Page 1 of The Love Bandits

CHAPTER ONE

LAINEY

Both of my parents are con artists.Badcon artists.

But if wishing for status they weren’t born into and money they didn’t earn were an art, they’d be Matisse and Rodin. Sometimes they get little wins, though, like the time my mother acquired a rich lady’s wallet when I was ten. I helped her cut her hair to better match the photo on the license, and we snuck into the woman’s private club for an afternoon of bliss. We ordered food and charged it to her account, swam, got massages, and then booked it before anyone could notice.

I might have only been ten, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew it was wrong, and my motherdefinitelydid. It also felt really, really good—like we were playing a game and winning, and no one else knew about it. I don’t think we’ve ever enjoyed each other’s company more than we did that afternoon.

When we left, my mother had a glimmer in her eyes and a bounce in her step. She washappy, which I wasn’t used to seeing, and I felt some of her shine rubbing off on me. I remember thinking,So this is what it feels like to be rich.

My mom brought me home, to our cramped fourth-floor walk-up in Inwood, although my mother liked to say we lived on the Upper East Side. And once we were sitting on the couch,directly in front of the fan, because it was hot as the seventh circle of hell outside and in, she leaned in close and said, “This is going to be our little secret, Elaine. Don’t even tell your father.”

“Can we do it again?” I asked, because acting rich had felt pretty damn good, and I wanted more.

She laughed so hard her head tipped back.

“Not as Marjorie Eccles,” she finally answered with a wink, wrapping her arm around my narrow shoulders. “But she’s not the only one who doesn’t know how to hold onto her handbag.”

That was news to me, because I’d thought she’d found it lying on the sidewalk. A feeling of misgiving pricked at me—finders keeperswas one thing, but snatching a handbag was a definite crime.

“You really nabbed her purse?” I asked.

She shrugged and leaned toward the fan like she wanted it to swallow her. “You know stealing is wrong, Elaine, but she needed someone to teach her the golden rule. I saw her kick a homeless man’s hat, and the money he was collecting scattered everywhere. Who would do a thing like that?”

“Did you give the cash in the bag to him?” I asked, getting caught up in the picture she was drawing.

Robin Hood was my favorite story—taking from the rich and giving to the poor. I wanted to be like him when I grew up, but when I’d communicated as much to my best friend, Claire, she’d bitten her lip and said,“But you can do that in a legal way. Like, maybe you could become a civil rights lawyer.”

“That sounds like a lot of work,”I’d replied. It went without saying that it sounded likeboringwork.

“Probably,” she’d said thoughtfully, “but learning how to steal from people without getting caught would be hard too.”

But apparently I already had a thief in the house, so maybe it wouldn’t be impossible to become Robin Hood.

I watched my mother expectantly as she sighed and leaned in even closer to the fan. “Well?” I prodded.

“Of course I did, Lainey,” she said without flinching.

She said it so seriously, without any hitch in her voice. Then again, she’d always been a good liar. So I—

“Is thereany point to this story?” asks my business partner, Nicole, kicking back in her chair. Her pink hair is a pop of bright color beneath the low lighting.

We’re sitting at a round table in the kitchen of a cabin in Marshall, NC, drinking beers. My best friend—Claire, of the well-intentioned advice—inherited this place with Nicole from their biological father. Since Claire is the closest thing to a sibling I’ve ever had, I followed her here.

It didn’t hurt that my life in New York City had crashed and burned.

But that was a few months ago. Claire recently moved in with her boyfriend, who lives next door with his sister, and Nicole doesn’t stay at the cabin much anymore because she and her husband own a much nicer house in Asheville. So I’m the last woman standing, living in this cabin that I’ve lucked my way into, owned by two people who don’t charge me rent.

My parents taught me well.

Nicole came over to discuss the new business venture we’ve been working on together, The Love Fixers, services for people who have been screwed over by love. It’s a work in progress, because I have to balance it with a part-time job as a personal assistant for an older rich woman who dislikes me, and Nicole is a private investigator who keeps unpredictable hours.

Claire is basically here as our cheerleader, giving us what little energy she has left after waking up at four a.m. to get ready for the morning rush at her bakery. Her brownie-slash-donutcreation, Bronuts, are already on several “best of Marshall” lists—although admittedly those lists aren’t long and there aren’t many of them. In the tourism race in Western North Carolina, this town is usually an afterthought, a pit stop. It’s a refreshing difference from living in New York City.

“Well?” Nicole says, lifting her eyebrows and rocking some more.

Claire, who’s sitting at the table with us, shoots her a dirty look. “Of course there’s a point. She’s getting to it. It’s called dramatic timing.”

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