Falling For Them Volume 2: Reverse Harem Collection

by Nikki Bolvair

  Does he think I’ll punch him again?

  “Are you here to check the job listing?” I circle around the counter to walk to the board without enthusiasm. “There’s not much there.”

  No new jobs have been posted since I last read over the board with Hamilton, and I can’t imagine the triplets will be any more thrilled to walk Mrs. Allen’s mean little dogs.

  “No, actually.” He clears his throat, his shoulders straightening. “I just secured us a job that should hold us through for the next two months or so.”

  “Really?” I grin with excitement and rush to his side. “Where at? Is it local? Do you want some coffee?”

  He returns my smile, his shoulders relaxing. “That would be wonderful, Siobhan.”

  As he follows me back to the small kitchen, he glances around. “I’ve never actually been in here before.”

  I laugh self-consciously. “I hadn’t either until I applied for the job.”

  When we enter the kitchen area, he stays near the door to maintain his distance. “What made you settle here?”

  “I kind of fell into it.” I turn away to open the cabinets next to the small fridge and lift down two of the blue, flower printed mugs. Mrs. Flanagan purchased them after I broke a set of the thick, ceramic ones we had before. I think she wanted to teach me to be more careful. “It’s not a very exciting career, I know.”

  “It suits you.” His gruff voice sounds closer, and I turn to find him now at the tiny, two person table. The table came from a time before Mrs. Flanagan took the community center over, and he dwarfs its delicate frame. His eyes soften as he studies me. “You were always a leader.”

  “And yet, I was always following you.” One side of my mouth kicks up as I turn away once more to fill the mugs with coffee. “Do you want creamer?”

  “Sugar, too, if you have it.” He walks closer, his boots heavy on the tiled floor, and a hesitant hand touches my arm, barely there before it disappears.

  My breath catches, and I stay facing away, waiting to see if he’ll venture more. After a moment, though, I hear his footsteps as he returns to the doorway.

  Spooning sugar into one of the cups, I force myself to sound normal as I ask, “When did you develop a sweet tooth?”

  “A few years ago.” He chuckles. “We had to ration supplies on the island, so we didn’t get a lot of sweets. We got pretty creative, but there’s only so much we could do.”

  “Like what?” I open the fridge and pull out the creamer.

  “I made sweet potato cookies a few times. And my aunt, bless her soul, liked to roast apples with cinnamon.”

  I hesitate, creamer poised over the cup. Now would be a good time to ask about his aunt, to ask about the island, to find out what happened to them over the last year. But I’d hate to begin only to have someone arrive who needs help.

  Pouring the creamer into his coffee, I return it to the fridge, then grab the mugs and turn to face him, extending one. “So tell me about the new job and what kind of business you have with me.”

  He crooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Should we go back up front?”

  I wave the suggestion away. “I’ll hear the bell if anyone comes.”

  “Do you mind?” He nods to the table and the chairs. The wicker seats might not hold up under his weight. Before now, only Mrs. Flanagen and I sat back here.

  “How about we go to one of the conference rooms?” I slip past him without waiting for a response. “They’re more comfortable.”

  And actually intended for normal sized people. But I keep that thought to myself.

  When we reach the conference room where I host the book club, Jameson strides to the cookie table and sets his coffee cup down. I set my own cup down, intending to unstack the chairs, but Jameson hurries to them first and lifts down two, setting them close together.

  Not subtle, my Jameson. He always expressed himself clearly, for the good and the bad.

  He holds one of the chairs out to me, then jerks straight. “What’s that look for?”

  “Nothing.” I slide into the offered seat and pat the arm of the other one. “Now. The job?”

  He settles into place and wraps his large hands around the mug. It disappears from view, designed more for elderly ladies than for men. He stares at it for a moment, then lifts his eyes to meet mine. “It’s a remodel job over at that new art gallery on Main Street.”

  I bite my tongue to stop myself from pointing out it’s not that new. The old boat warehouse was purchased and converted two years ago after old Mr. Negal passed away.

