“This isn’t even that bad. You should see how she farts after she’s eaten wet food.”
I wince, slowly coming up for air and finding it a tiny bit clearer. “We are never buying her wet food, then.”
“Aw, Teags, she loves her wet food. Gotta treat my girl every once in a while.” He tightens his arm around me.
I look up, noticing just how close we are. If he were to lean down just a little, and I lifted myself up just the same, our lips would touch. And with the way he utters my shortened name, one I love hearing come out of his mouth? Yeah, I would so be down with that.
But that isn’t what this is about.
At least the smell, which is still far too strong for my liking, helps keep my head from forgetting what this truly is—a non-date with a man who is only here because I burned down his house.
That’s it, right?
Chapter 4
Tuesday at work is my slowest day. Or maybe it just feels that way because Monday is so hectic that I don’t have time to sit and think.
Managing a childcare center is always interesting, often frustrating, and rarely without its fun moments. I lost count on the amount of funny shit kids do.
But, since taking over management at Patter Feet, I only help in the rooms for short periods of time. On any given day, there are eight to twelve staff members running the age relevant rooms. If we are short, I jump in. Otherwise, like I am today, I stay in my office and do bookwork. Managing a childcare means a lot of paperwork.
When my phone beeps with a text message, I jump on the distraction, excited to find out who it’s likely to be. I occasionally get a text message from my brothers, just saying hi. Mom only ever calls me, and I don’t have any close friends who text. However, after our non-date over the previous weekend, Joey messaged me almost every day last week. I’m hoping that continues this week.
He’s still busy with work, but we have shared three more dinners together and had another movie night. Karma did not stink out the room that time. I’m not sure if I was grateful I didn’t have that assault on my nose, or sad that Joey didn’t have a reason to pull me into his arms again.
I know I shouldn’t let my hopes get too high. We both know the most this can be between us is friends, but I can’t help it. Every day I feel as though I fall deeper in lust with Joey.
It was one thing when he was just the star of my fantasies, but now I am getting to know him and finding myself the opposite of disappointed with what I am discovering about him.
He isn’t only my perfect man in appearance, but he might even be perfect inside, too.
I am so screwed.
J: The guys are getting suspicious at work. I’ve never had such clean clothes before.
T: Are you complaining that I have been doing your laundry?
I type this on a smile, leaning back on my chair and staring at my phone pathetically as I wait for Joey to text me back.
J: No, I’m just saying that you have to show your face in the office to prove you exist.
T: You work with people whose job it is to look into people’s lives. Pretty sure your coworkers can figure out I’m real without having to see me in person.
They also have been inside my house and saw my bra and panties with their own eyes, so I’m about as real as I can get to someone.
J: Just because you’re a real person, doesn’t mean you are real in my life.
T: I think your coworkers have trust issues.
J: We’re P.I.’s, so yes, that’s true.
I roll my eyes, making a quick decision I hope I don’t regret.
I grab a marker, a blank piece of paper, and write that I am real. It takes a few tries, but I eventually get a photo where I am all in there, as well as the sign, and I don’t look ridiculous. Well, okay, I don’t look too ridiculous.
I click send on the image.
J: Did you just send me a photo of yourself, holding a sign stating you’re real?
T: I’m not sure why you’re asking when you clearly got it.
I gasp when Joey sends back the same photo I sent him, except the writing has been changed. Instead of stating that I am real, he has changed the words to: If you want a good time, call …
T: Joey! Delete that right now! You know my sign didn’t say that!
J: I’m teaching you a valuable lesson.
T: If your lesson is to never trust you again, then consider it learned.
J: Don’t be like that. Here, an olive branch.
Joey sends another image from a similar viewpoint as mine. He’s clearly sitting in his car, holding up a napkin where he has written the words: I’m sorry.
I grin evilly as I manage to open an app where I can blank out his writing and type over my own message. Then I send it.
T: Suck on that.
