by Lauren Layne
Moretti’s eyes dropped briefly to her mouth. “You and me? That’s preposterous.”
Maggie ignored the sting at his incredulous reaction.
She leaned in just slightly, the heat in his gaze making her bold. “They weren’t trying to set me up with you, Captain. With Vincent.”
Moretti visibly recoiled. “Vin?” Then he laughed. “That’s…There is no way he’d be interested.”
Maggie blinked. Blinked again. The burn of his disbelief that someone might be interested in her was a bit too much to take.
She slowly eased away from him, averting her eyes so he couldn’t see the hurt, only to realize she probably needn’t bother. The man was an insensitive ass—he wouldn’t recognize hurt feelings if they bit him in the balls.
“I’ll be going home now, Captain.”
“Ms. Walker…Maggie…” He reached out a hand again as she stepped backward, but this time Maggie was ready and she dodged.
“Quit manhandling me,” she cried, her voice a little desperate. “I haven’t done anything wrong and you know it.”
His hand dropped to his side, his face the picture of masculine frustration. Their eyes locked for a few seconds, something complicated passing between them before the door beside them flew open.
“Maggie?” It was Carlos. Finally. “What are you still doing here?”
Her friend gave Anthony a suspicious look, and the taller man rolled his eyes. “Relax. I’m a cop. And if you’re really her friend, you shouldn’t let her walk to the subway alone.”
Carlos frowned. “Hey! I’ve offered to walk her every day for months. She always says no.”
Captain Moretti transferred his annoyed gaze back to Maggie, but she held up a weary hand. “Save it. Or add it to my list of sins. I don’t really care. I’m going home. If either or both of you want to walk me to the subway station out of some macho display of chivalry, go for it, but under no circumstance do I want to chat. Got it?”
She walked away then, ignoring the rain, ignoring the hurt, and definitely ignoring the men behind her.
But she couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder, just once before heading down the stairs to the train platform, and somehow she wasn’t at all surprised to see that Captain Anthony Moretti had followed her, hands shoved in his coat pockets as he watched her from several feet away.
And despite her bad mood, Maggie might have smiled. Just a little bit.
Chapter Nine
Maggie had writer’s block.
She never had writer’s block. A little stumped on a plot twist, sure. Perplexed by what the heck her characters were thinking, definitely.
But this bone-deep inability to put words—any words—on the page was new. And unwelcome.
“What’s the point of a day off if I can’t write more than a crappy sentence about the weather?” Maggie asked her dog.
Duchess placed her snout on Maggie’s leg, and Maggie absently handed the dog the other half of the chip she’d been nibbling on.
She glared at the blank screen. Grabbed another corn chip and nibbled the corner as she waited for her heroine to tell her all the ways in which she was devastated because Colin had asked Stacey to the prom instead of her.
Duchess’s snout returned to Maggie’s knee and Maggie glanced down, happy for the distraction. “No more chips, sweetie. You have kibble in your bowl.”
The dog’s brown eyes were mournful. Kibble sucks.
Maggie rubbed Duchess’s ear. “Okay fine, one more…but no salsa. Mostly because I forgot to buy any.”
She could have been having cheesy scrambled eggs for dinner, but she’d finished off her egg supply last night instead of the yummy leftovers she’d been counting on.
Leftovers that had been delivered straight to the Dumpster after a certain tall, dark-haired police captain had scared the crap out of her and made her drop everything.
Of course, losing last night’s dinner to the Dumpster wasn’t really what was bothering her.
You and me? That’s preposterous.
Maggie slumped back in her chair, annoyed that Anthony’s words kept circling around and around in her head.
“You know what’s annoying as heck?” she asked, running a finger down Duchess’s snout. “That a cop born and raised in Staten Island throws around words like preposterous. Like he’s freaking Sherlock Holmes or something.”
The next words in the captain’s vicious little put-down blindsided her, because she’d been trying all day to block it out.
Vin?…There is no way he’d be interested.
Ouch. Ouch.
Maggie blinked against the sudden sting of tears. It’s not like she even wanted to date Vincent Moretti. Or any Moretti.
But that disdain on Anthony’s face…the combination of shock and revulsion that his exalted family would ever lower themselves to the likes of her…
She couldn’t get his expression out of her head. It was as though he saw her. Not the Maggie she tried so hard to be; the smiling, sweet, ever-cheerful diner waitress. It was like he saw the Maggie Walker she’d been before she’d met Eddie—pathetic, timid, and weak.
Even worse, she feared Anthony Moretti could see her as she’d been while she was with Eddie—submissive and gullible, a mere shadow of a person.
Why else was he so disgusted with her simply for existing?
Maggie gave Duchess’s head one last pet and then forced her fingers to the keyboard, realizing that maybe she could get in her character’s head after all.
Jenny, her teenage heroine, was feeling rejected.
And Maggie knew a little something about that…
An hour later, Maggie had added twelve hundred words. “Not bad, Duchess. Not bad at all. Shall we head to the freezer? The writing muse is demanding cookie dough.”
Living alone could get lonely, but it had its benefits.