  But Jameson would remember it as it was before they left, and I don’t want to bring up yet again how long they were gone. Instead, I ask, “Didn’t your dad already work on it?”

  Jameson nods and takes a quick sip of coffee. “Yes, but only the lower levels. They want to convert the upper level to an apartment.”

  “Not for Malachi?” I sag with disappointment at the news, then give myself a mental slap for falling into the trap of town gossip.

  The knitting nannies told everyone Malachi moved out of the apartment he previously shared with his business partners and potential lovers. I got to hear the gossip first hand at book club the day after he was seen toting his bags to the gallery. Word has it that the retirement home formed a lottery on how long it takes them to reconcile, and he moves back home. As far as I know, Darcy and Mrs. Moran are the only two still in the running to win, Darcy giving him four months and Mrs. Moran guessing six.

  Jameson frowns at my cringe. “Yes, Malachi. You remember him from school, right? Is there something we should know about? Should we not take the job?”

  “No, he’s good people,” I rush to reassure Jameson, not wanting to further town gossip. “So he wants to convert the space upstairs?”

  “Yep. His budget is tight, but I think I can make something work.” Jameson pats the satchel. “I just need to run the numbers and work up a couple designs for him to choose from.”

  “That’s great.” I reach out to touch the back of his hand. “That sounds like the perfect way to show the town you and your brothers are fully capable of taking over your dad’s business.”

  “I hope so.” He grabs my fingers before I can pull away, his work calluses rough against my skin. “We owe your brother our thanks.”

  Pulse jumping beneath his touch, my focus shifts from our clasped hands to his face. “Why?”

  “Tomas referred us to Mr. Barnes.” He glances away for a moment, then back at me. His eyebrows slant upward as he draws them together over a sad frown. “He probably did it as a way to apologize for punching Hughe, but it means the world to us. I don’t think Mr. Barnes would have considered us otherwise.”

  I lean closer, my heart aching for them. “Whatever the reason, you have the job now and will prove everyone wrong.”

  He turns in his seat, and his other hand rises to cup my cheek. “We’re going to make this town accept us so you will be proud to be with us.”

  I turn my head to press my mouth into his palm. His skin holds the faint scent of oak, as if he recently worked with wood. It reminds me of Davin, but the faint spice beneath it belongs to Jameson. It reminds me of hot fights. We were always quick to argue and fast to make up.

  Shivering, I glance at him once more. “Stupid man, I never needed the town’s acceptance to want to be with you.”

  “True.” He bends closer, his eyelids dropping to half-mast. “Then we’ll make it so that your family is at least happy to have us be a part of it.”

  My breath catches. “Don’t you think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself?”

  “I hope I’m not.” His nose touches mine, his breath warm against my lips. When I don’t pull away, he hesitantly brushes his mouth across mine. “Last night, when you disappeared—”

  “I know,” I interrupt, pressing my mouth back to his. My heart pounds, desperate for the taste of him, but he pulls away.

  “No, let me say it.” His thumb sweeps across my cheek. “When
you disappeared, it felt like the night of the dance all over again, only worse. You were right in front of me, within reach, and then gone. Taken from me instead of being pushed away by my stupid, scared actions. I thought it was the universe telling me there would be no second chances. That the Thread Maker severed you from us because I was too late to tell you how sorry I am for what happened.”

  He kisses me again, a light, reverent press of lips.

  Pulling back, he gazes down at me. “I knew, when we returned, I would do whatever it took to win you back. Tell me what I need to do, what mountains I need to climb. Anything. Just give me hope that I haven’t lost you. Tell me the reason the wisps sent you to my arms is because some part of your heart still belongs to me.”

  I lunge from my seat and into his lap, arms wrapping around his neck as I press my cheek against his. My nose stings with unshed tears, the knot in my throat hard to speak around. “You stupid, stupid man.”

