“It is so nice to meet you, Fiona,” he said, appearing quite amused. Oh yeah, this guy was trouble.
“You too,” I managed to say. “I’m here all week if you’d like to catch another show.”
Jake chuckled and I looked around him—which was not an easy thing to do as it seemed the brothers were both greedy where muscles were concerned—to find Mark, who was scowling for some reason. Okay, so maybe he was mad I ranted about his physique, or maybe it was my inability to stay out of everyone’s business.
Whatever.
“Hi, Mark,” I mumbled.
“Shortcake,” was all he said.
Oh no he didn’t!
“So!” exclaimed Nate. “How about those beef tips? Sounds awesome!”
As tempted as I was to claim there was not enough food to go around and then suddenly invent an important meeting that required my presence (because you know, Monday evenings are usually fully booked with work for landscaping receptionists), I sucked it up and cooked dinner for everyone. Who was I kidding? Laney knew I always made too much food, so there would have been no fooling her anyway.
I have to say I was quite pleased with the results of my efforts, and from the little moans and the lack of conversation at the dinner table I’d say my bourbon and honey steak tips were a hit with everyone else as well—Rocco excepted. He did, however, enjoy my roasted garlic mashed potatoes with his hot dog. Future foodie in the making.
At least I assumed it was the food that kept everyone quiet, not the weird tension between Mark and me. Was I the only one who felt it, though? He had me discombobulated. I’d been thinking about him and about the scene at the hospital all weekend, unable to get him out of my head. And while I’d been cooking I’d caught him staring at me several times—it had rattled me to the point where I’d nearly burned the glaze.
Gah! Out of my head, you brute!
“Fiona,” Jake finally said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Will you marry me?”
Ha! I knew it! How could you not like a good beef tip?! I smiled at him.
“That depends, Jake. What can you bring to the proverbial table?” I took my last bite and sipped my wine, determined to focus on brother number two. He was a little yummy himself, but he lacked the eyelashes and general surliness of Mark. Wait. What?
“I can build you a backyard oasis and probably get you a seat at the hottest Bunco night in Florida,” Jake said after a moment of thought.
“Tempting,” I said, pretending to consider his offer. “But I live in a condo. And I prefer Mahjong. I hope you understand—it’s not you, it’s me.”
“So you’re saying I have a chance.”
Laney and I laughed and then Nate chimed in, “Seriously, Fiona, that was so good. I’m going to have to up my workouts if you keep feeding me like that.”
I smiled at Nate and then I snuck a quick glance at Mark, sure he was going to volunteer to train Nate or something, but he was just sitting back in his chair eyeing me and sipping his beer. Hmm.
“Can I be excused?” Rocco asked, his little lisp making the question quite possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard.
“Sure, baby,” answered Laney, and the little guy ran off to his room.
I got up and started to grab the dishes but Laney and Nate stopped me simultaneously, as was their custom on Fiona nights. I don’t know why I still tried.
And then, because I couldn’t seem to keep my giant yap shut, I proceeded to butt into everyone’s business. “So, how is your mom?” I asked Mark and Jake.
Jake glanced at Mark and they did some silent brother communication thing before Mark finally answered, “She’s okay.”
To any normal person, this succinct reply would have signaled that it was time to switch topics. But me? I pressed on, for some ridiculous reason. “And her friend who was hurt?”
Mark threw a glance to Nate at the counter, maybe having assumed that Nate had filled me in on some details—which he had not, much to my annoyance. I hadn’t even been able to crack Laney.
This idea of Rocco as my new best friend was proving to have more and more merit by the second. Sure, he was just a kid, but if I fed him enough ice cream I’m sure he’d go shopping with me. Plus, I’m pretty good at talking about gross stuff and that totally impresses boys.
Jake was the one to finally speak up. “It was actually our father, and he’s pretty racked up but he’ll pull through.” Mark shot him a warning look while my chin hit the table.
