“Kids?”
“Uh, none.”
“None? I hope you like kids.” She lets out a tired laugh then adjusts the heavy baby on her hip. The toddler throws his sippy cup across the pavement and squeals.
I retrieve it and smile as I hand it back. The second he has the cup back, he launches it again.
“I’ll take the cup,” the woman says, sounding defeated. “He thinks we like to play fetch. The more you give it back to him the farther he throws it.”
“Why did you say I should like kids?” I ask, turning my head up curiously.
“This building. It’s families. Most of us have young kids. It’s what the building is known for.”
“I didn’t realize.”
“It wasn’t always like this.” She rocks the stroller back and forth as she sways the baby on her hip. “Then two really amazing schools opened and drew all of us in. Are you new to Boston?”
“Very.”
“Here alone? Like single?”
“Yep.”
“And you’re renting a place here in the building? You poor girl. I hope you weren’t planning on bringing a date back here. This building is six floors of birth control. Men get a whiff of sour milk and dirty diapers and they go running for the hills. And if you’re smart don’t get chatty with anyone’s husband. That never works out well. But welcome.”
When her child’s shrieking hits a new octave, she finally hustles them into the building, leaving me on the curb looking up at the six floors of crushed dreams. My liberating bachelorette pad just turned into an unruly preschool.
Day one and I’ve already received my first threat, well-meaning as is probably was. I’m tempted to chase after her and tell her I don’t need to dip into their stash of men—I’ve lined up my own. Vetted ones. Isn’t that what Jana said?
I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but hopefully it started with not married.
I take two steps toward the entrance of the building then freeze as one of the windows reflects an outline of someone sitting on a bench across the street. A man.
Is that?
No. It can’t be.
“Charles?” I call as I spin quickly and jab a finger through the air in his direction. “Are you following me?”
He looks down at his phone as if he didn’t hear me, but I know he did. I start walking toward him.
He’s on his feet, looking both ways as if about to dart across the street to escape me.
“Stop,” I call out.
Surprisingly he does.
“Miss Savannah. Small world.”
“Yeah, except it’s not. Why are you here?”
“Here?”
“Did Brice have you follow me?”
“I can’t say.”
“Okay, then give me your phone.” I put my palm out to him and stand there expectantly. Unwavering.
He plucks his phone from his pocket and pulls up Brice’s number before handing it over.
“Charles, what did you find?”
“He found me.” Okay, so I didn’t exactly think through what to say to a rich man who seems to have asked his bodyguard to be mine.
“What have you done with Charles? Is this a ransom call? What are your demands for his safe return?” His joke is cute but I don’t laugh.
“Why do you have Chucky Doll watching me?”
“Mostly because I assumed he was skilled enough to not be seen. Apparently I was wrong. He may have to dust off his résumé. I think he’d make a great clown for kids’ parties. The shoes would fit.”
“Is this all a joke to you? You’re not funny.”
“Have you been talking to my mother?”
“What?”
“Give Charles back his phone. I’ll call him off.”
“But why is he here in the first place?”
“I wanted to make sure you were staying somewhere safe.”
“I told you I was.”
“Our definitions of what is safe are not in tune.” Without missing a beat, he asked, “How did your meeting go?”
I huff out my annoyance. “Better than expected. She’s still willing to work with me.” I stop there. I’ve already said too much, at least according to the very strict nondisclosure paperwork Jana already sent over.
She won’t like anything I’m doing. My life makeover probably shouldn’t involve whatever Brice and I are doing. What are we doing? I didn’t expect to see him again. According to Jana, I’m supposed to close the door on him. To forget his dimple. His large hands. The bulge in his pants I traced with my eyes that first night on the elevator.
“I understand why you might be concerned for me. I didn’t give you a great first impression. But everything is right back on track for me now. So, although I appreciate you watching out for me, it’s not necessary.”
I hand the phone back to Charles and tip my head up proudly. I march into the building but have to stop abruptly to hold open the door for a woman with a double-wide stroller and very pregnant belly.
She ruins my sassy exit.
I draw in a deep breath and put the thought of Brice out of my mind. Sure, it’s nice to think that someone in the city cares about me, but he and I are not meant to happen. He sees the old me. Any thoughts of him, any energy spent bantering back risks slowing me down from where I’m supposed to be.
But damn . . . those dimples.
I wave my key to the doorman as I walk past him.
“Still no bags?” he asks, looking me over nervously as though I don’t belong.
“No.”
“Where are the little ones?”
He looks behind me as though I’m a mother duck and my ducklings should be coming closely behind me in a row.
“No kids.”
“No bags. No kids. Nice.” He shrugs and seems to count himself lucky.
The lobby of the building is bustling with people coming and going. Mothers and children mostly. It isn’t the crowd I hoped to rub elbows with, but they seem nice enough. What is an apartment but a place to rest your head?
“You need anything else tonight, miss?”
“No, I think I’ll be all right. Where is a good place to eat dinner around here?”
The excitement of going out for a fancy meal in the city sweeps me up.
