“Actually, that’s my strategy. Tardy today, tardy tomorrow. Keep coming in late and Finney will have to fire me.”
“Why not quit? Move on, find another town.” Draining his mug, Hugh set it down and tapped on the rim. “We can all agree you’re mouthy. Given a chance, Finney will be happy to dump you in the nearest ditch. I’ll help. My wallet is still leaking twenties and I’m sick of sharing my clothes.”
“Why Hugh, greed is a deadly sin.” Pot in hand, she sashayed back over.
“So sue me.” Brightening, he slid his cup forward.
Ignoring his mug, she did a pretty turn and returned the pot to the coffee station. When he glowered, she batted her eyes. “Now what’s wrong?” Still high on rubies, she gave a flirty look. “If I didn’t know better I’d swear you’re premenstrual. You aren’t in one of your crappy moods, are you?”
“I am now.”
“Pity.” Shimmying her hips, she toyed with the hem of her midget’s uniform. Hugh licked his lips, caught himself, and frowned. She smiled. “Tell you what. Leave a big tip and I’ll improve my serving skills the next time you blow into my restaurant.”
“Give it a rest, Tomato.”
She couldn’t. Having to share the apartment with a cranky roommate was intolerable, but it was something she wouldn’t have to endure much longer. Now that she knew she what she was looking for—rubies—the future was golden.
And a rich, radiant red.
“Roomies should get along better than we do,” she said, brimming with cheer. “Look at me. I’m the picture of sweetness and light. You, on the other hand, were planted with the demon seed. What gives?”
He muttered something nasty under his breath. She shot a look at Delia straightening chairs in the center of the dining room. The young waitress lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug.
Theodora pounded her gnat-sized fist on the counter. “Both of you, stop squabbling. If I have the desire to watch Saturday night wrestling, I’ll wait until Saturday night. Let me drink my coffee in peace.”
Birdie squeaked. “He started it!”
“Hogwash. You are sassy. If I had a bar of soap, why…”
“You’d what? Wash my mouth out?”
She got a visual of fending off the flea-sized woman. Not that she was in the habit of defending herself against the elderly.
“Stop grinning, missy. You’re playing Cat’s Cradle with the last thread of my patience.”
“I’m really scared, Theodora. Shaking in my boots.”
Theodora slid her buckskin satchel toward Hugh. “Use the gun if you must,” she said. “A little bloodshed will make my day.”
Rising, Hugh pulled on his coat. “I have a better idea.” He motioned for Birdie to follow. “Tell Finney you’re taking a break. We both need some air.”
Any reason to leave work was a good reason. “Finney, it’s slow out here,” she called, poking her head into the kitchen. The cook, busy scrubbing the stove, blustered an objection. Hurriedly she added, “Delia’s got it covered. I’m leaving for the day.”
She donned her coat and the leggings she’d stored beneath the counter. The cook rattled off a few more choice words, then banged a pot, probably for emphasis. Delia, swabbing down a table, flinched.
The tips would be sparse for the rest of the afternoon. Birdie didn’t relish the idea of horning in on the young waitress’s wages. Delia had mentioned more than once that she lived on her tips. Lived on them. How she did it was beyond comprehension. Besides, it was a good idea to escape the confines of the restaurant before Finney came barreling out of the kitchen brandishing a skillet over her head.
In the Square, city employees were stringing holiday lights. A twenty-foot blue spruce blinked with holiday cheer. Midway up, a youth with a goatee balanced on a ladder.
Goatee Boy recognized Hugh. Hola, Mr. Schaeffer! You back in town to give Liberty another fifteen minutes of fame? Stepping to the curb, Hugh shouted a reply over the hoods of the cars wending around the Square.
The moment he turned away, Birdie crouched before the brick façade of the building. The putty-colored mortar was intact; none of the bricks appeared loose. Wherever the rubies were hidden it wasn’t out here, on the street.
Since locating the second clue in the patriotic bunting she’d done nothing but search for loose bricks in the dining room, the hallway, and now here outside. Not the storage room, however—the damn door was kept locked.
Finding the treasure was proving far too difficult.
