Takes Two to Tackle

by Jeanette Murray

  “I shouldn’t be talking about this with you.” She started to stand, then froze when he held up a hand.

  “I’m not getting you in trouble. Not tattling to your supervisor about what you make or anything. I just . . . You’re good. You’re damn good. It’s why one of my teammates recommended you to me, and why I recommend you to everyone else who asks. And I hate the thought that you might not be compensated for that.”

  “It’s just the way it works.” She sighed and crossed her arms, looking more than a little annoyed by the topic. “The agency holds the liability, and is the one who, more often than not, gets the referrals for jobs, and so I’m paying a metaphorical price for that. I could go into business for myself, but . . .” Her eyes strayed, and she looked almost longing. But then she shrugged again. “Not yet.”

  Not yet. He had a feeling, based on her car situation, and the fact that she wasn’t denying she got the short end of the stick when it came to pay, money was a big obstacle.

  After a moment, she smiled politely. “Anything else?”

  A plan formed in his mind . . . a plan that was crazy. Insane, actually, but . . .

  “One more question. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Chapter Three

  Of all the men in the world she expected to get hit on by today, Margaret would have put NFL superstar at about the lowest possible ranking it could go.

  Not that the poor guy looked like a superstar now. With his cheeks a bit too prominent, his eyes darkened by circles, and his mouth set in a grim line—when she knew his tendency was to laugh more than anything—he resembled a guy truly down on his luck. Someone he wasn’t.

  “I . . . uh . . .” How did she say I’ve had a bit of a man dry spell lately without sounding like she was encouraging him? Dating clients was a surefire way to get, well, fired.

  “Because if you do, this won’t work.” He settled back deeper in his recliner—his favorite seat, she knew, as it was basically molded to the contours of his body—and ran a hand down his face. “I’m sorry. This was a stupid idea. Ignore me. You can go whenever you want.”

  She had nowhere to be. As usual. So she waited. Even if he really was going to ask her out—she’d say no, given the policy at the agency about dating clients—she wanted to finish it quickly and push it to the side. Didn’t want this weird vibe hanging over them every time she came to clean.

  “Just ask,” she said quietly.

  “I need a sober partner.”

  His voice was a bit convoluted by his hand, but she thought she’d heard that right. “A sober partner . . . like an accountability partner?”

  “Yes. That. I need that.” He glanced at her. “Please don’t say anything to anyone else about this.”

  “Of course not,” she said automatically. She didn’t survive cleaning houses for the NFL elite by being a big gossip. “But Stephen, why me? You barely know me.”

  “I like what I know.”

  That forced a flush of pleasure through her. Not romantic, of course. But she had pride in her work. “I shouldn’t be considering this.”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  “It’s probably a conflict of interest in my agency contract,” she went on, though he hadn’t pushed.

  “Maybe.”

  Mags caught her hands fidgeting in her lap, and she forced them to calm. “I don’t know anything about being accountable for a recovering alcoholic.”

  “I’d rather we fumble through it together than deal with a life coach the team hires and reports back to them every little mistake I make.”

  “Oh, that sounds awful,” she said, then quickly zipped her lip. Not helping. But by the way he smiled, she knew he agreed. “I can’t lose my job.”

  He sat forward, elbows propped on his thighs, hands clasped loosely together. She expected those hands to be large, like big slices of ham or something. But they shocked her with their narrowness. His fingers were long, but not beefy. His wrists were lightly covered with hair, and a simple stopwatch wrapped around one. He cleared his throat, and she glanced up, finding amusement in his eyes. “Is my watch interesting?”

  “Yes. I mean no.” What is your problem, Margaret? “I was just noticing it, that’s all.”

  He twisted his wrist to give it a glance himself. “It’s one I bought back in high school with one of my first paychecks. I was constantly running late to practice, so my coach told me to either get a watch or get off the team.” He grinned a little, as if taken back through time to that moment and finding his younger self amusing. “I didn’t know how to tell him it wasn’t the lack of a watch that kept me late, but the fact that I had to finish my paper route first every morning, and some days they had us start later than others. I was afraid if I told him the truth, he’d make me give up the paper route . . . and I couldn’t afford to do that. We couldn’t afford that,” he added. “So I looked for the cheapest watch I could buy, found this, and wore it every day so Coach knew I was serious.”