J: I have erectile dysfunction? Very original. Next time Karma cries at my door at four in the morning to go outside to take a piss, I’m ignoring it.
T: I work with kids who poo, vomit, and wet themselves daily. Your threat is weak.
J: Then I’ll just have to come up with something better.
T: How about just say thank you for doing your laundry, and tell your coworkers to piss off for giving you shit about it. I mean, what the hell state did you used to turn up in if they’re noticing your clothes are clean?
J: My office clothes were always spot on, but I didn’t care so much about my street clothes. You washed my stuff so well I can no longer pass as homeless. That doesn’t exactly help certain covers.
I stare at his message for a moment, unable to tell if he’s genuinely annoyed or joking.
T: Maybe not, but it helps my spare room not smell like a trash can, and it also means, in thirty to sixty days, when your scent cells renew, you’ll feel like you have a new lease on life.
J: How the hell do you know so much about that stuff?
T: I have my ways …
I hope to seem mysterious and knowledgeable, then question if I come across as creepy and weird.
T: Google. I have Google.
J: I was almost impressed.
T: I would be more impressed if you let me get back to work.
J: I’ll do that if you promise to show your face in the office and have lunch with me.
T: I am currently living with you; is that not enough?
I might type those words, but I have a huge grin on my face and hope to hell he insists.
J: No. Lunch?
T: Maybe later in the week.
I should play it cool, right? Then again, maybe Joey will insist on us having lunch today. I would throw my packed sandwich in the bin if it meant lunch with Joey.
J: I’m going to hold you to that.
Damn, he’s not going to push.
“Teagan, we have a situation with one of the kids,” Wynona, one of my employees, says after poking her head into my office.
And there goes my quiet Tuesday, no doubt.
T: Goodbye, Joey.
I quickly type out a new message for his sign, sending it on and hoping he finds the funny side.
J: I’ve never said that word in my life! I think moist might be worse than the erectile dysfunction one!
J: Revenge is sweet!
***
After parking in the small parking lot outside the J.P.I. office, I slowly approach the building that has Jameson Private Investigators written in huge letters along the top. Most of the front of the building is all glass windows, and inside, I see a suave, simple office with nice furniture and a large front desk that is currently unoccupied. The whole place looks deserted, making me think they are closed for lunch.
Joey said to meet him here, so should I wait outside?
“Un-fucking-believable!” a woman screeches, causing me to snap my head around to see a black woman leaning against the wall of the building. Since her back was facing me, I didn’t notice her at first, but now she turns around and I watch her quickly brushing a tear away.
She hasn’t seen me yet. I don’t know if I should give
her some privacy or not, but before I can decide on either rushing inside the building or hiding out in my car, she looks up and glues me in place.
“Sorry, did you hear that?”
I nod, assuming she means her outburst.
“My freaking mother is driving me mental. We haven’t spoken for over a year, and I finally decide to give her a chance to apologize, a chance to make things right, and she still doesn’t get it!” She is shrieking at me by the end of her rant.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I mumble, yet it doesn’t appear like this woman needs my input.
“She can’t see Declan as a real person! If someone doesn’t make seven figures a year, then they don’t exist! I’m surprised I exist!” she cries out, her pacing bringing her closer to me.
“That doesn’t sound fair,” I say carefully, fearful I might state something wrong and have her turn on me.
Who is she, and why is she pacing outside Joey’s office?
“Fair!” the woman jumps on my word. “She doesn’t even know the meaning of fair. She told me to give her a call when I come to my senses and get rid of Declan. You know what that means?” she asks. When I shrug in response, she appears happy to provide her answer. “It means I’m done. She is no longer part of my life. She’s a distant memory. My dad, too. They’re both as bad as each other, and I don’t care what happens in the future. Marriage? Grandbabies? They’re not part of it.”
I take all that in, surprised by what I have managed to step into.
“Are you close to your parents?” she suddenly asks, narrowing her eyes on me.
