by Tami Lund
“Holy shit.”
Her boss had been understandably upset when she’d arrived for work on Saturday morning. But she’d gotten there ten minutes early and had offered to stay late to finish the last job after someone else had called off; plus, her boss had caught the clip on the news about her witnessing a kidnapping the day before, so Mr. Kline had let her off with a stern warning. Probably helped that he hadn’t noticed the time of the kidnapping, so he hadn’t connected that she would have been two hours late if she had managed to make it into work on Friday.
Unfortunately, she was now exhausted, but her cupboards were bare, so she had to stop at the grocery store, which was one of her least favorite aspects of adulting.
It was a necessary evil, the chore exasperated by the fact that she was a single woman living in a world of recipes designed for four. If she bought a pound of burger, a box of pasta, and all the fixings, she’d be eating spaghetti for two weeks straight. Homemade chicken noodle soup, one of her favorite dishes, had to be divided and frozen, which was a whole lot of work.
Easier to stick to boxes of macaroni and cheese and the ramen noodles she hadn’t yet outgrown. Oh, and a bag of carrots, which, paired with a tub of hummus, could be dinner and lunch.
Linner?
Ugh, she hated this task.
Standing in front of the bagged lettuce section of the produce department, she tried to talk herself into swapping out a few days of sodium-soaked ramen for a healthier option. Her cart jarred under her hand on the handle. She glanced up and stared into the chocolaty-brown eyes of last night’s date.
His eyes widened. “Phoebe,” he said with an inflection that made her think maybe he was happy to have unexpectedly run into her at the grocery store.
Damn it, why hadn’t she gone home and showered and fixed her hair and put on makeup before making this stop? She was wearing her work uniform, with a baseball cap hiding her unwashed hair, and there was dirt on her knees and probably her face too.
Of course, he was also wearing a baseball cap, along with a T-shirt that said, “I’d rather be at the lake.”
But no dirt. He was probably freshly showered. She bet he smelled good, too. She considered moving close enough to find out, except she actually stunk, so better to keep her distance.
“Hey, Tony,” she said, brushing off a leaf stuck to her shirt right under her left boob. How had she missed that when leaving the last job site?
“You look great.”
She laughed. “You need to get your eyes checked.”
He shook his head. “I’m taking the uniform to mean you still have a job.”
Grinning, she said, “Yeah, I do.”
“So, today’s grocery day, huh?” He nodded at her cart, and then furrowed his brow. “Is this seriously what you eat?”
“Hey, now, no criticizing.”
“I’m not, I’m just…didn’t you tell me last night that you love homemade Italian food?”
While it was true, she’d only mentioned it because he was Italian and said he liked to cook and maybe she’d been hoping he’d ask for a second date. “Yes, I did, but it’s just me, and making one of those giant pasta dishes means I’m committing to eating the same meal for a week straight.”
Still looking down at the assortment of packaged goods in her cart, he said, “I want to make you something. One of my mother’s recipes.”
“Oh…that’d be great.”
“Do you have plans for the rest of the day?”
She shook her head. Sure, she had a brand-new romance novel waiting on her e-reader, but the potential for the real thing definitely trumped sitting alone, devouring someone else’s love story.
“How about you add your groceries to my cart, and we finish shopping for the ingredients I need to make homemade lasagna, and then we’ll head to your place and I’ll demonstrate my authentic Italian cooking skills?”
So this was what good luck felt like. “Um, sure. I mean, yes, let’s do that.”
He grinned like he was as excited as she was, and then he began transferring her merchandise into his cart, and a few moments later, they abandoned hers there in the produce section and headed toward dairy.
“It would be better with homemade noodles, but since you don’t have a pasta machine, we’ll make do with store-bought,” Tony commented as he unloaded their bounty onto her kitchen counter.
Phoebe had a sudden urge to buy a pasta machine. Especially if it would encourage him to keep coming around.
“First step,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Chianti. Can’t make lasagna without drinking Chianti at the same time. It won’t come out right.”
