Hooked: A Christmas Romance: The Doyles, Boston Irish Mafia Romance

by Sophie Austin

  “A gentleman and a philosopher. Can I help you with something? Is there an actual purpose to your being here, I mean beyond dropping your handcrafted pearls of wisdom?”

  “No purpose. Have fun with your stuff.”

  And with that, he’s out the door.

  7

  Vinny

  What had I been doing there?

  I’d finished as much as I could on my roof when Kristi and Sia arrived. That pairing surprised me. Kristi is as no-nonsense as you get, and Sia? All nonsense.

  But damn. When she’d exited Kristi’s little shitbox car, I’d been taken aback at how elegant she managed to make it look just by standing next to it. I’d been grateful that her new jacket was fitted and stopped at the waist because her ass looks amazing in those tight black pants.

  Maybe clothes don’t have to be purely functional.

  Watching her scurry away with her numerous purchases was amusing. Our earlier conversation obviously hit a nerve.

  To be honest, I didn’t feel great about that. Every word of what I said is true, but the timing was poor. Something had happened between her and Danny too. I’m not sure what, but I could tell when I dropped off that stupid bag.

  I know what pain looks like, even if she smiles through it.

  Which is maybe how I ended up watching her open that box and hold the ornaments so they’d glisten in the light from the windows Kieran and I installed. She’d looked beautiful in that moment, cross-legged on the floor, caught up in simple wonder. It’s so different from the bubbly perfection she projects, and it made me laugh.

  Not the best move, probably, but it brought both of us back to earth.

  She’s defensive about her materialism, and that’s not my problem. I’m not sentimental, but even I can recognize the value of handmade art over whatever garbage she lost in the storm.

  Not my fault that she took offense.

  Time to head over to the marina. While I didn’t participate in the salvage operation, I’m curious about how the Ivy Bay held up.

  My timing is perfect, and the tow has just finished. A dockworker is mooring the Ivy Bay to a slip, Oscar standing nearby. I jog over to see how he’s doing.

  “Vinny,” he says, patting me on the back. Big black stitches stand out on the side of his head. “Thanks for the rescue. I owe you one.”

  “Your brother tarped my roof,” I reply. “We’re even. How are you feeling?”

  “Stupid,” he sighs. “You know, Vinny, when you’ve done this as long as I have, you start thinking you’re invincible. Like you’re smarter than the ocean.”

  “I was wondering why you went out.”

  “Well, you’re not the only one. I thought it’d be fine, that we could outrun the storm. I wanted to get home to my grandkids. Eli’s birthday is today.” He smiles ruefully. “Would’ve left that kid with a pile of guilt thinking I’d killed myself trying to get home to him. Stupid.”

  We stare out at the water for a few minutes. I don’t know what to say. I wish I could understand what drove him to make that choice, but the only reason I know my birthday is because it’s written on a certificate.

  Never seemed like something worth celebrating.

  “I’m sorry about Danny’s niece,” he says, finally. “She was so desperate to get to him, and I was so desperate to get to Eli. Felt wrong to leave her behind. She said it was fate. Didn’t hurt that she’s a real good-looking girl.”

  He laughs. “But I could’ve taken her down with me too. And she ends up keeping me alive until you three get there.”

  “She’s fine, Oscar. And it looks like your boat is too?”

  “She’s a fighter. Danny’s niece and the Ivy Bay, I’d venture.” He laughs at his own joke and touches his stitches. “She’ll need some repairs, mostly to the bilge. But nothing too bad.”

  A loud thumping draws our attention back to the boat. Kristi is coming up the gang plank with two giant bags. Sven follows her with one more.

  “Oscar,” she yells. “You tie one hell of a knot.”

  “That I do,” he says, clapping his hands. “Aw, kiddo, you saved them for me. Thank you.”

  “Saved is probably too strong of a word. They were underwater a long time.”

  “I know, but I have to try to clean her things up. She deserves it.”

  “Does she really need more things?” I ask with a laugh. “Seems like she picked up a few more this afternoon.”