  A throat clears in the doorway, and we jerk apart. Horrified, I stare at my former boss. “Mrs. Flanagan! I didn’t hear the bell chime.”

  “I should say not.” She smiles indulgently. “Would you like to introduce me to your man?”

  My face turns scarlet with embarrassment, and I jerk to my feet to stand in front of Jameson, as if I can erase what she saw by blocking the man himself from view. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

  She shakes a finger at me, her eyes twinkling. “Then, I am very disappointed in you, young Siobhan.”

  Behind me, Jameson coughs back a laugh and rises. He walks toward the elderly lady, hand extended. “Jameson O’Brien, ma’am. A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Jameson, this is the former community center caretaker, Mrs. Flanagan.” I frown at her for forcing the introduction. She knows very well who Jameson is. The whole town does. I lift an eyebrow. “Or is it Mrs. McArthur now?”

  She sniffs and lifts a blue veined hand to touch the red ribbon around her neck. “Psh. I’m far too old to start going by a different name just because Doolie and I got ourselves recognized by the Thread Reader.”

  “Congratulations. Your souls are truly blessed.” Jameson’s gaze shifts to me for a moment, and I can’t interpret the expression on his face before he smiles warmly down at Mrs. Flanagan. “I actually came by to ask about renting out the town hall for the job my brothers and I will be starting tomorrow.”

  Her spine straightens, voice taking on the authoritative air of my boss as she turns to me and instructs, “Siobhan, you’ll have to check the schedule to make sure it’s not already committed.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Flanagan.” Not even three days as the new caretaker and already back to being the grunt. I skirt around them and run to the office to fetch the ledger, though memory tells me it’s open until the next town meeting.

  When I come back, I find them at the table, Mrs. Flanagan staring intently at a laptop that rests open on the table. Jameson’s satchel hangs off the back of his chair, the material now floppy without the computer to hold its form.

  “So, you just put the material list in here, and it tells you the total cost?” She points to the screen, her voice excited.

  “Yes.” Jameson taps the mouse. “I input what I intend to use, then draw the walls in and the cost adds up over here.”

  “Fascinating.” She leans closer. “And can you print it out when you’re done?”

  “Yes. I can do floor plans, as well as three dimensional drawings so you can see what it will look like.” Jameson’s voice rises with enthusiasm at her obvious interest. “I can even make a virtual tour. On a large enough screen, it feels like you’re walking through the space.”

  She straightens. “You said you’re booked for the next few months?”

  His shoulders pull back with pride. “Yes, we’ll be working at Lapton Main Gallery, building a new apartment.”

  “Ah, for young Malachi?” At his nod, she purses her lips in thought. “Do you think they’ll give a tour when it’s finished.”

  “That will be up to them,” he says, noncommittally.

  “If they don’t, you can always take a casserole over.” I join them at the table and set the ledger down.

  “Indeed, we can.” She nods, purple curls bouncing. “Doolin is talking about redoing his kitchen now that it’s more than just him. He wants to buy a larger oven for his baking, and he needs more counter space. With your father no longer taking on work, we worried we would need to hire someone from another city.”

  A delicate shudder travels from her head to her toes at that idea. Small towns like to support the locals first, and the elderly of Port Lapton take pride in their fellow townsfolk serious.

  “We would be happy for the opportunity, ma’am.” Jameson nods his head in something that resembles a bow.

  “I can’t wait to tell Doolin about this program you have.” She gestures to the laptop. “We’ve been arguing about the size of the island for weeks now.”

  Jameson nods. “Seeing the layout makes everything easier.”

  “All right, then.” She claps her hands together, the matter settled, and turns to me. “Now, I left my afghan in the office. Did you see it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I’d wondered when I found it on Friday if she left it there on purpose as a reason to come back and check on me. “It’s still on the back of the chair.”

  “Wonderful.” She links her arm through mine and steers me toward the conference room door. In a loud whisper, she says, “Now, tell me everything about your relationship with the O’Brien Triplets.”