She giggled. “Actually, first step is me taking a shower.”
His sigh was so exaggerated she laughed again. “I’ll be quick,” she promised and raced out of the room.
When she returned twenty minutes later, her damp hair pulled back into a clip, wearing a comfortable yet feminine shirt and a pair of linen shorts, her skin tingled in all the places his gaze stopped to admire. And then he cleared his throat and lifted a fat wine bottle wrapped in a straw basket. “I couldn’t find your wineglasses.”
“That’s because I don’t have any.”
“That’s okay. Any sort of juice or lowball glass will do.”
“That I can provide.” She reached into the cupboard and produced two glasses, and he partially filled each with wine.
“Now, let’s get started. We need a big pot. Like a Dutch oven.”
“Got it,” she said. And so the next several hours went, with the two of them in the kitchen, drinking wine out of juice glasses, he preparing homemade lasagna while she retrieved whatever utensil or piece of equipment he needed as he chattered about his process, interspersed with light teasing and jokes.
It was, by far, the best date she’d ever been on, and that was all before dinner was served. Which was accompanied by a fresh Caesar salad and crusty bread. Oh, and more red wine. And it was good.
“I’m never going to be able to look at a box of macaroni and cheese the same way again,” she announced after the first savory bite.
Tony looked down at his plate and frowned. “What does macaroni and cheese have to do with this dinner?”
She snorted. “That was what I intended to eat for dinner tonight, before I ran into you at the grocery store. I still can’t believe we shop at the same place.”
“I don’t usually shop there. I was running errands and happened to be driving by and realized I needed to stock my cupboards.”
“Lucky me.”
He lifted his glass, touched the rim to her own. “I think you mean lucky me.”
Oh goodness, he was utterly charming. And so incredibly handsome. And funny. And…
“Have you heard from that lady whose daughter was kidnapped?”
And a buzzkill? No, he was concerned, which was yet another check in the positive column. “I actually went over to visit her after you left yesterday.”
Tony arched his eyebrows, and she shrugged.
“I wanted to make sure she was okay.”
“Was she?”
Shaking her head, Phoebe said, “No. I mean, she said she was, but she drank almost an entire bottle of wine while I was there. And her ex hadn’t returned her daughter yet. I didn’t leave until she passed out on the couch.”
“That’s too bad. What about the TV vans? Are they still harassing you?”
“There weren’t any in the parking lot when I left for work this morning. And obviously not when we returned this evening. So I guess I’m officially and literally yesterday’s news.”
“Good.” He scraped the last of the noodles and sauce off his plate, finished it off, then asked, “What about the cops? Have you talked to them at all?”
She shook her head. “No. I think they actually believed me when I said I didn’t know Margot’s ex. They got everything out of me in the first interview, so no point in reaching out again. Thank God, because that detective was a piece of work.
”
“Oh?”
They’d finished dinner and Tony topped off their wineglasses before they began clearing the table and cleaning the kitchen. Phoebe filled him in on her rather unimpressive first impression of Detective Joe Proctor.
“He was so cocky. And he kept calling Margot Marge, even though she asked him repeatedly to stop. She was totally being a bitch to him, and at first, I was shocked, but after spending five minutes in the man’s company, I was silently cheering her on.”
“Cops are dicks.”
Phoebe arched her brow. “Bad experience in your past?”
“When we were younger, my brother and I weren’t exactly saints. Had a few run-ins. I’m off their radar now, but they still harass my brother pretty regularly.”
“Why?” She covered the remaining lasagna with foil and placed the dish in the refrigerator.
“I guess because he treats them like your friend Margot did, and they aren’t as tolerant of him as they apparently are to her.”
“I don’t know that they were very tolerant. That detective was pretty mean to her. And he kept insisting she knew more than she was telling him.”
“More what?”
“Beats me.” She nodded at the television. “Do you want to watch a movie or something?”