  “And the paper route? How did you avoid being late again?”

  “I spent an entire weekend biking around the route as many different ways as I could think of, finding ways to shave up a few minutes here and there. It was tight, but I managed to get back to practice on time daily after that. And I didn’t have to quit my job, which made life at home easier for my mom.”

  “You’re a good guy,” she said on impulse, and watched his own flush creep up his neck. “Your friends can’t be your partners? Surely you’d be more comfortable with one of them.”

  “My friends are teammates, and the coach doesn’t want them distracted. If I go down, they only want me self-destructing. Not dragging others with me.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “That’s football.”

  She thought for a moment. “I’d be fired. I can’t afford to lose my job.” After a moment, she added, “Not all of us get paid in million-dollar advances.”

  She breathed easily when she saw he took it as the joke she’d intended. “Well, you should, for putting up with us. I saw how trashed McMillion’s place was after that one party. I don’t even want to know what it took to scrub that place down.”

  Several bottles of bleach and more hours than the agency let me bill, she thought, but simply smiled calmly.

  “And that right there,” he said, wagging a finger, “is why you’re perfect. You’ve seen some shit, we both know it. But you keep it to yourself. You speak your mind; you’re not going to let me get away with anything.” She breathed out, and maybe he took that as her saying no. So he kept going. “I’ll pay you.”

  Much as she hated to admit it, her ears perked up at that. “Pay . . . for what?”

  “Room and board, first off. You’d have to move in here. I can’t be left alone. Shouldn’t be, anyway,” he added with a dark glance at the fridge. “You’d need to either grocery shop or go with me. Maybe help me with cooking the meals the nutritionist is going to send me. And then basically be around for a good, swift kick in the ass when I need it.”

  “Which will be often,” she said before thinking, relieved when he grinned.

  “Hell yeah.”

  “And you’ll, what, match my salary or something?”

  “Double,” he said without hesitation. “Plus a little extra. Since you might lose some clients because of the time off, I’d better make it worth your while.”

  Double. She sucked in a breath, did some quick mental calculations, then cursed herself for not actually being good with mental math. It would go a long way toward being financially ready to leap into her own cleaning service. One where she was the boss, hired the employees, and only scrubbed her own house and the houses of the most select clients. Not just any random one-off.

  But . . . “What happens when you’re done with me?” His eyebrow winged up at that. “You know, because you won’t need me forever. So then what?”

  “Then you do whatever you want. Go back to cleaning, or get another job, anything like that.” He held his hands up. �
��It’s up to you.”

  She nodded slowly. It was up to her. The freedom this additional money provided her really could be the key to what she wanted.

  “Think about it. You don’t need to decide today. End of the week is fine.”

  Thank God. She stood, then smiled when he held out his hand and expected to be pulled out of the recliner. He nearly doubled her body weight, and he wanted help up. Exasperating man. “I’ll let you know soon.”

  “Good. Oh, one more thing,” he said as she stooped to get the cleaning supplies. “You’d have to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

  ***

  Mags dropped the bucket of cleaning junk, and her mouth popped open. The bucket tipped over and spilled out several bottles of supplies, and she quickly bent down to scoop them back up. He noticed her hand shaking just a little as she reached for the lemon-scented furniture polish.

  This, Stephen decided, was the most fun he’d had in weeks.

  “That seems like overkill.” Her voice was carefully modulated as she stuffed the last of the supplies back in the caddy, but the fact that she’d yet to look him back in the eye told him she wasn’t as cool as she was playing.

  “I don’t see why we need to go that far. I’ve agreed to think about it, and I will. But if you don’t want to tell people I’m a sobriety accountability partner, can’t you just say I am live-in help? Like, housekeeper/personal shopper/cook thing?” She glanced up, then away again.

