A Ring for Rosie

by Maggie Wells

  “You guys are way too interested in my love life.”

  Colm laughed. “Let’s say you’ve been bragging for so long, the silence seems ominous. Now we hear there was kissing involved—”

  “Christ, it wasn’t even a real kiss. She picked the kids up, I turned, she turned… It was a reflex, you know? A peck on the cheek, but I hit the wrong spot.”

  “Since when do you peck Rosie on the cheek?”

  “Can we not make a federal case out of this? I wasn’t seducing her. I just…kissed her. It was an accident.”

  Mike rubbed his chin. “Well, this accident has launched a D day-worthy dating campaign. We’re talking complex planning and execution. Watch out, Adolf, they’re plotting your overthrow.”

  The change in direction threw him. Frustration was too mild a descriptor for the surge of anger and impotence boiling up inside him. “What the fuck? I’m getting mixed signals here. I thought I was supposed to keep my paws off, but now you’re warning me about other guys.”

  Mike looked away, clearly at a loss. Colm drew a deep breath, then took his time letting go. The three of them sat in tense silence, each waiting for one of the others to break the ice on the conversation none of them ever wanted to have. Sick and tired of being buffeted by the prevailing wind of the day, James gritted his teeth and took the plunge.

  “Listen, I think we were right. Megan is really messed up. Up and down and all over the place.” He looked Mike directly in the eye. “One minute she’s into hanging out with the boys, the next she’s screaming at me about how she never wanted to be tied down to a couple of brats. And she hasn’t really mastered volume control,” he added with a pointed stare.

  “Shit,” Mike whispered, grimacing. “She really is like our dad.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve tried to get her to leave. I offered to put a deposit down on an apartment, but there must be something else going on with her because she’s not taking the money and running.”

  “Which is her favorite thing to do,” Colm muttered. When both James and Mike sent sharp glances his way, he held up his hands in surrender. “What? I have to listen to you both bitch about her, but I can’t say anything?”

  “No,” Mike and James answered in unison.

  The three men spent an uneasy moment letting the edict sink in, then burst out laughing. They shook their heads and rolled their eyes, for the first time in weeks in complete accord with one another. As their chuckles subsided, James leaned forward in his chair, his manner sobering as he searched for the right words to say. He rubbed his palms together, wishing he could magically conjure some way to soothe everyone’s ruffled feathers. After all, he was the handler. The schmoozer. The guy voted most likely to talk his way out of purgatory by his catechism class. But purgatory was one thing, hell another.

  “Listen, I know she’s your sister, but right now, I have to think about the boys. She’s doing more damage than good as the mother of my children. I have to figure out a way to make her go away again.”

  “I get you,” Mike answered quietly.

  James knew by looking into his friend’s eyes Mike did understand. He was a father, too, and when there were kids involved, everything changed.

  “I think she’s scared to be on her own,” James explained. “But she won’t go back to your folks, and I can’t sic her on you. I’m pretty much stuck until she comes up with the next brilliant plan herself.”

  “Right,” Mike agreed, his expression grim.

  Figuring he’d explained enough to one of them, James turned his attention to Colm. “As for Rosie, you guys know I have gone out of my way to keep my distance. The kiss thing…” He stopped, completely flummoxed. How could he explain something he didn’t understand himself? “I know how important she is to the company—”

  Colm snorted. “Fuck the company.”

  “Yeah, right,” James agreed with a self-deprecating laugh. “I love Rosie as much as you guys do. I’d never want to hurt her.”

  His statement hung there for a minute. At last, Colm glanced over at Mike. “Am I the only one hearing a ‘but’ in there?”

  Mike sighed, then shook his head. “James, come on—”

  “I’m not trying to fuck things up,” James shot back, instantly on the defensive.

  “But it’s going to happen,” Colm prophesized.

  “I don’t know what’s going on, okay?” James confessed. “I know I have to worry about the Megan thing first. I’ll keep my distance from Rosie, and maybe this whole D day dating thing will force the issue.” He opened his hands in helpless supplication, but the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he wasn’t entirely thrilled with the thought of Rosie falling for someone new. Someone else. “The best I can do right now.”

  Mike nodded and fell back in his chair, his mouth pursed in thought. “Maybe we can find Megan a roommate or something.”

  Colm snorted. The two of them glared at him again, but this time he refused to roll over. “Oh, come on, I think we can all agree your sister is not the split-the-rent type.”

  Mike conceded with a rueful laugh. “No, she’s not.”

  “We have to wait until the next stump sculptor comes along. Better start stalking the art galleries, or looking under rocks,” Colm intoned dryly. “Where does she find these weirdos?”

  James rolled his eyes. “I’d say under overpasses.”

  Colm sat back, a thoughtful frown pulling on the corners of his mouth. “She’s one of those people who needs to know what her next move is.” He worked his jaw back and forth, a sure sign the wheels in his ex-cop mind were turning. “Is there anyone we don’t like? Someone we’d like to see suffer?”

  “Hey,” Mike reprimanded. “Still my sister.”

  “Sorry,” Colm replied automatically.