“I’d love to, but unfortunately, I’d better get going.” He scooped up the bags they’d repacked. “Thanks for, uh, a great evening.”
“Yeah, thanks. The food was delicious. I can’t wait to eat the leftovers tomorrow. And for half the week.” She chuckled nervously. An abrupt departure was not how she envisioned this evening ending.
He patted her arm and grimaced before leaning in and delivering a chaste peck to her cheek.
And then he exited her apartment like he really did have someplace else to be.
5
So Not Cut Out For This Kind Of Work
Okay, yeah, staking out her place and then following a woman to the grocery store on a Saturday morning had been a new low for Antonio. But Phoebe hadn’t suspected a damn thing, and spending the day cooking and then eating dinner with her had totally been worth his unease over being a creeper.
Until she’d mentioned Joe fucking Proctor.
Shit, shit, shit.
He slammed his fist against the steering wheel and stared at the fat, white pillars outlining the wooden double doors of Gino’s elaborate home. He’d been summoned for an in-person update. And it was a hell of a lot harder to lie when he was looking straight at his brother instead of talking to him on the phone. Or better yet, through text messages.
Come on, Antonio, relax. You didn’t really find out anything worth mentioning anyway.
Which was a fucking lie. The fact that Joe Proctor had shown up at Margot’s house the morning Gino took Nina was pretty damn big. Proctor was the biggest pain in Gino’s ass, pun absolutely intended. He was a relentless hound dog on the scent, and he’d come too close to pinning something on Gino too damn many times. The only reason he wasn’t dead was because he was a cop, and even guys like Gino, who thought they were invincible, balked at the idea of killing cops. No matter how powerful a person was, cops didn’t look the other way when one of their own went down.
Proctor was also a dick, as Antonio had slipped up and said at Phoebe’s apartment yesterday evening. No one else probably even knew Antonio existed, but Proctor did. He’d harassed Antonio plenty, but since Antonio never did the face work and his money laundering was way too hidden under layers of computer programming mumbo jumbo for a blue collar guy like the detective, it always ended in nothing more than annoying blustering.
Hell, if the detective weren’t such an ass, Antonio might have considered rolling on his brother by now.
Okay, not really. Showing them the money trail would certainly help whatever case they were forever trying to build against Gino. Except Gino would kill him from jail if they were to actually get something to stick.
There wasn’t a single doubt in Antonio’s mind. And since Antonio wasn’t in a hurry to die, that meant no dice on the rolling.
He had no choice but to endure the harassment, and now, to lie through his teeth to his brother.
He liked Phoebe, damn it. And, to be honest, he liked Margot. And Nina too. He didn’t want any of them hurt. And if Gino was remotely worried this little incident might help the cops get one up on him, he’d off the entire lot of them. At least the adults. And where would that leave Nina?
Son of a bitch, he didn’t like this feeling in his chest. What was it? Guilt? A sense of responsibility? Earlier this week, his biggest concerns had been whether it was time to buy a bigger boat and if he should finally move out of his mid-sized condo and into something bigger and flashier. Not Gino flashy, but certainly more in line with Antonio’s income level.
Now, he was stressing out over his ex-sister-in-law, the niece he hadn’t had contact with for the last two years, and a beautiful, funny, sensible woman who he knew damn well would not look at him twice if she knew anything at all about the person he really was.
That bothered him most of all. He wanted Phoebe to look at him with respect in her eyes. He wished he could tell her about himself without carefully choosing his words lest she pick up on something she was better off not knowing about.
And he wanted her to call him Antonio, not Tony.
Antonio sighed deeply, tucked away his little fantasy about being a nice, normal human being, and climbed out of his car. His brother was a stickler for punctuality.
Nina was standing in the hall outside the closed door of Gino’s office.
“Hey, kiddo,” Antonio greeted her. “You doing okay?”
She paused in the process of what looked like counting the tiles on the floor and said in a listless voice, “I guess.”
“What’s wrong?”
She shrugged dainty shoulders. “I miss my mom.”