Tamping down her frustration, she straightened as Hugh returned from the curb.
“So what’s up?” she asked. With his hands stuck deep in his pockets, he looked troubled.
“We need to talk.”
“Does arguing count? We do that all the time.”
“Can it, babe. We need more than a chat.”
Whoa. The razor-sharp edge to his voice raised her defenses. He wasn’t troubled. He was pissed off about something or someone. Probably her.
Recalling her conversation with Theodora, she clamped her self-composure in place. “Let’s walk down North Street. There’s a house I want to see,” she said, jockeying for the upper hand. “I don’t mind having a heart-to-heart as long as I can navigate.”
“Why do you get to call the shots? We’re heading down South Street, Carrot.”
“No can do, Parsnip. North Street it is.”
“I’m not walking down North. I can’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
He glowered, the fury rising off him like steam. What was the big deal? Shrugging, she started off. Screw him. If he needed to talk, he’d pick up his feet and follow.
The street bustled with holiday shoppers. Weaving through the crowd, she reached the northern edge of the Square and the stoplight. The light had already turned green when a blast of foul language parted the crowd.
She crossed with Hugh dogging her heels. “You’re a pain in the ass, Birdie.”
Venom peppered his voice, but she let it slide. There was no understanding his lousy mood or why he had an aversion to North Street, which was bizarre, given the street’s beauty. The houses were spectacular, rambling Colonials with holiday candles glowing in the windows and Greek Revivals with wreaths hung on the doors. There was even a Gothic mansion of golden stone, with a grouping of life-sized tin soldiers set out on the snow-crusted lawn.
No pink house in sight. Was it further down the street? Theodora had said Justice built and then added on during her lifetime. Owners who came later might have done the same, which meant the place was large. It would be impossible to miss.
“Are you casing the houses for the perfect heist?” Hugh chided, catching up. “Bad idea, Sweet Pea. Most of these homes come equipped with burglar alarms and dogs with names like Adolph and Killer.”
“I’m a waitress, not a burglar.” And soon, she’d be legit. With the cache of rubies—two whole bags of rubies—she’d have enough cash and then some. “Your snarky comments are rude.”
“Give it up, Potato. I’m a reporter. I read people. You’ve got ‘criminal’ written all over you.”
Did she? His powers of observation were unnerving. “I do not.” She skirted a boxwood hedge growing over the sidewalk. “Just yesterday, Ethel Lynn invited me over for tea. I have friends in town, Cabbage. It’s more than you have.”
A new experience, for sure. She still wasn’t sure what to make of the affectionate way the women of The Second Chance treated her. Reluctantly, she’d begun to enjoy their company. Especially Delia’s—the young woman treated Birdie like a visiting dignitary, asking for advice, lobbing compliments like so much confetti—it was hard not to become attached to her.
Not that Hugh would be impressed. He regarded her with so much contempt that acid churned in her stomach.
“You had tea with Ethel Lynn? Did you lift anything from her house?” he asked. “China, silver? Did you notice the Grandma Moses paintings in her living room? Worth thousands.”
Birdie
caught her temper before it flared. It was stupid to feel anger—and hurt—because he had a bead on her true occupation. Numbing her emotions was easy most of the time. Work the street, work a room—take what she needed without feeling a thing. Unfortunately Hugh had a way of burrowing under her skin. Like a tick.
The vibe coming off the man was dangerous. “What do you need to talk about?” The quicker they parted ways, the better.
She paused before a cream colored Victorian with a turreted roof and a kid’s bicycle gathering snow in the front yard. Hugh glanced nervously down the street. For what, she couldn’t imagine. He looked spooked.
“The honeymoon is over,” he said, tugging her toward the Square. When she slipped free and resumed her original path, he followed, adding, “You have to move out of the apartment.”
“Hell no, I don’t. And you’re confused about honeymoons. Mary and Anthony are on one. You and I are living a nightmare.”
“Which is why we can’t go on sharing the same digs.”
