“What happened?”
Her jaw sets. “Mrs. Rosa says Cleo is in a man’s house, and he refuses to let Cleo go, claiming possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“What?”
She starts walking the opposite direction.
“Where are we going?”
“To get Cleo back.”
Despite her long, angry strides, I easily fall into step with her. “And how do you plan to do that?”
She glances up at me. “By doing what I know best. Lawyering.”
I don’t ask her any questions, mainly because she looks like she’s ready to slay this man, and I don’t want to become collateral damage. But also because Vengeful Mary is a sight to behold. And if I’m totally honest, I find her hot as fucking hell. No way am I getting in the way of that.
Mrs. Rosa is ahead, standing on the sidewalk in front of a house littered with empty clay pots and garden gnomes. Her eyes are blazing. “That man refuses to give up Cleo.”
“Are you sure he has Roger’s cat?” Mary asks, her tone no-nonsense.
“I saw her in the window when I got here,” Mrs. Rosa says. “She was meowing loud enough that I heard her through the glass. When the guy opened the door, I called Cleo’s name. She tried to dart out, but the guy grabbed her and said she was his cat. He shouted obscenities at me and slammed the door shut.” She takes a deep breath. “It’s Cleo. I’m certain of it. She even has the mitten-shaped white splotch on her hip.”
Mary stares at the house, and I can practically see the wheels spinning in her head as she works out a plan. Finally, she gives a little nod as if agreeing with herself, then grabs her phone and starts typing.
“Do you want me to tell the others to stop canvassing?” I ask.
“No,” she says, deep in thought. “Not yet.”
We wait another minute. I’m unsure of what she’s doing, but then her phone rings. “What do you have?” She listens, muttering “uh-huh” and “I see,” followed by, “Thanks, Dennis. This has been extremely helpful.”
Then, without any warning, she marches up to the front door.
“Go with her, Jace,” Mrs. Rosa says, giving my arm a shove. “This guy is not to be messed with.”
In other words, he could hurt her.
Not while I’m around.
I take long, purposeful strides toward her as she knocks on the door, and stop a few feet behind her, my hands clasped in front of me.
The muscle.
The door opens almost immediately, and a large, muscular man with tattoos all over his bare arms and chest fills the doorway. He has a long, unkempt beard and a bald head.
“What the fuck do you want?” he barks.
I expect Mary to flinch, but she looks totally undisturbed by his outburst. “Hugo Sylvan?”
He flinches in surprise. Then he glares. “Who’s askin’?”
“You have a cat in your residence that does not belong to you. If you hand her over to me, my client agrees to chalk this up to a misunderstanding and let it go.”
He lets out a short laugh. “What do you think you can do to me?”
He puffs out his chest and stands taller, obviously trying to intimidate her.
I take a step closer, ready to intervene. There’s no way in hell I’m letting this man lay a hand on her.
“Oh,” she says calmly, as though he asked about her favorite coffee shop, “I can think of a number of things. Where to start? How about the fact that you’re behind on child support? Or that there’s a warrant out for your arrest for a reckless driving charge? And then there’s your previous arrests for dog fighting.” Her voice turns hard, and she holds up her phone. “You will hand over that cat within the next five seconds, or I’ll have the police out here within less than a minute to pick you up for that outstanding warrant and arrest you for felony theft.”
“Felony?” he shouts, his face turning red. “That cat ain’t worth no felony.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Sylvan. That cat is a Majestic Neapolitan worth twenty-five hundred dollars. My client has all the necessary paperwork to prove her worth and a chip to prove her ownership. Are you willing to risk your freedom over a cat?”
Hugo Sylvan looks like he wants to strangle Mary.
“One,” Mary says in a calm voice. “Two. Time is ticking, Mr. Sylvan. Three.”
The man opens the door, and Cleo darts out of the opening and straight into my arms.
Mary looks the man over as though she finds him lacking. “If I hear about you kidnapping another cat, I will be back, and I will tear you and your dog-fighting operation to the ground.”
