by Zoe Chant
Her voice had wobbled there for a moment, but she was, she thought with a little bit of pride, holding it together.
“She made that nutcracker for his sister, my aunt Claudia, but Claudia didn’t like it and my dad did, or at least he liked it enough to keep it and then enough to buy fifty million more of them. But this one wasn’t even his favorite. It was always mine, because I liked that he’d taken it even though it was a girl’s toy, I liked that he hadn’t cared about that. But I don’t think it really meant anything to him that his mother had made it. He just hit a certain level of success where he realized he was supposed to have some kind of cute, eccentric hobby or collection, and he looked around and landed on nutcrackers. He only started loving them after he got so many of them. There’s some technical psychological term for that, when you change your beliefs to suit your actions. Or maybe he just likes owning things.”
She felt incredibly awkward in the ensuing silence, and she had only herself to blame. Of course he would have nothing to say to that. He’d been making conversation and she’d turned it into a therapy session.
“Anyway!” she said brightly. “I bet that’s more talking about nutcrackers than you expected to do today, right? Or ever? Let me show you the less unnerving parts of the house.”
She walked swiftly down the hall and flung open the first door she could find.
“This,” she announced, “is a linen closet.”
To her complete surprise, Theo whistled like she’d just opened up a treasure chest. He stepped forward and delicately separated some of the blur of stacked white tablecloths and bedsheets like he knew exactly what he was looking for. In between blinks, she could almost see how he had done it—she could almost pick apart some gradations of cream and ivory and ecru—but then it all melted back together.
He was holding a bundle of lace.
“Look. This is handmade. Linen, not cotton.”
No wonder they sent him out for appraisals.
“How can you tell? That it’s handmade, I mean.”
“The color,” he said simply. “You can wash machine-made, but you can’t wash old handmade lace without it falling apart. When it gets this little beige tint in it, it’s the real thing. It’s more beautiful, too.”
He unfurled a little and laid it on her arm. It was strange to have something so dainty against her body; strange to have him putting something so obviously valuable on her bare skin. But it did let her see what he meant.
Through the gentle veil of the lace, her skin looked smooth. Her complexion was dark enough to show the refinement of the weave. It was beautiful and it made her beautiful.
She took in the impossibly fine crosshatching and all the patterns. “It must have taken forever to make.”
“Forever and much squinting and hard labor.” Now he sounded rueful. “It’s a shame that so many of the beautiful things in the world are only made through struggle. But better struggle than ugliness.”
“I’m sure we have plenty of beautiful things around here that only exist because of ugliness.”
Her dad had never wanted to acknowledge, even in passing, that their beautiful house and beautiful life were built on underpaid workers, slashed benefits, broken promises, and grief. She could understand not wanting to dwell on it, and she had never expected him to change the world. But he’d had the power to do so much more good than he’d ever done, and her anger that he wouldn’t even try had eventually split them apart.
She had felt a funny relief when the accusations had first come out.
Oh, she’d thought. We didn’t just see things differently. There wasn’t a compromise we should have found. He wanted to be even worse than the world already was. Okay.
“I try to be on the side of the lacemakers,” she said.
“I know. Tiffani told me.”
He still hadn’t moved the lace from her arm. His hand wasn’t directly touching her, but it was close enough that she could feel his warmth. His heat, really.
Theo went on, “You’re a knight in shining armor taking up quixotic causes.”
He didn’t say it like he was joking.
“I hope they’re not as quixotic as they feel. Anyway, mostly I just listen and organize flag football games and go around explaining why they should keep sex ed in schools.” She shouldn’t have said that, but now that the concept was floating there between them, she grew bolder. After all, there was no way all of this was one hundred percent in the cause of courteous professionalism. She ran her finger down the fabric, feeling the raised bits of embroidery. “Did they teach you all about lace in the Victoria’s Secret section of your sex ed?”
He laughed. “I was more home-schooled than anything else, so no, thankfully. Lace, yes. Victoria’s Secret, no.”
“Why lace?”
“My family—” He hesitated. “My family appreciates valuable things.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“By their standards, most people.”
Jillian looked up at him. She loved how tall he was, how much it made her think about reaching up to put her hands on his shoulders. She would have to come up onto her toes if she wanted to lace her fingers together behind his neck.
“And what would they say you should do with this?”
“It’s yours,” Theo said. “I couldn’t take it.”
“That’s your job,” Jillian pointed out.
“No.” He put his hand on hers suddenly. “Not your things. Not Tiffani’s, either. Only your father’s.”
His hand was unbelievably hot. It was like she was holding her hands out to be warmed by a fire. It made her extra-aware of every nerve ending, extra-appreciative of the heat racing along her skin.
“I didn’t buy this, and neither did Tiffani.” She could feel her pulse race against his where their wrists were touching. “Come on. What would you do?”
“Keep it.” He let go of her hand only to trace one of the knitted lines, his finger always following the thread so that he never quite touched her bare skin. She shivered. “But not folded up in a closet. Not mixed in with sheets.”