“My father passed away a few years ago, but I’m close with my mom,” I say, hoping I haven’t said the wrong thing.
“Good. I can’t talk to most of them in there”—she points into the J.P.I. offices—“because they make me feel guilty over their parents being gone. Cynthia is okay, but I think she’s sick of hearing about it. And Joey …” She trails off just as she catches my attention.
“What about him?” I ask eagerly, desperate for some inside gossip.
“He is just hopeless. If it isn’t about pussy, sports, or joking around, he’s not interested,” she whines.
My heart squeezes in disappointment. That isn’t all Joey is about, is it? Haven’t I seen more than that, or is it some sort of act? Or does he just put on an act at work?
“Sorry, you probably think I’m a crazy person. Please tell me you’re not a prospective client and I’ve just scared you away.”
“No, I’m …” I trail off, trying to figure out if this could be my out. This woman clearly works here. Maybe my best bet is to claim I’m lost, and then get away as quickly as possible. “I’m here to meet someone,” I finally murmur, figuring I shouldn’t start lying until I actually know who this person is. Plus, I decided to be more present in my life.
Jarrod might have knocked me down, but I can’t keep hiding away.
“Meet someone? Who? Harvey?” she asks.
I question if I even know a Harvey. Has Joey mentioned him?
The doors behind us open and out steps a hugely handsome man. He’s tall, broad shouldered, and he runs his hands through his chin length, light-blond hair, revealing a chiseled face and intense eyes. I think I might stop breathing as I take him in.
Is this a P.I. office, or a modeling agency?
“Harvey, you meeting someone here?” the woman asks, her voice suggestive.
He just looks at me, then back to the woman, giving her a grunt, then leaves.
“Did he just grunt?” I ask, watching his back and admiring the view.
“Yeah, that’s our Harvey. He’s a grunter, a glarer, and as neutral as they get. Not sure I’ve even seen the man get angry or crack a smile. Not sure he can.”
“Shame,” I mutter, and apparently loud enough for this woman to hear.
“I know. I bet he’s an absolute animal in bed. All that pent-up emotion. Shit, you wouldn’t walk straight for a week.”
I redden at her bold statement, again wondering who she is.
She must read my thoughts, since the next words out of her mouth are suspiciously on the same track.
“I’m Sasha Jennings,” she introduces herself.
The name clicks. She’s a friend of Joey’s.
“Hi, nice to meet you. Teagan Bevon,” I reply, shaking her hand before letting her lead me inside, which is a little bare, making me think they haven’t been here long.
“You wondering why it looks so boring in here?” Sasha asks, moving behind the desk where she throws her phone, a little too harshly if you ask me, into her desk drawer.
“I-I … No, it looks … nice,” I finish lamely, my nerves beginning to set in.
Where is Joey?
“We’ve been here nearly a year. We haven’t bothered to do much to it, not after the last two buildings we were in.”
“What happened to them?” I ask, thinking of bad landlords, or crime in their neighborhood causing problems.
“We had a bomb go off in each office. That means we’re a little less inclined to do much to this one, at least not until we’re sure we’ll keep it.”
“Bombs?” I gasp, glancing around again, as if I might catch something I missed before. I doubt there will be an obvious timer strapped to some dynamite, or a lone, random briefcase in the corner, but I check, anyway.
“Yeah, but nothing to worry about. Those bad guys are behind bars. So, who are you meeting again?” she asks casually, like we are discussing the weather and not bombs destroying their offices.
“I’m here to see Joey.”
“Do you have an appointment?” she questions distractedly, moving her gaze from me to her computer screen where she makes a few clicks of her mouse before eyeing me again.
“No, he asked me to meet him here.”
Her eyes narrowed on me before I even finished. “You said you weren’t a client.”
“I’m not,” I reply meekly, not sure how to take this woman. I realize I’m wringing my hands and force myself to stop. It’s a nervous tick I don’t know why I have. “I’m supposed to have lunch with him.”