Say, like eating ice cream straight out of the carton with nobody to judge.
From her nightstand, Maggie’s phone chirped with a text message. She leaned against the counter, crossing her ankles as she eyed the device across the room and slurped a chunk of cookie dough off her spoon.
Ignoring the phone was tempting. These days, it was bound to be one of three people, and Gabby was the only one of the three she wanted to hear from.
The others were her father and brother. Her father wasn’t supposed to have access to his cell while in rehab, so if he was texting, it meant that he’d failed to see it through…again.
It was also likely to be her brother, whose texts tended to revolve around one topic: money.
As in, him needing money. From her.
And considering that she’d just talked to Gabby yesterday, it was unlikely that it was her friend calling again.
The phone had fallen silent.
Just that one text message, and the urge to ignore it was fierce, knowing that it would likely put her in a bad mood.
Once—just once—she wished her broken little family would need her for something other than money. Or better yet, to not need her at all. To contact her just to say freaking hi. Or I miss you.
Or heaven forbid, maybe an I love you, something she hadn’t heard since the semi-tolerable years of her marriage, save for Gabby’s ever casual love ya.
She glanced down at Duchess who was patiently waiting for the ice cream she wouldn’t get.
“We’re going to ignore the phone, baby,” she told her dog. Duchess tilted her head.
“No. No dairy. It gives you gas.”
Duchess tilted her head the other way, and Maggie scooped another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. “What’s that? You think I should check the phone?”
The dog lay on the ground, resting her snout on her front paws and looking mournful. Maggie pulled the spoon out of her mouth and pointed it at Duchess. “You’re so right, Your Grace. It could be an emergency, and then I’d forever regret not checking it.”
Maggie pushed away from the counter, moving across her tiny studio toward her
nightstand where she picked up the phone, bracing herself for Cory’s innocuous “Hey, Sis,” or her father’s “Bug, you around?”
But it wasn’t from Cory. Or her dad. Not Gabby either.
Maggie sat on the bed, still clenching her ice-cream shovel in one hand as she reread the text.
It’s Anthony. I realize contacting you via text is inappropriate given your connection to my case, but I can’t stop thinking about last night. My behavior was inexcusable, and I owe you an apology.
Maggie chewed her lip as she read it again. Then she held up her phone to the dog who was still staring longingly at the ice-cream container on the counter. “Hey, get over here. What do we think of this?”
Duchess didn’t even turn her head. Dogs had no appreciation for the ways in which technology had complicated modern relationships.
Not that she had a relationship—of any kind—with Captain Moretti. No, Anthony. He’d specifically used his name in the text.
She wanted to be annoyed at the message. In any other circumstance, she would have dismissed an apology via text as the coward’s way out.
But an apology in any form coming from this man…
Maggie flopped back on the pillow, wondering how to respond. If she should respond. She felt a bit like her teen characters, totally overanalyzing things that probably weren’t meant to be analyzed at all.
Her phone vibrated in her hand with another message, and Maggie hated the fact that her stomach flipped when she saw it was from him.
Yep, definitely as bad as her teen characters.
And in case you’re wondering, I got your number the old-fashioned way…from my brother. Not from abusing police resources.
Maggie rolled her eyes. As if she would ever think that he’d put his precious career at risk. She didn’t know the man well—or at all—but she was definitely getting the impression that Anthony Moretti was the badge first, the man second.
And yet, he was apologizing…
Stalling for time before she had to respond, she added the number to her contacts, hesitating over which name to go with, before settling on CAPTAIN, in all caps. Mainly because she figured it would annoy him. If her phone allowed italics, she totally would have added those too.
Duchess gave up hope on the ice cream and trotted over to the bed, jumping up and settling beside Maggie.
“Did you think of a response yet?”
The dog wagged her tail.
“Yeah, me neither,” Maggie muttered.
Annoyed with herself for overthinking it, she forced herself to send a polite acknowledgment of his text, without making a thing out of it. It’s not like the text held even a trace of emotion. And it wasn’t the least bit flirty.
Apology accepted, she texted back. And then, because cookie dough made her brave, she added Anthony to the end.
His response was immediate.
Why do I get the feeling there was a fair amount of sass in that response?
Maggie grinned, then grinned wider when he sent another text immediately to follow. How you’ve convinced my family you’re this mild-mannered, sweet creature is beyond me.
She bit her lip. You don’t think I’m sweet?
His response was slower this time. I think you’re complicated.
Stop, Captain. I might swoon.
Back to captain, are we?
Oh God. She was giggling now. Not that it stopped her from responding. Seems appropriate, considering you only ever call me Ms. Walker.
What do you want me to call you?
“Oh boy,” Maggie muttered, blowing out a long breath, alarmed to realize she was grinning like a fool. “What am I doing here, Duchess?”
The dog gave her a baleful look.
“I know, I know, I’m flirting with the heinous man,” Maggie said, flinging an arm over her eyes, resolving to put her phone aside before she could do anything stupid.
But instead, she texted back. I think you should call me Maggie.
Several minutes passed before his next response, and Maggie wondered if she’d scared him off. When her phone buzzed again, she sat up.