  “She did that so I could go to the salvage operation, dumbass,” Kristi says. “She spent enough that I could close down the store and not face the wrath of Mama Haydee.”

  Damn. That was kind of her. Guilt pulls at the edges of my mind. Being on the water means a lot to Kristi, and I know her family has struggled to keep their businesses in the black. Maybe Sia’s motivations aren’t exactly what I think they are.

  Sven smiles at Kristi. He’s got one hell of a crush.

  “Why don’t I help then,” I offer. It’ll make Oscar feel less guilty, and frankly I feel oddly proprietary about him going through her clothes.

  Especially since my mind keeps playing back the image of her in her bra and panties.

  Not to mention the effect that image has on my body.

  “Are you sure, Vinny?” Oscar asks. “I hate to impose. But she told me her work stuff is in here, and I’d feel bad if my arrogance hurt her bottom line.”

  Bottom line. Her ass in those tight pants.

  “Let’s move them into my place.”

  “Could it be a surprise?” Oscar asks, hopefully. “Danny told me her birthday is on Christmas.”

  Interesting. She hadn’t mentioned anything about that. Wouldn’t someone obsessed with things and parties be shouting that from the rooftops? Well, the ones that weren’t missing shingles anyway.

  “Sure,” I say. The timing doesn’t matter to me either way. We’ll get her stuff patched up and sent back with her to Boston after the holidays are blessedly over.

  Kristi’s stare bores into me. I don’t want any part of the assumptions she’s making here.

  Sia’s accusations around my own assumptions bubble up, and I don’t like it. Time for a distraction. I’ll throw Kristi off and get back in control of the situation.

  “Sven—are you still bartending at the Dockside tonight?”

  “I am,” he replies. His voice is slightly accented, picked up from his parents. “There’s music tonight. I know you’re not one for going out, but you should come.” His face turns a delightful shade of red as his gaze shifts to Kristi. Something Sia could match to her poinsettias.

  “Now that’s an idea,” Kristi muses. She doesn’t seem flustered at all. God, I should know when I’m outmatched. “I’ll go too. Meet there at nine?”

  I’d intended to distract her, but now if I didn’t go it’d seem strange, even for me.

  “Time to make one of your rare public appearances, Esposito,” she says, slapping me on the back. “Now let’s get these bags in the ol’ fish shack before we all freeze out here.”

  “It’s not that cold,” Sven says.

  No game at all, that one.

  “Maybe not with your Norse blood,” she says. “But my people are from Honduras. My blood hasn’t thickened up yet.”

  I take the bags from him. He could put his arm around her right now and solve this problem, but he’s hopeless. Instead he asks her about the knots Oscar used, and he and Oscar get into a spirited debate about that.

  Kristi rolls her eyes and catches up with me. We drag Sia’s bags behind us, and she helps me take them into the kitchen unseen.

  “Cold in here too,” she says, hugging herself.

  “My power was out until this morning, and with part of the roof gone.” I shrug. “It’ll heat up. Hopefully I’ll be able to dry out the Christmas Queen’s stash.”

  Kristi levels me with another of her stares. “Sure. See ya at 9 P.M., Esposito.”

  Once she leaves, I unzip the first bag. It’s mostly clothing. Fancy brand name stuff.
I turn a black, high-heeled shoe over in my hand. The sole is red. This shoe probably costs more than my truck.

  I told Oscar I’d help him, though.

  The shoes she brought did seem to hold up to water damage better than most would because of the quality of leather, I have to admit. Everything is briney, though, so I’d take the shoes to the town cobbler for repair, and the clothes to the dry cleaner’s.

  They could always use off-season business.

  I’d get paid by the Guard for the rescue, and that money would be better invested in the community anyway. What do I need beyond the summer revenue from my takeout business, anyway?

  Next, I find a small cloth bag which is stiff from salt. Inside is a zip-top plastic bag full of expensive-looking jewelry.

  Glad even someone as fancy as Sia could see the practicality of a simple zip-top plastic bag.