“Lunch? Are you having a date with Joey?” she gasps, shooting upward so fast her chair flies out and hits the wall behind her.
“No, not a date,” I quickly rush to assure her. “He just wanted to meet up …” I trail off as she comes around the desk, her eyes roaming over me. She actually moves behind me to get a full picture.
“How do you know each other? Where did you meet?” she barks out.
“Umm … Is Joey here?” I ask hopefully, not sure I want to admit to this friend of his that I’m the reason he’s without a home. Joey might not be mad about what happened, but that doesn’t mean his friends will like me.
“He’s out; due back any minute,” she says absentmindedly. “But listen, you can see Joey another time. I think it’s imperative we have lunch together.”
“It is?” I ask panicky.
Is my lunch with Joey about to be hijacked by a complete stranger? She might be Joey’s friend, but she’s not mine. And she clearly has the wrong idea about what is happening with Joey and me.
“Yes.” Just as she says this, an Asian woman rounds her desk, her eyes on the contents of her bag.
“Sash, you haven’t seen my—”
“Cynthia! Look who’s here!” Sasha announces loudly, startling Cynthia into looking up and staring at me as Sasha places her arm around my shoulders. This is overly familiar for someone you met not even ten minutes ago.
When Cynthia looks at me expectantly, I realize I’m supposed to introduce myself.
“Hi, I’m Teagan Bevon.”
“Oh,” she says blandly, perhaps trying to place my name. “It’s nice to meet you.” Cynthia eyes me warily before her gaze turns questionably back to Sasha.
“She’s supposed to have a date with Joey, but she’s having lunch with us instead,” Sasha explains.
Cynthia’s gaze darts immediately back to me, her interes
t quadrupling in seconds.
“I’m not sure—”
“Time to go, ladies!” a new woman calls out, rushing down the same corridor and waving keys at Sasha.
“Awesome!” she cries, grabbing her bag to follow suit, taking my hand before I can think to step out of her way.
She drags me outside until we are alongside a car, which the new woman unlocks with the click of a button. Then Sasha pushes me into the back seat, moving in after me.
Am I being kidnapped?
“What the hell is that?” Cynthia asks, and all our eyes land on the strange contraption locked against the steering wheel.
“It’s a steering wheel lock,” the woman in the driver’s seat, who I notice is clearly pregnant, mumbles. She pulls on the metal bar, but it doesn’t release.
“Shit, I didn’t even know they still made those things,” Sasha whines. “Aren’t they from the nineties?”
“I don’t think they do make them anymore,” the driver complains as she again tries to pull on it. Nothing happens. “Think I can still drive with it on?”
“Not unless you are okay with taking out the window so you can turn,” Cynthia sasses.
“I think Zander will frown upon that,” she grumbles.
“Pretty sure he’s frowning upon us right now,” Sasha growls.
We all glance up to see a man, whom I recall is the same Zander who came to my house, eyeing us from the front of the office, urging us to come back to him with his cocked finger.
“No way is he getting away with this. I can still drive it, right? Just no corners?” the woman asks, tapping her fingers restlessly over the steering wheel.
“Ava, we can’t go straight forever!” Cynthia cries.
I squint at the almost ancient thing and deliberate if I should speak up.
Glancing at the two women I don’t know in the front, and then to Sasha, who I already know is close with Joey, I realize part of me wants them to like me.
“I have an idea. How about I pick the lock?” I suggest then gulp when all eyes shift to me at once.
“What! You mean, you can do that?” Sasha shrieks.
“Well, yeah, sure.”
“Do it!” they all shout in unison.
I grab a bobby pin from my pocket and bend it until it fits in the lock how I want it. “The good thing about this being so old-school is that it’s super simple to pick,” I inform them, my ass in the air as I lean into the front.
I Burned Down His House (Love at First Crime Book 3) Page 5