Then she turns on her heels and walks away like she’s the fucking Queen of England.
Chapter Eighteen
Mary
On the way back to Roger’s apartment, I fill our street team in on the situation (i.e., I both thank and dismiss them) and send a group text to Molly and Maisie to confirm that Cleo has been found. Molly texts back: There’s more to this story, and you’re going to tell us. Hell, even CAL wants to know what’s going on with you and hunka-hunka burning love, and his gossip button isn’t screwed on right. YOU NEED TO TELL US TONIGHT. Unless you’re getting laid. If you’re getting laid, it can wait. Just know that if you flake on our plans, we’re going to assume you’re getting laid.
There’s a text from Nicole too, but I’ll check it later. I’m sure she’s just touching base about her latest challenge, or giving me another one. From what I understand, the original Bad Luck Club has a very defined schedule—meetings every other week, one challenge per meeting—but Nicole’s version has proved to be the opposite of organized.
Actually, on second thought, that could be something she’s doing to torture me into being less predictable. The messed-up thing is that it’s sort of working.
I stuff my phone back into my pocket so quickly that Jace’s eyes immediately gravitate toward it—or maybe he’s just looking at my butt.
Roger is waiting at his small kitchen table, right by the door, and the way he lights up at the sight of Cleo…
This is why I became a lawyer. Sometimes I get to do good things. Sometimes I get to fight for people who have been wronged, or unfairly maligned, or manipulated because of their ignorance of the legal system.
Sometimes I get to add some balance to the ledger.
One of the things I love about Hilde is her insistence that each of the lawyers at the firm do ten hours a month of pro bono work. It’s my favorite part of my job.
But it’s not Roger who’s making me feel like a superhero. The way Jace stood back at that house, letting me deal with the situation but making it very clear that he would step in if that man was foolish enough to lay hands on me—no one’s ever shown that much faith in me. Although I don’t lack confidence when it comes to my ability to put wrongdoers in their place, I’ve never felt like this.
Jace is doing something to me. He’s helping me tap into the parts of myself I’ve lost along the path of life. It’s a foolish thought, but I can’t quite quell it—or maybe I don’t want to.
Earlier, in his apartment, I had half a minute to look around while he got changed. In spite of what his sister did, there’s a picture of her and Ben on the fridge. I know it’s her because of her eyes—that same ocean-water blue as Jace’s. Her little boy is staring at something off camera, not smiling, but she is looking at the photographer.
How could someone like that, someone who looks so nice, do something so terrible? She knew Jace’s crime was more than ten years in the past, yet she cut him off anyway.
Then again, everyone who knew my father thought he was the nicest man alive. The Blarney Stone, if it were a man, someone said in a comment on his obituary. Everyone thought that he was the beautiful one, the standout, and that my mother was lucky to have caught a man like him.
And it turns out he was cheating on her.
She didn’t know that, of course—they both died before the truth came out—but she knew something w
asn’t right. I was the one she confided in.
She’d seen the way women flirted with him, and the way he flirted back, and it made her feel a bone-deep inadequacy.
I shake those thoughts away, though, because they have no place in this happy moment.
“You got her back,” Roger says in wonder, his eyes filling with tears. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who cries often, and answering tears well in my eyes. He tries to get up and stumbles a little, and Jace places a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place. The cat is cuddled in Jace’s other arm, as if she has very wisely decided she’d like to stay there.
“Mary got her back,” he says. His voice is firm, like he won’t hear of anyone else taking credit. Crouching, he places Cleo at Roger’s feet. “She was remarkable.” There’s a throb of longing in his voice, of admiration, and I consume it like a feast.
Cleo, being a cat, merely weaves herself around Roger’s legs and then pitter-patters off to another room without a care, as if she both runs away and is kidnapped several days a week.
Mrs. Rosa enters after us, her eyes dancing as she follows us into the apartment, closing the door behind her. “The boy who took her was a big brute covered in tattoos.” Her mouth ticks up into a wider smile. “He looked about as tough as our Jace, but this fine woman marched right up to him, bold as you please, and demanded he give Cleo back. Told him that Cleo was worth twenty-five hundred dollars, and he’d get arrested for felony theft if he tried to keep her.”