  Putting that aside, I spot a larger cloth bag. Jesus, how much jewelry does one woman need? Sighing, I open it up and it’s not jewelry.

  Damn.

  There are several sets of matching silky bras and panties.

  Hot damn.

  She’d been in pink lace yesterday, but there’s an entire bounty here of different colors and styles. My cock gets hard just thinking of her in these and I drop the red lace bra I’m holding like it’s burned me.

  Maybe it has.

  Mrs. Swenson at the dry cleaner can take care of everything here.

  The clothes, I mean.

  I put the lingerie out of sight and move on to the second roller bag.

  It’s full of Christmas crap, most of it beyond repair. There are wads of paper that probably used to be something more festive, and catalogs of expensive rental equipment that had been glued shut by the salt water, but not before the ink had bled and run all over some heavy looking skirts. Are those skirts?

  They seem big for Sia, but what do I know. Extracting those, I put them in the dry-cleaning pile. Maybe the ink could be removed? A few stockings, ceramic trees, and a glass yeti looking guy had survived as well. I clean them before turning to the last suitcase.

  I unzip it and find a bunch of portfolios. Five in total, and they’re huge, taking up the entire suitcase. The covers are red and embossed with “SKF Events.” Her initials, I suppose. What does the K stand for? I don’t have a middle name—my parents didn’t bother with such frivolity before surrendering me to the State. People are also surprised to find out that Vinny isn’t a nickname.

  It suits me, though, just like the opulence of Seraphina suits her.

  I gently open the cover of the first portfolio. The pages have been laminated, so they’ve held up okay, though there’s warping. Given her fancy clientele, these are probably a loss. The drawings on the page are intricate and frankly stunning. Her signature is under them. Why does she waste her talent on idiot rich people’s self-aggrandizement when she could do something useful with this?

  It’s unbelievable.

  I can’t resist looking through every one of the portfolios. They’re a collection of all the big events she’s done, and it’s a pretty impressive testament, even if I think she could use her skills for something more beneficial. I get to the last page, and it’s a fundraiser she did for a local homeless shelter. It makes me uncomfortable, so I just shut the book. There has to be a way to have these reproduced even if the originals can’t be repaired.

  I’ll look into it.

  Until then, I need to take a shower and eat before I go to that stupid bar. I only have myself to blame, though, so I can’t even be mad about it.

  Besides, can’t hurt to have the distraction from thinking about Sia’s lingerie, either.

  8

  Vinny

  The Dockside is crowded by winter standards. The bar and restaurant overlook the ocean, so in the summer it’s always packed to the gills with obnoxious partiers. The staff makes a ton of money, but if you ask me, the transaction fee it requires by way of interaction with drunk asshole tourists is far too high.

  The locals know not to walk under the open windows around closing time, lest they be victims of the Dockside’s famous summer vomit waterfalls.

  With such a romantic reputation, there’s no way Kristi and Sven won’t fall in love here tonight.

  With my takeout business, I get to decide when I open and close, what I serve, and whom I serve it to. Feed the people, just the basics, and send them on their way.

  Simple.

  The Dockside has reverted to a townie bar now that the tourists are gone. Not that the townies don’t get obnoxious. It’s just more familiar and on a smaller scale.

  The windows are closed because of the cold, though, so the vomit is in only expected places.

  Generally.

  And people don’t understand why I hate going out.

  Kristi’s at the bar. She’s flirting with Sven, not that he seems to notice. She’s wearing a halter top and jeans that have the men around her drooling, but Sven, respectful guy that he is, keeps his eyes glued to her face.

  I need to let him know that you can be a gentleman and still look.

  Sometimes it’s ungentlemanly not to look.

  In fact, I’d say that was the case here from Kristi’s perspective. She’s too practical to wear a halter top in the middle of winter without that specific goal in mind.

  There are two empty seats next to her, and I’m about to sit at the one directly beside her when she waves me off.

  “Someone’s there. She’s in the bathroom,” she says, pointing to the other seat.

