. I should not have chosen to initiate a video call with Natalie, because here she is calling me out in front of this woman whose opinion I now somehow care about. She looks so kind, like she’ll offer me biscuits or a cuppa.

  “Well,” I lie, “there’s a woman in my complex.”

  A small shaky voice mutters, “I don’t know her.”

  I turn and find the old woman smiling, wrinkles drawn up to her eyes. “I didn’t mean you,” I whisper.

  “Oh, who is that? Let me see!” Natalie insists, lifting her chin up as if trying to see around my head even though video calls obviously do not work that way.

  I lift an eyebrow to the old woman, who gives the slightest of shrugs. I reluctantly turn the phone toward her, showing Natalie in her all curiosity.

  “Hi, Fran’s friend!” she bellows out.

  “Not her friend,” the old woman mutters.

  “Hey, woah!” I say, turning the phone to point back to myself and shaking my head at her in disbelief, unable to restrain my smile at her cheekiness. “You and me will have words, lady.”

  She lets out a small ‘hmph’ as if presenting yet another challenge but smiles back at me all the same.

 
Well, she seems nice.

  I walk past, giving a little wave with my free hand as she calls back, “I like your overalls.”

  “Aha!” I say, pointing a finger to Natalie over the phone.

  “You told her to say that,” she drawls with an eye roll.

  “Paid me five big bucks!” the lady says.

  I turn to say a quick thank you to the old woman, but when I look to catch her once more, the lady is already gone. Geez, where did she go? Did she run up those stairs?

  “So you do have a friend?” Natalie asks.

  “Didn’t you hear her? I pay for friendships now.”

  “So then where’s my money?”

  When the building’s door closes behind me, I stop on my stoop. The sound of city noise hitting you the moment you step out of any building here will never get old; it’s like leaving one world for another. Car honking, jackhammers, the general chatter of people and movement on the sidewalk…it’s a little comforting for it to be so similar to London.

  It’s also September, meaning the insane summer heat is cooling and there will be a comfortable temperature for the next few weeks. At least, that’s what I’ve seen on the internet. There’s something about how the air picks up in between blocks like a wind tunnel between skyscrapers. It’s quite similar to London in that regard. Natalie can insult my overalls, but I say they’re practical when it comes to the chill.

  I corral myself into the crowd on the sidewalk, swiping between the video call and the map, keeping to the far right of the path lest I get crushed by power-walkers clearly on a mission to reach their next destination.