“Some of these are Egyptian cotton.”
“It’s not the same. Expensive things aren’t as valuable as rarities, things like this that might all fall apart before the century’s over.” He sounded as if he thought easily in terms of centuries. “When it might not last, it’s a waste and a crime to hide it. But it deserves more than being made into a tablecloth or a curtain. It should be like you said. Victoria’s Secret.”
He took his hand away and she felt cold without him touching her. And all the colder because he’d made her feel so hot, flushed, and attentive there and everywhere else.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”
She took a risk. “Flirt?”
He looked her over with a heartbreaking caution in his eyes, as if she would snatch herself away from him if he dared to say yes. She didn’t know why on earth she thought that, though. She doubted any woman had ever looked at those jewel-bright eyes and those strong arms and decided that flirting with him was a total no go. He couldn’t be used to rejection, so why look like he was worried about getting it from her of all people?
Then he smiled that knee-weakening smile.
“You caught me. I did mean to flirt. The lace helped.”
“I don’t think you needed it.”
“What I need is better timing.” He fitted one fingertip into one of the diamond-shaped spaces in the lace pattern where her arm showed through. He had a look of complete concentration, like he was trying to find his way through a maze. “Acknowledging the unprofessionalism and the terrible circumstances, would you consider having dinner with me?”
It was the best thing to happen to her in months, maybe even the only good thing to happen to her since her dad had taken off. She had no idea why a sexy, charming US Marshal would want to risk a reprimand and a hell of a lot of public scrutiny by attaching himself to someone as compromised as she was, but she wasn’t uns
elfish enough to say no. He didn’t look like he was confused about what he wanted, even if she didn’t understand why he wanted it. Why he wanted her.
“I’d love to,” she said.
Then she immediately felt like an idiot for saying “love” while arranging a first date. She was out of practice at this.
Theo’s smile was so wide she couldn’t believe he minded it. “Thank you.” He lifted her hand and then pressed his lips against it.
Shivers ran up and down Jillian’s body.
Part of the thrill was the sheer unlikeliness of it. He looked like Prince Charming, he spoke like Masterpiece Theater, and now he kissed her hand? She had always thought of herself as far more practical than romantic, but this all felt destined to prove her wrong. She could suddenly understand how people swooned.
But it wasn’t just the romanticism. She couldn’t pretend it was all that high-minded. The touch of his mouth to her hand made her want his lips elsewhere, too. Desire raced over her skin like lightning. Indecisive lightning striking first here and then there—did she want to kiss him, to taste him? Did she want to steer him around to the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist and then lead him up her arm and then to her breasts? Did she want to kiss his hand, too? Want to feel those calluses against her lips and imagine him leaving his fingerprints on her?
The slightest touch from him led her straight to mental debauchery.
Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t just mount him here in the hall. He asked for a date—he might not even be the kind of guy who goes right to the bedroom. Though I wish he were...
Which was funny, because she had always been slow to warm up that way. She’d always thought the third date rule made perfect, intuitive sense. With Theo, she hadn’t even known him three hours and she was already ready to go.
She decided to channel her practical streak. The sooner they finished up in the house, the sooner she could try to talk him into some really wanton unprofessionalism.
She slid her hand around his and shook it firmly, like they were concluding a business meeting. To her relief, he laughed.
“First let me finish showing you around. It’s a big house, and I’d hate for you to give my tour service a bad Yelp review.”
Theo looked completely scandalized by that. “I would never leave you a bad Yelp review.”
It was such a bizarre thing for him to get so earnest and passionate about that she was oddly touched by it. How many people would feel that strongly about not saying mean things about someone online?
“I’ve done it once or twice,” she said. “But mostly when it’s related to work. If I take the kids on the outing and the store clerks follow them around or the restaurant staff are rude to them, I tend to see red.”
“Any tool can be used justly to defend those who need their champion,” Theo said. There was nothing in his eyes but approval. “Sword, Yelp review. Whatever weapon comes to hand.”
“For my quixotic quest. I’m Don Quixote trying to slay dragons by tilting at windmills. It’s hopeless.”
“I hope making people be gracious to children is one of the least quixotic of your goals,” Theo said. “But I often choose honor over effectiveness myself. And always over slaying dragons.”
It was uncanny. Here she had been stuck in her own head turning over antique concepts like family honor and in had walked a man who said the word offhandedly, like he was expressing a preference for Coke over Pepsi. Even the people she worked with, good people who wanted to change the world for the better, talked about policy and procedure first, ethics and morality second, and honor not at all. She had always thought her outmoded belief in it was an embarrassing hamper to her purposefulness, but now, looking through his eyes, she could see it instead as her foundation.
“Now you sound like a knight,” she said, smiling at him.
Theo coughed. “Definitely not a knight.”
“That’s insistent. What, did knights kill your whole family?”
“Not my whole family,” Theo said.