“She what?” Roger asks, just as I say, “Oh, no. That man had nothing on Jace. I was never in the slightest bit of danger.”
The words came tumbling out, and I feel myself blush slightly. I can sense Jace watching me—along with everyone else in the room.
Mrs. Rosa pats my arm. “You’re right, I do have a tendency to exaggerate.”
“So she didn’t say that darn cat was worth as much as my medical bills?”
“I shouldn’t have lied,” I admit, “but the gentleman did need some convincing. And I didn’t want…” I let myself sneak a peek at Jace. His ocean eyes are on me, just like I thought, and the warmth in them makes my breath catch.
“You didn’t want me to get myself into any trouble,” he finishes. He’s right, and I don’t deny it. Although getting caught in a lie could get me disbarred, the thought of Jace getting arrested for assault…
I couldn’t let that happen. He already has a felony conviction, and although I doubt anyone would take the word of a man like Hugo Sylvan, I wasn’t willing to take that risk.
Mrs. Rosa pats my arm again. “Don’t you think of leaving, honey. I’m bringing over a cake to celebrate. Apple spice or gingerbread?”
I’m a bit thrown by the revelation that this woman has multiple flavors of cake at her disposal, but I don’t want to imply I’m ungrateful or suspicious, so I gesture toward Roger.
“Let’s let Roger decide. He’s had a very stressful afternoon.”
“Gingerbread,” he answers at once, smiling. Jace looks a little taken aback, although whether it’s because of the speed of his answer or the smile, I don’t know. “Been a while since I had any. My wife used to make it every Christmas.”
“Can’t argue with that reasoning,” Mrs. Rosa says. “Gingerbread is a good celebration cake.”
“I took you as more of the bah humbug type,” Jace interjects. “Actually, I think you said those very words to me last Christmas. And then there’s your place.” He waves his hand, indicating the décor of the apartment, which is as lacking in holiday merriment as his own home.
Maybe I’ll buy them a couple of little trees like the one at the office.
The thought is there and gone before I can question why the heck I’m thinking about buying people trees, when I’ve only decorated a tenth of one of mine. But something about Jace and the recovered cat and his two friends, both of whom are decades older than him, is so charming that I feel a wave of something suspiciously like Christmas spirit.
Hilde would be proud of me.
“Sure,” Roger says. “If you ask me, the whole thing’s a lot of wasted effort. But I would have hung the moon for that woman.”
Mrs. Rosa beams at him, as if he just revealed he’s been a secret romantic all along. Actually, I guess he has. “I’ll be right back,” she says. “Save your appetites.”
She closes the door behind her, and my stomach responds by rumbling, reminding me that Jace and I never had those pancakes, or anything else.
He swears under his breath and takes a step toward me. “I’m sorry, Mary. I don’t know what I was thinking. You must be starving.”
“What about you? You must have worked up—”
Oh, God. I almost told him he must’ve worked up an appetite last night, and Roger is right there, leaning forward as if hanging on to our every word. He doesn’t look upset, though. If anything, he looks like he has half a mind to pull his chair closer lest he miss anything.
“I mean, you must be hungry too, is all,” I say.
Jace guides me to the chair next to Roger, and I sit, noticing it feels rickety beneath me.
“I’m used to going without,” he says offhandedly, as if it’s no big deal, but I’m hit again with the fact that he went to prison. That still scares me, to be honest. Back when he told me, it made me scared of him—and the pull I felt to him—but now it’s like I’m scared for him. Which is stupid, of course. He’s more than capable of taking care of himself, and that time in his life is over.
He’s still living with the consequences, though.
Still living without Ben.
Still working in a job beneath his talent level, according to Cal.
There’s more to his story, and I want to know it because I want to help him. Not because he needs my help, and definitely not because I feel sorry for him. It’s simple really: I like him, and he’s done a lot to help me. I’d like to return the favor. There’s nothing friendlier than that, is there?