Damn his brother. This kid didn’t deserve to be stuck in the middle of the fucking mind games Gino liked to play with Margot.
“Hey, listen. I have a meeting with your dad right now, but when I’m done, how about we go get some ice cream?” Yeah, it was only 10:00 a.m., but who cared? It was Sunday, and the kid was stuck in a place she didn’t want to be, with the one parent who honestly didn’t give a shit about her. She deserved some sugary goodness.
Nina’s face lit up like he’d promised her a pony for Christmas. He grinned back and ruffled her dark curls.
The door to Gino’s office opened and one of his brother’s largest, scariest goons stepped out, followed by—oh shit.
Joe Proctor.
The detective paused, taking in Antonio’s baseball cap, baggy shorts, and sunglasses hanging from the collar of his dark red T-shirt before his gaze dropped to the little girl, who stared back at him with wide, unblinking eyes. Antonio reached out and pushed her back so that she was tucked behind him.
“Oh, look,” Proctor said, turning his focus to Antonio. “It’s the pissant brother. Here to mooch more dirty money from Gino?”
“Watch your language around the kid,” Antonio snapped.
Proctor’s gaze dropped to Nina again, who was peering around Antonio’s hip. “Hey, kid, what’s your name?” he asked.
“Don’t answer him,” Antonio commanded.
“You miss your mommy?” Proctor prodded.
“Ignore him, Nina.” Antonio winced. He was lousy at this damn game.
“I bet your mommy misses you, Nina,” Proctor said.
“Shut up and get the fuck out of here,” Antonio ground out.
“Language in front of the kid,” Proctor chided as the goon grabbed his arm and shoved him down the hall. “Hey,” he called out, “Nina, are you here of your own volition?”
They watched the detective until he disappeared around a corner, then Nina looked up. “What’s volition?”
“Free will,” Antonio replied, his attention on the office and the man deep inside, seated behind the desk, waiting for him to enter. “Hey, why don�
�t you go find Zelda? I’ll come get you when I’m done here.”
“She’s still sleeping. She stayed out too late last night.”
More likely, she stayed in—Gino’s bed. Or maybe one of his henchmen’s. Or hell, all of them at once. Wouldn’t surprise Antonio in the least.
“Well, Brutus has probably booted the detective out of the house by now, so I guess you’re safe to stay out here. I’m gonna close the door, okay? We both know what your dad’s like when he’s grumpy, and I can’t imagine he isn’t after a visit from that guy.”
Nina’s smile was fleeting. “Yeah, okay.”
Well, at least now he knew Proctor’s involvement wasn’t something he had to avoid reporting to his brother.
“Before you sit,” Gino said, and Antonio paused in the process of approaching his desk. His brother pushed his coffee mug toward Antonio. “Get me a refill. And make it half whiskey. That man makes my trigger finger itchy.” He rubbed his temples and leaned back, the leather chair creaking under his shifted weight.
Antonio took the cup over to the wet bar built into the wall. “That guy’s a real prick.” It wasn’t often he and Gino agreed, but their mutual hatred of the detective was definitely one of those occasions.
“Speaking of pricks, you boned that jogger yet?”
Antonio snagged a second coffee mug and made himself a drink, too.
“Since I’ve pretty much never told you details about my sex life, what makes you think I’ll start now?” He sat down in front of his brother’s desk and placed one of the cups on the smooth surface.
Gino took a long drink before answering. “Because this isn’t about your sex life. It’s about you doing a job for me. And women are more likely to tell you stuff they shouldn’t if you’re persuading them with a few orgasms.”
Gino didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. As far as Antonio knew, he’d never used such a tactic. Violent threats were more his style. Dismemberment. And eventually, death. Gino never bluffed.
Although, to be honest, that was precisely the reason Antonio hadn’t stayed to watch a movie with Phoebe last night. She had definitely been sending him I’m interested signals. And while the idea of sleeping with her definitely perked up certain body parts, doing so to extract information for his brother deflated them just as quickly.