Hot, smart, honorable, and equipped with a deadpan sense of humor so dry he could toast a bagel with it. But if she whiled away the whole day flirting with him, she’d never get her date.
She folded the lace back up and gently put it down on top of a stack of linen.
“Ready?”
“You don’t have to do this if it’s too difficult for you,” Theo said. “Really. I’ve wandered around houses before.”
She shook her head. “I want to just say goodbye to the place and get it over with. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.”
He looked at her and then nodded. “It’s your Band-Aid. Your call.”
She liked that. A lot of men would either coddle you or throw you to the wolves, not offer to protect you and then respect you enough to believe you when you said you didn’t need it.
Luckily or unluckily, most of the house was devoid of attractions that interested Theo as much as the handmade lace had. He obviously knew a lot about everything—she could tell it by the way he measured the thickness of a marble counter with a little tape measure from his pocket and the way he wrote down the manufacturers of the exercise equipment—but none of this was anything he cared about. He didn’t talk to her about the furnishings, which he obviously found cheap in taste if not in money, but about everything else. He asked her about her work, about her interests. She asked him about what he did as a Marshal and about what his own tastes were, as far as houses went.
This felt like a date, she realized. A strange date, to take a man through your childhood home so he could strip it for parts, but a date nonetheless. It would have felt natural enough to hold his hand.
Then she took him into her dad’s office.
“Behold the inner sanctum,” she said. “This is where the corruption happens.”
“I’ll brace myself,” he said somberly.
But his partner was already there. She was in constant motion, taking out files and locked safe boxes, but she never seemed to be in a flurry: she had a graceful fluidity that Jillian was only used to seeing in athletes. Maybe she was the sporty type.
“Hi,” Jillian said, extending her hand. “Jillian Marcus, unfortunately.”
“Gretchen Rose. As far as fortunately or unfortunately, it depends on the day. I’m sorry to have to be pawing around in here.”
She had a warm, natural smile, straightforward enough to put Jillian at ease. Mostly because she was friendly while still being honest. She hadn’t said that she was sorry to be prying, only that she was sorry she had to. It wasn’t rote sympathy but something clearer: I know where the blame lies, and I know it’s not with you.
Then she noticed Theo, in her peripheral vision, was mouthing something to his partner. Ate? Was he telling her about the cookies? No—date, probably. No wonder he flushed when he realized she was looking at him. He must have been trying to explain that the boundaries of their relationship had become a little bit fuzzy.
Or he was saying bait, trait, plait, mate, Kate, rate or any of the hundred other words that had that kind of sound. And if he’d wanted her to know what he was saying, he would have just said it out loud.
Gretchen seemed equally confused by it, until her mouth made an almost perfect O shape. She reached past Jillian to punch Theo on the arm.
So, Jillian thought, a pleasant, frothy delight spreading through her, he was saying date, then.
She didn’t know that any man had ever singled her out as someone he was proud to have landed as a date; she didn’t know any woman had ever been so openly congratulatory about it.
“I’m just giving him a tour,” Jillian said, feeling like she, at least, had to keep up appearances. “Do you want to join us?”
“I think I’ll burrow in here, actually,” Gretchen said. “I like putting together the paperwork trail.”
“But what’s there to look for? It’s all already proven, right? I know the FBI already confiscated a lot from here.”
“The FBI are not great at sharing,
” Gretchen said. “And I’m looking for something a little different—any sign, even a small one, that your father might have had accounts or money stashes that we’re not aware of, ones he kept secret from you and your stepmom. You know what the seizure funds go for, right?”
“To help compensate the victims.”
“Right. Even if they don’t ever really understand it, the people who were hurt by your dad are getting helped today by you and by Tiffani, just by you letting us in and helping us out, not making it hard for us to do our jobs. I just wanted to make sure you knew you’re not going through this just so piles of cash can sit in a locker somewhere. This will matter to people, every little bit will, on your part as well as mine.”
“Thank you,” Jillian said quietly. “I like thinking of it that way.”
Theo settled his hand on her shoulder. Protective. Comforting.
Gretchen said, “Why don’t I leave the two of you alone and go get one of those cookies?”
“That sounds great!” Theo said.
Jillian lightly smacked him on the shoulder the second Gretchen was gone, feeling a slight and welcome thrill at how quickly she had gotten used to teasing him.
“That is low, sending your partner off to suffer through Tiffani’s baking. What happened to honor?”
“I’ve seen Gretchen eat ice cream that’s been in the back of the freezer so long all anyone can see on it is a layer of frost an inch deep,” Theo said. “I think she can handle some toothache cookies, if Tiffani isn’t around to stop her from biting into one. Besides, she’ll like Tiffani.”
“Tiffani will like her.” She tilted her head. “You like Tiffani, don’t you?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. I’m just not sure you’re real.” She was only half-joking. “You’re not what I expected. I was thinking—grizzled, judgmental, officious. Heart in the right place, maybe, but with a boatload of moral superiority going along with it. And instead you’re funny and you’re nice to us. It’s like you stepped out of a fairy tale.”