“Then send a postcard from the road.” She stopped before the next house, which boasted huge pillars twined with red ribbon and evergreen garland. The pillars resembled giant candy canes. Despite the worry churning her gut, she sighed with pleasure. “There aren’t any other rentals in town. You’ll have to join the ranks of the homeless.”
“Damn it, I’m a reporter! I need a place to work. You don’t need the apartment.”
“Oh, yeah? Because I’m not working? For the record, I have calluses on my feet the size of waffles. I work my ass off.”
Hugh grunted. “You’re full of shit. You didn’t come to Liberty to wait tables. You’re here for something. To steal something or bribe someone—maybe you are planning a heist. I should warn the bank manager over at Liberty Trust.”
Gooseflesh prickled her arms. Was this a threat?
She never should have kissed him the night she broke into the restaurant. A momentary and incredibly stupid feeling of compassion had overridden her instinct for self-preservation. She’d felt sorry for the guy. Okay, so lust had also worked a number on her brain. It happened, especially when a woman went too long between relationships.
And he was attracted to her. Even now, he was sending out enough pheromones to have her thinking about doing it in the road. Quickly she ran through the men she’d had relationships with during the last few years, the entire seedy lot.
Fear made her shiver. Any one of them would’ve sold her out. Hugh would, too.
“Get real, Hugh.” A trickle of sweat ran down between her breasts. She was grateful her coat hid her distress. “I’m an innocent waitress trying to make my way in the world.”
“Don’t head for the stage lights just yet. Your routine needs work. Now listen—”
She pressed her fingers to his lips to shut him up. Wrong move, since touching him sent her gooseflesh fleeing and started her skin tingling.
“For roomies, I thought we got along okay,” she said, snatching her hand back. But not before her touch dilated his eyes and a needy sensation filled her belly. “If you’re making me throw you out of the apartment, at least tell me why. Is it something I said?”
“More like something you wear. Or, more precisely, what you don’t wear when you’re lounging around.” He pulled back an inch, far enough to allow his gaze to roam free across her features in a way that pooled heat in her hips. “Modesty isn’t your strong suit. You walk around in satin panties under my Rugby shirt. Or you watch the tube in your purple bra and my gym shorts.”
“They’re both winning combinations.”
“So they are. If Sports Illustrated ever produces a lingerie-with-guy-skivvies issue, they’re sure to give you a call.”
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” So what if she liked mixing his clothes with her lingerie like a mad scientist out to test the limits of his self-control? The reactions she’d catch simmering on his face were the sort of ego boost every woman needed. “I thought you enjoyed the show.”
“It’s killing me.” He yanked his attention away and looked off down the street. “Satisfied? I have an addiction.”
A goofy delight sugared over her cynical heart. “You’re addicted… to me?”
“Get your facts straight, Potato Head. I have an addiction to women in general. It’s nothing to be proud of.”
A swift kick of disappointment, then she drew herself tall. “You’re saying you can’t room with any woman because the temptation is too great?”
“That’s what I’m saying. Until my job’s safe I can’t risk it.”
“Then take off. You live in Akron, right? Go back to your place.”
“Not until I finish my work here.” He ground his teeth. “I’m on probation with my boss. If I don’t write a sensational article while I’m in Liberty he’ll fire me for good.”
“Meaning he has fired you?”
Hugh grunted. “Something like that.”
“Your boss is a taskmaster. Even if you do a lousy job on the feature you’re writing about Blossom, it shouldn’t nix your job.”
He shrugged, his gaze hooded.
She almost pitied him. “Then we’re at an impasse,” she said, dragging her attention from his eyes. They’d widened enough to let her glimpse pride battling fear.
Hugh was such a hassle. Why did he get to her whenever she caught sight of his vulnerable side? She was still trying to figure it out when his head snapped up. The color bled from his face. Confused, Birdie swung around and zeroed in on the voice—a kid’s singsong voice with laughter at the edges.
From across the street someone was calling to Hugh.
* * *
Hugh’s emotions went into a skid. If only he’d avoided North Street he wouldn’t be in this dilemma. Despite his best efforts to dodge the Liberty teen who had captured America’s heart, Blossom Perini had found him.