  “But probably the right idea,” Mike conceded. “The problem is, she’s contrary. We could throw a combination of George Clooney and that Thor guy at her, and she’d turn her nose up.”

  “We need one more like Jared Leto. She likes them weird,” James commented. “And I’m not comfortable with pimping out the mother of my children.”

  “Now he grows some scruples,” Colm muttered.

  Mike snorted. “Better late than never.” Slapping his knees, he rose. “We’ll figure something out. I’ll start working on her from my end. Maybe I can get our mom in on the action. She’s pretty pissed about Megan leaving without a word.”

  “She’s not pissed about her cleaning out the medicine cabinet?” James asked, incredulously.

  Mike waved a dismissive hand. “When you enable an alcoholic for forty years, you learn to turn a blind eye to the funniest things.”

  “You know, your mom might be a good idea.” Colm’s gaze landed somewhere in the middle distance.

  Mike’s eyes narrowed. “Dealing with my family is never a good idea.”

  Colm turned to James, his eyes alight with mischief and his expression oddly boyish. “What if you make Megan think you want this setup to be permanent?”

  James barked a laugh so harsh his throat hurt. “Are you nuts?”

  “She doesn’t want to be tied down,” Colm repeated with emphasis. “What if you act like she’s all you want? Not all of a sudden, but, you know, subtle.” He turned to Mike. “And you and your mom… You guys start making noises about her being back with James and the boys, how they’re like a real family now. Or will be once you two get married,” he added, turning a stern, paternal glare on James.

  Pressing his hand to his churning stomach, James shook his head. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

  “Come on, if the prospect of till death do you part doesn’t give her the itch to move on, nothing will,” Colm insisted.

  The mere use of the word itch made the patch of dermatitis on the back of his neck flare and burn. “Please don’t say itch.” He rubbed his palm hard a
gainst the spot in an effort to keep from scratching.

  “Colm may be on to something.” Excitement colored Mike’s usual caution. “Something crazy, but crazy is probably the only thing that’ll work on my sister. She’s not dumb, though. You’d have to let things kind of…unfold.”

  He gaped at his two best friends. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Can’t hurt,” Colm protested.

  “Yes, it could. I could end up married to the whack job.” The words were out before he could vet them. “Sorry, Mike.”

  Colm shrugged. “No one can make you marry her.”

  “Short of holding a shotgun on him,” Mike added. “Maybe we should have when he knocked her up.”

  James had heard enough. “Guys, this is—”

  “Genius,” Colm interrupted.

  “—insane.”

  Turning to Mike, Colm sneered. “I like genius better.”

  “I can’t pretend to fall in love with her,” he argued.

  “This doesn’t have to be a love thing.” Mike squinched his face as he worked the possibility through. “Yeah. Probably better if you don’t. Make it all about the kids and family. We don’t want to appeal to any random romantic streak she might have.”

  “Your sister doesn’t have a romantic corpuscle,” James grumbled.

  “But Rosie does,” Colm interrupted.

  The import of his friend’s statement concussed through him like a bomb blast. “What does Rosie have to do with this?”

  “The plan is for Rosie to fall out of love with you, and in love with some other guy,” he explained with surprising gentleness. “Easier for everyone. Act as if you’re making plans with your baby mama. Maybe you’ll be able to cut them both loose in one stroke. Chase Megan away, and let Rosie focus on someone else.”

  James stared at him for a moment, stunned by the suggestion. Pretend to love this one and another one will fall out of love. But he wasn’t entirely sure either part of the cockamamie scheme could produce the desired result.

  For some reason, the possibility of living in a world where Rosie Herrera didn’t love him best of all made his chest ache.

  He realized coercing Rosie into looking for someone better was probably the right thing to do, even if they were going about things in a convoluted way. But doing what was right was supposed to make a person feel good, and this felt, well…not good.

  But this wasn’t about him. His life had stopped being all about him the day Megan waved the plastic stick in his face and accused him of ruining her life. He needed to think about what was best for the boys. And, yes, for Rosie. And the business.

  Forcing himself to draw air in then let go, he eased the pressure on the back of his neck, curled his fingers under his collar, and began to scratch. “Fine. Okay. I’ll do it,” he muttered. “But if by some freakish reason I end up at the altar, I expect one of you douchebags to object to this union.”

  Mike nodded solemnly. “Don’t worry, we will. Strenuously.”

  Chapter 6

  Charlie appeared to be exactly what Georgie claimed he was. On the tall side of medium height, he wore his nut-brown hair cut in a messy tousle. His eyes matched his hair almost to perfection. Handsome, in a nice, unintimidating sort of way. Good looking, but not Hollywood hot. And Georgie hadn’t been off the mark.

  But there was something appealing about Charlie Craig. Something more than the adorable dimple in his cheek. Rosie had liked him on sight. Felt comfortable with him the moment they shook hands. She also experienced the faint, but unmistakable, tug of sexual attraction when he placed his hand in the small of her back to escort her to a car idling at the curb. She hesitated when she spotted a stranger behind the wheel.

  “Sorry about the car thing.” Charlie cast her a sheepish look. “I grew up in the suburbs, but when I moved downtown I found it was easier not to have my own car.”

  A lifelong city girl, Rosie was unfazed. “I understand.”