I probably shouldn’t.
Why not?
You’re an informant in my case.
She rolled her eyes. Trust me, I know. But I thought this was Anthony I was talking to…the man, not the cop.
I have a hard time separating the two sometimes. Maggie.
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. Strange how that simple use of her name did dangerous things to her emotional stability.
His last text wasn’t sexy. Or flirty. But it was revelatory. And somehow she sensed that he was confiding something important in her, even if he didn’t mean to. And knowing him, he probably hadn’t meant to.
Her response was slower. Careful. How about you be Captain Moretti when we need to talk about Eddie. And be Anthony the rest of the time?
She held her breath until his response came. Does right now count as “the rest of the time”?
Yes.
Then I need to tell you something.
Her dry mouth went drier. Ok.
Yesterday when I laughed at the idea of you and Vin together…
She winced at the memory.
…It’s because he’s not good enough for you.
Maggie’s breath whooshed out. That’s a fine thing to say about your brother.
His response was slower this time. I love my brother. But he’d be a horrible boyfriend. Plus there’s this thing with his partner.
Jill, Maggie replied, letting him know that she was following.
Yeah. They’re…Let’s just say I wouldn’t wish any other woman into that situation. Not until the two of them deal with each other.
“Deal with each other.” Nice.
She stroked Duchess’s belly as she waited for his response.
Jill’s not the only reason I didn’t like the idea of you and Vin together.
Maggie’s brows lifted. No? she asked, knowing she was playing with fire. Sexy fire.
No.
What’s the other reason?
You know damn well the other reason.
“Oh crappers,” she whispered to her dog, putting a hand to her fluttering belly. “To play coy, or not to play coy, Duchess? I’m bad at these kinds of games.”
In the end, she didn’t have to choose. Because a man like Anthony Moretti apparently didn’t play games. His next text said it all.
I didn’t want you to date Vin, because the very idea of another man’s hands on you, even my brother’s, made me jealous as hell.
Chapter Ten
You did something. I know you did something.”
Anthony gritted his teeth and let out a small grunt as he pushed through another bench press. Eight.
“You either showed her your wang, or didn’t show her your wang. And whichever choice you made was obviously the wrong one.”
He blocked out the voice of his grandmother and pushed through another. Nine.
“Big biceps won’t help you with that girl. Do they have exercises for personality? You should do those.”
“Bench presses aren’t for biceps, Nonna. They’re shoulders. Pecs.” This from Luca, who was sprawled on the couch with a beer.
“Pecs, huh? Maybe I should give the weights a shot. Then again my push-up bras do the trick just fine.”
Ten. Anth scooted down on the bench, grabbing a towel from the ground as he glared at his grandmother. “We talked about this. No reference to your lingerie. Ever.”
“He’s right,” Luc added, glancing over at them. “We did talk about it.”
“I remember,” she said. “But the way I remember it is you two boys doing a lot of yapping and me doing a lot of ignoring, because it’s my name on the lease of this place.”
Anth rubbed the towel over the back of his neck. Their grandmother had them there. Teresa Moretti had been living in this apartment longer than he’d been alive. She and Anthony’s grandfather had moved into the three-bedroom brownstone back in th
e 1950s, back before the Upper West Side had become one of the most desirable neighborhoods in Manhattan.
The beauty of rent control meant that she could still afford it, even after losing the salary of her cop husband, although nowadays Luc and Anth split the cost of rent between the two of them. Nonna was hardly around anyway, and no way was Anthony going to let his elderly grandmother pay for his room and board.
He did, however, let her cook for him whenever she got the urge, which thankfully, was often.
Nonna might be the only living Moretti without Italian blood running through her veins, but she liked to inform everybody—often—that she was Italian by marriage.
And since Anthony’s paternal great-grandmother had lived with them for the first months after the wedding, she’d taught Nonna the ins and outs of Italian cooking.
It was enough for Nonna to deem herself an expert, much to the chagrin of Anth’s mother who thought being born in Italy made her the expert. The two women managed to fight about everything from garlic to how to store basil, and had been known to argue about pasta cooking time down to the second.
Nonna put hands on her slim hips and scowled at him. “Don’t give me that sweaty, hungry look. I’m not feeding you.”
“Why’s that?” Anth asked. Nonna loved to feed her grandsons, and they all knew it.
“She’s mad at you,” Luca said from the couch.
“Yeah, I got that,” Anth grumbled. “Observant of you, though. You should be a cop.”
Luc gave him the finger without looking away from the game.
“Did you show her your wang?” Nonna asked again.
Anth stood up, rolling his shoulders as he stepped around the makeshift gym he and Luc had set up in the living room. “Okay fine, I’ll bite. Did I show who my wang? Also, that word is hereby banned.”
“Maggie,” Nonna said, with no small amount of impatience.
Anthony grabbed a clean towel and wiped down the equipment while he rather deliberately ignored his grandmother.
He’d actually known perfectly well who she’d been talking about. He’d figured it was only a matter of time until one of his family members laid into him about the fact that everybody’s favorite waitress hadn’t been at the diner this morning.