“Uh, they all like the”—he snaps his fingers as the tries to think about it—“the place with the play gym for the kids. Menu?” He reaches behind the counter and digs for the paper.
“No, thank you.”
Brice would know a good place to eat. A quick call and he might even take me to dinner. Because he can’t resist me?
Or because he sees me as some kind of charity case?
I sigh.
What is the chance that a man like him will be in his office thinking about a woman like me? He probably has a hot date with a model.
I google the apartment building across from his—Bachelor Tower. It is an uber elite, all-male building with a bar on the first floor that whole blogs are dedicated to describing escapades from.
Yeah, sounds like he’s alone and wishing I’ll call.
“You okay, ma’am?”
“I’m fine. Just thinking.” I sigh. “Do you have a list of places that deliver?”
“Sure.” He hands me a stack of menus.
I read them over as I walk toward the elevator. Mexican. I wonder if Brice likes Mexican or if he’s too conservative for a little spice.
I hug the menus to my chest as the elevator door closes.
Someday soon I’ll have a little heat in my life and it won’t be from jalapenos.
I remember how good Brice’s arm felt beneath my hand. It’s too easy to use him in every fantasy I have of what I’ll soon be doing. A woman and man enter. She gives me a look and places herself between me and her man.
I smile at her because I’m genuinely happy she has someone so good she doesn’t want to share him. I look the guy over. He seems like a nice enough man. Good for her. She’s glaring at me. I keep smilin
g. Don’t worry, lady, before you know it you’ll see me in the elevator with my own guy and you’ll realize there are enough to go around.
I look at the menus.
Tonight, take out on my own.
Tomorrow—who knows?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Brice
“Being clandestine is literally a core function of your job,” I snap. Charles calls with an apology but I know him too well. “You wanted her to see you.”
“That would be insubordination,” Charles counters as though that isn’t exactly what this is.
“Yes, it would be.”
“However, I am your Royal Guard. I would take a bullet for you, but hide in shrubbery and follow some woman you say you’re not interested in? No, I don’t believe that is a skill I have.”
“You agreed it was important to make sure she was staying somewhere safe.”
“I did that, and now we know she is. Her apartment building is in a nice location and is one I could imagine my own family living in.”
“But?”
“But this feels like a game, and I don’t like games.”
That much has always been true about him. “You like her.”
Charles clears his throat. “I have seen you with many women over the years, Bricelion. You were young and they were willing, so I always looked the other way, but this woman is looking for more than you’d offer her.”
I stand and pace my office while digesting his words. “I have no interest in dating this woman, Charles. If Mathias were here and he’d met her, he would have also wanted to ensure she was okay.” Without giving him a chance to respond, I add, “Before you say I’m not my brother, I am well aware of that, but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand the concept of duty.”
After a moment, Charles says, “You’re not Mathias, but the country only needs one of him. I have a pretty good idea what we’re doing in Boston, and I admire you for it. However, when it comes to this woman, I believe your judgement is clouded. You’ve helped her. She’s in a good place. Perhaps it’s time to end this and finish your work here.”
It is strange to see Charles acting protective of someone besides me. It’s a testament to the impression Savannah made on him. “I can’t walk away until I hear from Simon again. He also has a bad feeling about this Monroe woman. If you know why I’m here, you know I’m close to my objective. I need to stay focused. This isn’t a royal order, it’s a personal request. Keep an eye on her tonight. I only want what you want for her . . . to make sure she’s okay.”
He makes a curt sound of agreement. I hang up the phone and grind my teeth. I need to eat. Sleep. Start over. I call down to the kitchen and order a meal along with an old Scotch that should clear my head. A man rolls a cart of food into my apartment and trips over my computer bag, sending crumbs flying over the dark wood floor. He hastens to clean it up.
The Pop-Tart.
Once alone I fill a glass of Scotch and walk over to my bag. The floor around my bag is clean, but I imagine how the interior is now caked with crumbs. Charles is right. Savannah Barre is nothing like the women I’ve chosen to be with over the years.
She’s a tiny tornado of chaos. Messy.
Complicated.
Impossible to ignore.
And a virgin.
Irrelevant since I have no intention of seeing her again. Once I confirm she’s not about to be sold into some kind of sex ring, I’ll walk away.
I’m halfway through my meal when my phone rings. “What is it, Charles?”
“So I stayed.”
“Yes.”
“She went to the store.”
“Okay.”
“When we returned to her building there were several men outside. They seemed to be looking for her.”
“A group of men?” I was instantly on my feet.
“Yes. All different ages. A tough looking crew.”
“Where is she? Tell me you whisked her out of there.”
“She appeared to know them.”
“She said she doesn’t know anyone in the city. Are they still there?”
“No, she invited them inside.”
“You let that happen?” I growl the question in a tone that surprises even me.
“You did suggest that I remain less visible. If I intervened, there would be questions. Questions that might reveal who I am and then who you are. If you prefer—”
“I prefer you not let a group of men follow Savannah into her apartment. I shouldn’t have to spell that out for you.”
“What would you have me do, Your Highness?”