  Great. She’s brought a friend. This way I can stay for an hour and leave, and she won’t be alone. Kristi can handle herself, but there are a lot of lonely, desperate guys on the Vineyard, some of whom are on pretty serious substances. I’d feel uncomfortable leaving her alone since I’d initiated the outing.

  Unintentionally, but still.

  And frankly I’ve never seen Sven in a fight. My money’s on Kristi protecting him rather than the other way around.

  I order a Jack and Coke from Sven. The whiskey here is garbage, so it’s a waste of money to get anything better. Just as he places my drink in front of me, I see her walking over from the bathroom.

  Kristi grins wickedly and I regret my former chivalrous feelings.

  Sia looks fucking hot. There’s just no other way to say it. I don’t make a habit of using the word fuck. It’d been used against me in anger so often that it lost any meaning, but in this moment I understand it again.

  She’s wearing a tight black sweater dress that hugs her luscious curves, stopping mid-thigh. Her high-heeled boots come up over her knees, and her long auburn hair is tossed into a messy bun, with curls framing her face. That hair would look wild and amazing after it’d been messed up from hot, up against the wall sex.

  It’s been way too long since I’ve been with a woman. Sex always leads to expectations of a relationship I’m not interested in.

  Looking at Sia reminds of why that risk might be worth taking.

  She freezes when she sees me. If she had any idea what I’m imagining, she’d probably slap me. I’d deserve it. Every man in the bar gawks at her. I’ve never wanted to get into a fight as badly as I do now.

  Punch every one of those drooling assholes out.

  Of course, I’m one of those drooling assholes. I come to my senses and shift my legs so she can slip into the seat.

  She looks at me, her head tilted thoughtfully, and then turns to Kristi. She has a little ceramic barrette painted to look like holly clipped in her hair.

  “Is there an ugly sweater contest tonight?” she asks, eagerly. “I didn’t know they have those here. I’ve hosted a couple of parties that had them.”

  Wait. Is she talking about me?

  I look at my sweater. It came from Goodwill a few years ago. It’s green with gold stripes, with a pine tree sewn into the center. I thought it looked like a rugby shirt.

  Kristi’s laugh is loud and barking. “Oh my god, Sia. No. And if there were, would V
inny participate?”

  She turns to me and places a hand over her mouth. Her knuckles still look pretty rough.

  “Oh no,” she says, from behind her fingers. Those blue eyes are wide with horror. “I’m so sorry, Vinny. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  Which says something about her manners, because I’ve been pretty rude to her.

  She touches my shoulder. Her hand is small and slender, but the heat I feel through my apparently ugly sweater is intense.

  “It’s fine,” I say. She takes her hand away. Wish she hadn’t so soon. “I’m not known for my keen fashion sense.”

  Her head tilts down in embarrassment, but she flicks her eyes up at me, and it goes right to my dick again. Goddamnit.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “The flannel look works for you.”

  And this sweater dress look really and truly works for her, but I can’t have an erection right now. I refuse. Not in the Dockside.

  “Uh, so what brings you out?” Sia asks. “I know you’re not big on social stuff.”

  Well, I was trying to give shit to Kristi for giving shit to me, and it blew up in my face.

  But I can’t say that.

  I take a swig from my drink. “The fine beverages,” I say.

  She giggles, and the virtues of going out start to reveal themselves a little more.

  We manage to keep it civil, despite Kristi’s best efforts to promote chaos.

  A couple of times Sia whispers conspiratorially with Kristi, but it’s always when Sven’s back is to them, so I have an idea what that’s about even though I can’t hear them over the mediocre band. Sia’s excitement about everything is surprisingly refreshing.

  Her interest isn’t just contained to only glamorous topics, but she’s curious about everything from where I get my summer fish supplies to how Sven learned how to bartend.

  It isn’t until I get up to use the restroom that I realize she’s told us nothing about herself directly. Interesting.

  Weaving through the crowd, I wonder what Sia finds so compelling about big events. If they were all as clean and beautiful as her drawings I’d understand, but the reality is often this—a bathroom floor covered in the piss of sad, lonely drunks.