Oh my God! It hadn’t occurred to me that it could be Mark’s dad. That would certainly explain why he and his mom were so worked up at the hospital. “I’m so sorry! I had no idea,” I said. “That must be really upsetting. I’m glad he’s going to be okay.” I continued to ramble.
“That would make you the only person,” Mark muttered, effectively shutting me up.
“Mark, everyone here knows what’s going on so why not see if anybody else has ideas on how to clean this up quick?” Jake turned to his brother.
I raised my hand like a kindergartner. “Um, I don’t think I really understand what’s going on.”
“And we don’t want to bother you with our problems, Shortcake. Right, Jake?” His look was so pointed it was almost comical.
This was all so shocking I forgot to be mad about the “Shortcake” moniker.
Jake looked back and forth between Mark and me as if suddenly realizing something interesting. Huh? Then he smirked like the goddamn troublemaker I’d known he was, and I could practically hear the bling bounce off the naughty twinkle in his eye.
Oh, hell no! Back this truck up before anyone gets any ideas.
Jake went on, “I’m sure Fiona would be happy to help. So, long story short, Fiona, our dad is a douchebag who our mom is somehow still hung up on—even though he walked out on her years ago—and he has loan sharks after him because he stupidly borrowed a shitload of cash from them. Now he’s back in town, we can only assume, to suck us into his shitstorm and all our mom can think about is how to help him and/or win him back.”
“Holy hell,” was what came out of my mouth.
“You can say that again,” Laney said from the sink.
After that, we all migrated back to the living room with our drinks and proceeded to brainstorm a bit. From what I could understand, the goal was to keep their mom as far away as possible from not only their dad, but the hospital’s billing department and these guys who had beaten up the douchebag dad.
“Not to be insensitive to the serious topic at hand,” I began, “but does anyone else’s mind immediately picture Chevy Chase in a shark costume whenever the words ‘loan shark’ are mentioned?”
“Thank God I wasn’t the first one to say it, but I’ve been dying to!” said Nate, who was then firmly swatted on the arm by Laney.
“Shut up, you two. Am I the only grown up around here?” she scolded. “And besides, that was land shark, not loan shark,” she added quietly. “If you’re going to be assholes, at least get it right.”
Nate and I just grinned at each other and shrugged before we schooled our expressions. Nate cleared his throat and I looked down at my lap.
“The whole thing is so oddly surreal, though, isn’t it?” Mark commented.
Phew—my big mouth hadn’t pissed him off again.
“Why can’t we call the cops?” asked Laney.
“Because the old man has at least some sense of self-preservation. If he goes to the cops he’ll most likely end up with cement shoes, and as long as he’s alive there is a better chance they’ll keep after him and not go looking for relatives,” explained Jake, who then turned his attention to me and said, “I’ve always wanted to have a legitimate conversation where I could fit in the phrase ‘cement shoes.’”
I couldn’t help it—I giggled a little. Until I saw the look on Mark’s face. If I were Jake, I’d find another ride home lest I be the one to end up in those shoes.
What was up with that? He needed to pull his panties out right quick bef
ore his scowl caused premature wrinkles. Did he understand nothing about skincare?
“So what’s the end game here?” asked Nate. “Not to be harsh, but do you want to leave him to the mercy of these guys? Or do you want to spirit him off to Mexico or something? Do you want to come up with the money and then threaten him to never come back?”
“I say let them have at him again,” said Mark.
Ouch.
“It’s not that simple and you know it, little brother,” said Jake.
Aww.
“I know, but a guy can dream, right?”
“Okay, so option one is out,” Nate stated. “How about option two?”
“What’s to keep the guys from going after Mom if the asshole suddenly disappears?” asked Jake.
“We don’t even know if she’s on their radar,” replied Mark.
“Best to keep her far away then,” concluded Laney.
“Yeah, that’s the problem. She wants to be involved,” Mark returned.