Tossing my title out is a response to me sounding like someone who requires it. I shake my head. I can circle back to that later. “I want to know who those men are to her.”
“Then may I suggest you find out?”
“Me?”
“Unless you are asking me to set up a different type of surveillance on her. I can arrange for her phone calls to be routed to you or a listening device to be delivered to her apartment. Or you could ask her who they are.”
He’s being ridiculous. Or I am. It’s too hard to tell these days. “I’ll call her.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stay put. If I don’t like what I hear you’re pulling her out of there.”
“Your Highness, if you sense anything is amiss, I can easily handle and dispose of her visitors.”
Now that’s the Charles I know. “Let’s hope that’s not necessary.”
I dial Savannah’s number and listen as the phone goes to voice mail. My heart thuds with adrenaline. Is this what Jana does? Sends groups of men over? I’m boiling with anger as my hands crumple into fists.
When she doesn’t answer, I grab my keys and head out the door. This is none of my business. Not the serious business that brought me to Boston. This is tornado Savannah, tearing through my sanity.
On my drive to her apartment I consider a wide range of reasons why several men would be visiting Savannah, none of them I like. If I get there and any one of those men have laid a hand on her, there will be no safe haven for them. I’ve never utilized my political immunity, but I’ve also never felt such protective rage.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Savannah
In the lobby of my apartment building, I ask, “What are you guys doing here? Who’s at the bar?”
My chest feels like a mug being slowly filled with warm cocoa. My nerves settle. My sweaty palms dry. A little bit of home just showed up on my doorstep. My guys.
“We closed the bar for the night. It won’t kill everyone in town to have to drink their own booze for one night.” Jimmy is wearing his best shirt with a pair of khaki pants. It’s the outfit he wears to the bank to discuss his loan. And apparently the outfit he wears to the city. His hair is combed and set with gel. That’s his church look. All this for me? I’m touched.
“Why would you close the bar?” My eyes are damp with tears. I’ve known him for most of my life. Jimmy and Murray were good friends with my father, which explains why they hired me at the bar even though I had zero experience.
For years, when I wasn’t munching on grilled cheese by my grandmother’s bed, I was eating a basket of chicken wings from the kitchen in the bar with these men. They are as close to family as I have left.
I still can’t believe it: Jimmy, Lance, Jay, and Murray came to the city. Cleaned up. Grinning. Reminding me that, although I’m alone in Boston, I’m not alone in the world.
Jimmy reaches out a hand and pats my cheek. His rough fingers remind me of my father’s. The result of a lifetime of labor. “You gave me this address before you left so I could send your last paycheck. When we talked last night something didn’t sit right with me. That man who answered the phone, the way you sounded. I didn’t like it. I told the guys, and we decided to take a little road trip.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say with a relieved sigh. They’re minimizing how much they had to do and give up to be here. Jimmy closed the bar for a day. In my lifet
ime, I’ve only seen him do it once, and that was when his wife died. He closed for a week that time. The others will miss money from the shifts they aren’t working. This is big. “I shouldn’t have called you. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
Murray holds up a round metal tin. Even in his late fifties, he intimidates people before they know him. Closer to seven than six feet and thick from head to toe, he could break up a bar fight by grabbing the offenders by the scruff of their necks and pulling them apart. He isn’t in his Sunday best. The joke in Coppertop is that when he dies he wants to be buried in those jean overalls so he’ll have them when he reaches the other side. What kind of heaven would it be without them? “We brought cookies from Mrs. Warren. She sends her love.” His eyes sparkle as he hands them to me.
Murry’s rounded center is a direct result of his belief that Mrs. Warren’s cookies can cure almost any ailment. Feeling sad? Chocolate chip. Hung over? Oatmeal. Unable to get pregnant? Macadamia. Don’t ask why; some things require a leap of faith.
Mrs. Warren is a widow with a soft spot for a man who’s handy with tools. We all know she and Murry are more than friends, but they still sneak around like teenagers. No one dares bring it up for fear of being cut off from what is arguably the best cookie connection on the East Coast.
I rip the top of the container off. White sugar cookies cut in the shape of shamrocks with green frosting. “For luck,” was all Mrs. Warren wrote. I replace the cover and hug the container. As always, she sent exactly what I need.
It’s only been a couple days but home feels so far away. I haven’t let myself admit I miss any of it. Admitting that would be like suggesting I made the wrong choice to come. But the cookies cannot be denied. I’m a little homesick.
Jay crosses and then uncrosses his arms like he’s not sure he belongs in this nice building. He’s the youngest of the group and washes dishes at the bar. We went to school together though he was a couple grades ahead of me. He left Coppertop for a few years, but won’t talk about where he went. A wool hat covers his mop of hair, and although he’s self-conscious about the scar that cuts through his bottom lip to his chin, he wouldn’t have trouble finding a date if he looked people in the eye. Like me, his life has become smaller and smaller. He works at the bar, the fishery, and odd jobs on his rare days off. Jimmy lets him stay in a back room of the bar. Murray told me Jimmy found him and brought him back to Coppertop.
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