  The Sky at Night

  “Do you want another coffee?” I ask from the conference room doorway.

  Jameson glances up from where he sits at the table, working on his laptop. After Mrs. Flanagan left, I suggested he stay here and take advantage of the stronger internet signal while I finish up for the day.

  He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I think five’s my limit. Otherwise, I’ll be up all night.”

  I blush. Maybe I’ve popped back here one too many times over the last two hours. “How’s work going?”

  He stretches his arms over his head with a groan. “I think I’ve narrowed it down to two solid layouts that will fit within the budget. I just need to go to the library and look up the building’s structural layout to make sure they work.”

  “How did you learn all this stuff, trapped on the island?” I lean my shoulder against the doorframe, one ear cocked toward the front.

  His eyes widen for a moment in surprise. Did Davin not immediately tell the others that I read the letters?

  Instead of asking, though, he pushes back from the table to face me, hands folded over his stomach. It makes the worn, brown thermal he wears stretch across his chest, the collar fraying just a little more around the strong column of his neck.

  When I refocus on his face, his knowing gaze meets mine, but he doesn’t comment. “When we weren’t taking care of the sirens, we had a lot of free time. Aunt Ulla had architecture books and an old desktop computer, not internet, though. When I asked about learning more, she had one of the suppliers bring in a new laptop and the program to practice on.” He chuckles at the memory. “It took six months for them to come back with the request.”

  My arms wrap over my stomach, aching for the boys I’d once known, growing up far from all that they knew. “You must have felt so cut off from the world.”

  “It was hard to get used to.” He rubs his chin, a small smile playing around his lips. “But I think it was good for us. It forced us to learn responsibility. Once we figured out we weren’t getting off the island, it kind of took all the fight out of us. We adapted.”

  I hug myself tighter. “You didn’t try to escape?”

  “Only once.” He laughs again, with an odd mix of humor and embarrassment. “Aunt Ulla really had a knack for knowing when we were up to mischief.”

  “She sounds like a hard woman.”

  “She was fair when we were fair.” He shrugs before his gaze shift
s to the wall beside me, and he reaches over to close his laptop. “Looks like it’s time to close up. Do you need help?”

  I straighten away from the doorframe. “Not much to it.”

  He stands and slips the computer back into his satchel. “I can wash out the coffee pot while you lock up?”

  My stupid heart flutters, touched by the offer. It sounds so domestic, like something he would say in the privacy of our own home. I turn away quickly. “That would be nice.”

  I hurry to the front to flip the sign over to Closed, lock the door, and dim the lights. Not that there’s a high risk of anyone coming in at this point. At this time of winter, night sets in soon after most businesses close. With dusk already filling the streets, most local townsfolk rush home for dinner.

  A grumble from my stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Mom stuffed me so full of pancakes and bacon that when lunchtime rolled around, I skipped right over it. Now, my empty stomach gnaws at my spine in reprimand.

  I walk back to the office to grab my coat and winter gear before joining Jameson in the kitchen. He hunches over the sink, the old counter only coming halfway up his thighs. Built in a time when people were smaller, it’s short even for me.

  It occurred to me, when I reviewed the ledgers for the community center last Friday, that Mrs. Flanagan’s miserly run of the building left a large chunk of unused funds in our savings account. Maybe it’s time to give the place an update, bring it into the modern times. With a face lift, I could lure in the younger generation, get them to use the town and dance halls for more than the occasional celebration.

  Jameson hums to himself while he rinses the soap out of the coffee carafe. My stupid heart flutters again. It’s too easy to imagine him in the kitchen upstairs, feet bare, his hair mussed from sleep.

  The water shuts off, and he turns to put the pot into the drying rack, smiling when he catches me in the doorway. “All set?”

  “Yep.” I shrug into my coat. “Where do you want to eat?”

  “We could go to Blue Heron.” He dries his hands on the towel. “It’s still early enough to get a table.”