“Well then, we’ll have to figure out a way to remove her from the picture without being obvious while you guys deal with the rest,” I said with a little smile, my mind already spinning with plans.
I looked at Laney. “You in?”
“Hell yes.”
Nate put his head in his hands and muttered, “Here we go.”
I do love a good project.
Chapter Nine
So Maybe It’s a Thing
MARK
“I can’t believe I let you guys talk me into this,” I muttered to Jake on the way home from Laney’s house that night.
The food had been incredible—Shortcake could cook like a fucking champ. I’d spent more than a few minutes watching while she’d chopped, stirred, and sautéed, and I liked witnessing the relaxed pleasure these actions brought to her small features. It had felt oddly intimate, though, so I had tried to force my attention away, to little success.
I’d be lying if I said she hadn’t been on my mind since the ER waiting room. How she’d gotten me to smile on a day like that was a complete mystery, one of many where this woman was concerned. The problem was I didn’t have time or energy for more complications in my life and she had “complication” written all over her. It’s not like I could bang her and then never see her again. Not an option.
After hearing her little tirade about my body earlier tonight, though, I hadn’t been able to help myself from calling her “Shortcake.” If memory served, that had been part of my opening line the first time we’d met. She hadn’t liked it then and she sure as shit didn’t like it now. I just couldn’t help having a little fun with her.
And I’ll admit, after the initial discomfort of discussing what I considered private family business, it was somewhat of a relief to share some of the load, even if it did involve sharing it with Fiona. As always, Nate was great at breaking things down into manageable pieces, and by the end of the evening I felt as if we had some semblance of a game plan.
At one point, Fiona and Laney had excused themselves, ostensibly to put Rocco to bed but it was clear they were scheming.
This made me nervous.
I knew logically that my mom could weather a lot of shit, but in my opinion she was always to be handled with care.
When they returned to the room, the girls attempted subtlety while asking questions about my mom—where she worked, what kind of hours she had off, what her interests were. They eventually abandoned all pretense and just asked for her number. Jake answered most of their questions, although how he knew these things living several states away I had no clue. Maybe he paid more attention than I gave him credit for.
Completely sick of the serious tone the evening had developed, I made a concerted effort to switch topics and soon we were arguing about college basketball—I do so love to torture Nate about his devotion to Notre Dame.
At one point, after a particularly well-placed insult, I dropped the mic and excused myself to the restroom. When I was finished and emerged into the hallway, my attention was grabbed by a low melodic sound coming from one of the rooms. I turned left to investigate instead of taking a right and rejoining the group. Maybe Rocco was listening to music instead of sleeping. I’d been over here a few evenings and I knew the kid liked to stall his bedtime as much as possible.
When I got to his door and peeked in, however, I saw Fiona perched on the side of his bed, singing softly to him. The scene was simultaneously endearing and bizarre. Here was this smart-ass, ball-busting woman—barely bigger than her pajama-clad charge—singing an old Beatles song to the sleepy little boy. She was dressed to the nines in high heels and what I could only assume was a ridiculously expensive designer outfit but strangely looked right at home sitting on a rumpled pile of fire-truck bedsheets.
My skin warmed. I began to feel like an interloper, a voyeur, and tried to back away. In my haste, I inadvertently hit my boot on the doorjamb and immediately drew Fiona’s attention.
She stood up suddenly, forgetting her task before quickly checking to make sure Rocco was indeed asleep. That damn hair fluttered around her face and she tried tucking one side behind her ear as she looked at the floor and quietly made her way into the hall. Her cheeks were pink.
“You have a beautiful voice,” I whispered, unable to help myself.
“Oh, thanks.” Apparently, that hadn’t been what she’d expected me to say. “I was just trying to help him get back to sleep. Nightmare,” she explained quietly, still clearly uncomfortable at being caught in the act.
“I used to sing to my dog,” I blurted out.