  He opened the back door and motioned for her to slide in. “I use Ryde to get anywhere I need to go in the city, and if I’m heading out of town, I rent a car. Much easier.”

  “I don’t own a car, either.” Rosie settled in the back seat. She didn’t say she relied most on public transportation to get around. There was nothing sexy about swapping mass transit horror stories.

  They chatted amiably about life in the city and the changes in the neighborhoods they passed through. Charlie seemed friendly and warm, again, as advertised, and Rosie relaxed with him. That is, she relaxed until the car slowed to a stop in front of the discreetly marked doors of the most buzz-worthy restaurant in town. Rosie was glad she’d splurged on a new dress. She, Rosie Herrera—the girl who spent at least one Saturday night each month stuffing tamales with her mother—was about to eat at Jonquil.

  With a reputation for cutting-edge cuisine and a waiting list a mile long, Rosie had heard about the restaurant but never expected to dine there. Waving to their driver, she slid from the backseat of the Camry-turned-taxi cab and looked at Charlie curiously.

  She’d survived an annoying Monday of a day. Tonight… She was about to eat at the hottest table in town with a man who kept sneaking not-so-subtle glances at her. This was going to be a good date. She felt the tingle of anticipation in every nerve ending.

  Turning to him, she lifted both eyebrows. “Jonquil?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Georgie and I went to culinary school with Mario. He’s off tonight, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Jacob isn’t as heavy-handed with the pepper as Mario.”

  A flush of pleasure warmed her cheeks and a nervous giggle escaped her. She recalled the conversation about Monica’s catered dinner party and nodded. “Georgie mentioned something about him over-seasoning.”

  “The man’s a genius.” Charlie ushered her to the door. “But don’t tell him I said so. Georgie and I are trying to keep him humble.”

  “I won’t say a word,” she promised as she preceded him into the restaurant.

  The space itself was long and narrow, but shockingly bright and cheerful. The tablecloths were a white so snowy she was tempted to shield her eyes. At the center of each stood small milk glass bud vases holding a single bright yellow flower. Jonquils. In Chicago. In February.

  “Wow. This is not at all what I expected,” she confessed. “It’s bright.” Afraid Charlie might interpret her comments as criticism, she rushed to add, “It’s beautiful.”

  “Mario has always been a bit of a rebel.” Charlie glanced around, obviously proud of what his friend had created. “Likes to say he refuses to eat at places too cheap to pay the light bill.”

  “It’s sunny and bright in here. Like spring.” She beamed up at him. “I love it.”

  He gestured to the bright coral dress she wore. “The décor suits you.”

  Rosie’s temperature spiked again. She wasn’t the kind of woman who bought the brightest dress on the rack. Nor was she the type to choose one low-cut enough to show off her rack, but this seemed to be the day for breaking molds.

  Monday dates, cornea-searing colors, and cleavage. Oh my, she thought, a smile twitching her lips.

  With Charlie, she fell back on a simple, “Thank you.”

  He caught on to her amusement. “What?”

  A woman clad in buttercup yellow approached, greeting Charlie by name. Their quick exchange of air kisses saved Rosie from answering. She spoke a low hello when introductions were made, but her head was spinning too fast to take everything in.

  The young woman led them through the dining room, and Rosie half-expected their fellow patrons to don sunglasses in response to the garish colors of their respective dresses. No one did. Everyone they passed was too busy laughing, talking, gesturing with oversized wine glasses, or exchanging forkfuls of food to be bothered with worry over retina damage.

  When their hostess skirted the tal
l counter separating the diners from the open kitchen, Rosie’s steps slowed. She glanced back at Charlie, who nodded encouragingly.

  “We’re at the chef’s table.”

  The young woman stopped beside a small table set inside the invisible threshold to the kitchen. Charlie drew one of the chairs out as their hostess deposited a calligraphed card on the table and bade them an enjoyable meal.

  The moment she sat, Rosie felt a dozen pairs of eyes boring into the back of her head. She’d seen her share of cooking shows to know the chef’s table was kind of a big deal, whether the celebrity chef was in the house or not. All those people who were counting themselves lucky to score a Monday night reservation at Jonquil were all wondering who she and Charlie were and how they rated such an honor.

  “I hope you don’t mind sitting with your back to the room.” Charlie took his seat opposite her. “I’m used to people watching me taste food, but I figured you weren’t.”

  “No, I, uh, thank you,” she managed at last. She took a quick peek over her shoulder. The place was packed, and more than a few people were looking their way. “Thank you,” she repeated, turning the full focus of her attention on him. “I appreciate…”

  “I should also warn you we’re at Jacob’s mercy in terms of menu.” He picked up the card the hostess had left and scanned the list. “Do you have any food allergies?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Here’s the bill of fare.” He passed the card to her. “Let me know if there’s anything on here you don’t want, and I’ll have a word with our server.”

  The selections were written in English, but some of the descriptions might as well have been Mandarin for all she knew. There were a number of items she might have Googled if she’d been at home in her pajamas watching Super Chef Junior. But she wasn’t at home, and she wasn’t prepared for this. Had she known where he was bringing her, she might have done some research.