Which was both upsetting and inevitable. News traveled fast in a town this small. No doubt the thirteen year old believed the bald-faced lie he’d been low enough to spread around town—he was back to interview her about her successful battle against leukemia.
Now the kid had found him. And not even the brisk November air could erase the beads of perspiration sprouting on his brow.
Last summer he’d featured Blossom in the most out-of-character article he’d ever produced. He wrote about how the entire town—and shortly thereafter, the entire country—raised the money needed for the bone marrow transplant that cured her leukemia and saved her life.
The damn article was actually heartwarming.
Usually he got hate mail after exposing a corrupt local politician or debunking a new fad. The screeds flowed into the Akron Register like a glorious stench.
Not this time. After Blossom’s story hit the newsstands Hugh started receiving… fan mail. Lavender-scented cards and smarmy letters. He even received flowers—white tea roses in a china cup as big as a salad bowl—from a Mrs. Richard Snickles of Pepper Pike. She said the article renewed her faith in the world.
The other reporters at the Register, accustomed to his jaundiced view of humanity, nearly laughed him out of the newsroom.
And he took a hammer to the china cup.
Now he’d returned to Liberty, pretending he’d arrived to write a follow-up. As the girl waved joyously from across the street, the fabrication sickened him. Who stooped so low they lied to a kid?
He chewed on his eroding self-respect. A cold bastard like me.
Blossom approached with her corkscrew curls bouncing and her brown eyes sparkling. Soon, he’d expose her father and earn her loathing.
So why worry about the kid’s feelings? A journalist’s ethics demanded service to the higher good. Everyone from folks on fixed incomes to soft-hearted teens had been sending cash to the websites for Blossom’s nonexistent medical bills. Once the story hit the newsstands, the flow of greenbacks would stop.
Regret took a swing at Hugh’s sense of honor. He’d turn off the spigot of cash. In the process,
he’d bury Blossom’s dad under a mountain of dirt.
“Mr. Shaeffer!” She skidded to a halt before him. “I was wondering when you’d come over to interview me. Will I be on the front page of your newspaper like the last time?” She glanced shyly at Birdie. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself.”
Birdie was still brewing with emotions he refused to analyze. She looked hurt. The crack about her being a burglar wasn’t his best moment, and it was surely a low blow to evict her from the apartment. Not that he was sure he’d won that argument.
He didn’t like wounding her. Problem was, he spent too much time thinking about her thighs and the pouty thing she did with her lips. He spent most of his time imagining what she’d feel like pinned beneath him, and here he was with his ass on the line at the Register.
They still hadn’t resolved who’d stay in the apartment and who’d go. Now he’d run into Blossom. Frustrated and sick-hearted, Hugh swabbed at his brow.
Somehow Birdie stuffed the hurt and winked at Blossom. “We got in a new shipment of ice cream this morning—Cherry Chunk, Chocolate-Marshmallow Madness, Coconut Crush. You like coconut, don’t you?”
“I love it!”
Birdie gave him a knowledgeable look, as if they hadn’t squabbled and he hadn’t cut her deep. “The kid here is crazy for ice cream, any flavor,” she said, unaware he knew all about Blossom’s dairy obsession. He’d spent a week interviewing the kid last August. “I asked Finney to put Coconut Crush on the order list, just out of curiosity. I wasn’t sure if you’d go for it, Blossom. Some kids won’t eat coconut.”
“Other kids.” The teen bounced on the toes of her sneakers. “Hey, did you order anything else tropical? Pineapple Passion or Mookie’s Macadamian Cookie?”
“Mookie’s Macadamian Cookie? I don’t remember seeing it on the list…”
They launched into a discussion of ice cream flavors. Hugh tried to put his game face on. So Birdie was not only acquainted with Blossom, she’d befriended the girl. No surprise, given Blossom’s penchant for banana splits with all the trimmings. The kid probably hit the restaurant every day after school.
What was surprising was the easy-going camaraderie flowing between them, and Birdie’s obvious affection for the girl. The defensive commando angel with the sharp tongue and sassy comebacks gave way to a breathtaking vision whose laughter brightened the crisp, late autumn day.
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