What?! Shut up, you asshole!
I don’t know what possessed me to say that except I didn’t want her to feel self-conscious about what I had seen as a genuinely sweet moment—that and, well, it was true. Daisy had loved it when I sang to her—that dog was a huge fan of Notorious B.I.G.
Fiona smiled and looked up at me. Then she started to giggle and I shushed her while closing Rocco’s door.
“I’m sorry. That was really rude. It’s sweet. Really.” She tried to get ahold of herself.
“I have no idea why I said that,” I muttered. “If you’re done laughing at me, let’s go back and torture Nate some more.” I tried to scowl at her but it didn’t work.
She bit her lip.
Damn, that was hot.
“Deal,” she finally said and sashayed her way back to the living room.
Watching her cute little ass as she walked ahead of me, I suspected I was in a bit of trouble.
When Jake and I got up to leave later in the evening, Laney gave us both hugs while Fiona stood to the side somewhat awkwardly. She seemed to finally make up her mind and settled on a smile and wave for Jake and a punch to my arm, after which she let her gaze linger a moment too long on the bicep she’d just assaulted. Was it possible little Miss “Go eat a bag of dicks” didn’t find me that distasteful after all?
Interesting.
Jake interrupted my reverie. “What? These people obviously care about you—what’s the harm in letting them help?” he asked from the passenger seat of my truck.
“Fiona doesn’t give two shits about me. She’s just a bored little—emphasis on little—rich girl looking for a project.” I knew I was laying the denial on a bit too thick.
“Whatever you say, man.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I took my eyes off the road to glare at him.
“It’s so obvious. You guys are doing the whole ‘I hate you so much I want to fuck you to death’ thing.”
“That’s not a thing! And, no, we are not. She thinks I’m a steroid-obsessed idiot and I don’t even find her attractive. I’ve seen small children with bigger tits than hers.” Okay, that was a bit overboard. And creepy. So her tits aren’t big, but they are definitely there. And I may or may not have noted that they’re perky. Kind of like her.
Shit.
“For what it’s worth, I think she’s hot, if not a bit…what’s the word I’m looking for?” Jake closed his eyes
in concentration and I hoped he’d just drop it. “Hyper?” he tried and then shook his head. “Dramatic?” He turned to me.
“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘blond.’”
“That’s it!” He pointed his finger at me and I rolled my eyes. “I suppose I could do a whole lot worse than a hot little blonde, though,” he mused with a quick glance at me.
I tamped down the rising in my chest. He was so pitifully obvious in his baiting technique I almost felt sorry for him. “Oh gee, Jake,” I deadpanned. “Please don’t bang her, man.” I turned to him and resumed my normal voice, “Is this the part where I’m supposed to growl possessively?”
“Okay, dickhead. Touché. But I know you think she’s hot,” he said and then smirked and whispered, “Shortcake.”
I flipped him off. “It doesn’t matter what I think—she hates me and the last thing I need right now is more drama anyway. Speaking of which, what the hell are those two witches going to do to our mother?”
“Who the hell knows, but they seem to have something up their sleeves so I’m all for letting them run with it while we worry about the rest.”
And then, apropos of nothing, he said, “Hey, did you know Mom still has middle school trophies on the shelf in our old room?”
I cringed. Part of me was happy that we were dropping the subject of the tiny terror, but the other part wasn’t ready to talk about Mom’s behavior. “I’m aware.” It was no secret that part of her lived in the past—a past that she somehow managed to sentimentalize.
“Who keeps debate team trophies? I mean, sports trophies, maybe…” he goaded me. “I saw those things last night and laughed my ass off. I’ll bet Mom has an entire album of pictures stashed somewhere of a pimply little Mark in a crooked tie lecturing like a 90-pound politician at some podium.” He snickered.
I wasn’t about to tell him he was right. “Laugh it up, asshole.”
The Spark (Carolina Connections Book 2) Page 7