“Thanks again for finding Cleo,” Roger says, turning toward me. “That cat’s about all I have left.” He shoots a glance at Jace, who sat down across from me. He’s so tall, his legs are practically beneath my chair, and I give in to the urge to let our legs touch.
But Roger’s not done. “This boy’s a good friend to me, and I know spending time with your son means a lot to him. Excuse me for being blunt”—Jace grunts; Roger ignores him—“but I hope the fact that you’re here means you’re going to let him spend time with your boy. There’s no one I’d sooner trust with my children.”
“You don’t have any,” Jace says.
“He has Cleo.” I smile at them. Turning to Roger, I add, “I feel very lucky to have Jace in our lives. Everything has gotten better for us since we met him.”
And it’s true. In this moment, I’m feeling like more than just a friend.
Because his leg is pressed against me, the solid heat of him like a furnace.
Because there’s literally nothing I’d like more than to eat gingerbread cake with Jace and these two charming neighbors he’s made his family.
When I look up, Jace is staring at me again. Our eyes lock, and a feeling like electricity sizzles through me, from his eyes to mine, from the place where our legs touch to my newly cobweb-free core. “I can say the same,” he says, his voice deep and sure.
I don’t know what all this means, or if it even should mean something, but I’m enjoying myself.
Mrs. Rosa’s cake is as professional and delicious as one of the confections Cal’s father makes, and his father owns a bakery. Although I felt certain I couldn’t possibly eat the piece she cut for me, which was as big as Cleo’s head, I’ve finished every bite. I’ve laughed so hard that my belly hurts, or maybe the cake’s to blame.
I’m not used to this, to life feeling like a celebration.
Roger told me that he used to look a lot like Jace back when he worked construction, and Mrs. Rosa told him to hush because “you don’t want to scare the poor girl.” He preten
ded to be offended, but it’s obvious there’s a powerful affection between them, just like the bond they share with Jace.
Speaking of Jace. He’s been a little quiet, but not because he’s bored or checked out—he hasn’t once lifted his phone the way Glenn always did in situations like this one. No, he’s watching and listening. Soaking in the moment like a plant starved for water.
Which emboldens me.
I get my opportunity when we take the dishes to the sink to wash them, nearly tripping on Cleo, who finally made her reappearance a few minutes ago. We had to insist on cleaning up at least five times before Mrs. Rosa let us, but she seems to have forgotten all about it now that she and Roger are heatedly discussing the relative merits of A Christmas Story versus Miracle on 34th Street. I must say, he has very strong pro-A Christmas Story opinions for someone who’s not very keen on the idea of Christmas.
I turn on the water, checking the temperature twice.
Jace smiles. “Let me guess, there’s a proper temperature for it to be?”
“Of course,” I say. “Sugar comes off best when the water’s hot.”
“I’ll have to remember that. In all honesty, Roger and I eat frozen dinners more than we should, but when we do cook, something inevitably gets stuck on the pan.” The confirmation that he is taking care of this man, that he has adopted him as a pseudo-father, sends a tingle of pleasure through me as surely as the touch of his strong, capable fingers when he passes me the first dishes.
We work together for a while, his hands caressing me under the warm water as he passes things to me, and that feeling inside me grows stronger, until, as we finish, I blurt out, “Can we talk in your apartment for a few minutes?”
Apparently, I said it too loud, because both Mrs. Rosa and Roger dart glances at us, clearly waiting for his answer.
Oops.
There’s hesitation on Jace’s part, and I remember his reluctance to let me into his apartment earlier. He’s embarrassed of his place, although he has no reason to be. It’s clean and tidy and well put together, and I frankly don’t care how much money he makes. Glenn made six figures, and he’s a garbage human being. Money doesn’t create worth, and neither does the kind of title that makes a man brag. Bottom line: I have the resources to take care of myself and Aidan, and I don’t need any man or friend with benefits (fuck buddy, Nicole whispers in my head) to step in and take care of me.
Jingle Bell Hell (Bad Luck Club) Page 19