  “I already mentioned to Coach I had a girlfriend. Since I don’t . . .” He caught her wrist and tugged gently. She stepped closer, but kept a good distance apart still. Nothing but a friendly bubble. “Hey. If it honestly bothers you to think about dating me, even in a fake way—”

  “That’s not it!” she said with a shocked face. “It’s not you. It’s just a weird concept, is all.” She glanced down, and he realized he was still holding on to her wrist. He let go, and she bent to pick up her cleaning caddy. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”

  Stephen followed her to the door, opening it for her, and waiting until she crossed by him.

  She paused on the front step, calling over her shoulder, “It has to be as a girlfriend?”

  He nodded. “Afraid so. I’ve already made the bed, and now I have to sleep in it.”

  She mumbled something, but he wasn’t sure what. That made him grin. Sassy pants. She’d keep him on his toes for sure. But before he forgot . . .

  “Hey,” he yelled as she stuffed her bucket in the backseat. “Where’d you put my extra bedsheets?”

  “In the linen closet, like a civilized person. Bottom shelf,” she yelled back, getting in the car and backing down his driveway without a good-bye.

  Yup, she would definitely keep him on his toes. That could be nothing but a good thing.

  ***

  She paced.

  She sat.

  She ate.

  She paced some more.

  And she pretend-online-shopped.

  Which meant she flew through every store she’d ever dreamed of buying items from, added them all to her cart as if she were a billionaire, and then took one more sighing glance at the items all gathered together like a hoarded collection of goodies before deleting the cart and returning to the land of sanity.

  Healthy stuff, really.

  A simple, factual pro-con list might be better. That would be one way to ensure she was being logical. She looked around the above-garage apartment and found a pencil and a pad of paper that hadn’t quite seen its last days. On its well-used pages, she’d scribbled in her minimal downtime ideas of her own cleaning business. One that catered only to the elite, with a reputation for discretion. It had been a pipe dream, she thought. Maybe she could switch it from pipe dream to attainable goal. Flipping the page over, she started her list on the back.

  Pro . . . the money. Maybe it was mercenary—no, it was mercenary—but at least she could be honest. The money would be what she needed to have a good, healthy nest egg before jumping ship on her current job, and for start-up capital on her new job. She was determined to do it without any business loans. Cash only. But she’d have to have substantial cash to do it.

  Con . . . she’d have to quit her current job to do it. Potentially losing the elite business she’d already garnered.

  Pro . . . Stephen would probably be very helpful when they “broke up” and she started her business back up. Odds were, he’d hire her again. The other clients she had to drop might as well.

  Con . . . or they might not. Maybe they’d see that as flighty and untrustworthy.

  Pro . . . it could be fun. She didn’t have enough fun in her life right now. God knew, a month or two of living with only one house to clean instead of fifty would be an amazing change.

  Con . . . it could be too much fun. Going back to work, starting over from scratch . . . would it be harder after having a few months of rest?

  Pro . . . she’d be with Stephen, who was a good guy, and would treat her well.

  Con . . . she’d be with Stephen, who she struggled against a crush on before. Now that he was sober? It was a different feeling entirely. And she wasn’t sure the months of living with him, even platonically, would help her move on and give up on that dumb fantasy. Plus, the whole girlfriend thing? Not helping, either.

  But if she didn’t do it, then what? He would have to use one of the life coaches from the Bobcats organization. And when he’d mentioned that, the look in his eyes had made her want to drink. She wasn’t sure how long he’d last that way.

  In the end, the decision was made before she’d even started her list. She knew, without hesitation, she would do it. But the list made her feel like at least she was trying to be thoughtful about it.

  Mags glanced around the simple one-bedroom apartment she rented, and realized she might miss it. Maybe she could sign a lease extension so she would have something to come back to after this. Pay a deposit or something? She’d have to talk to her landlady, Mrs. McGovern, about that. Since the woman was wealthy on her own, and merely liked the idea that there was someone else living on the property, and knew Mags took good care of the place, she might be willing.

  Funny, planning her breakup contingencies before she even said yes to the relationship.

  The clock over the stove said it was barely nine at night. Stephen had proposed the beginning of their arrangement less than four hours ago. She’d asked for a week.

  Was it too eager-looking to head over there now and agree? Should she honestly give him a full week to simmer, to possibly find someone else to do the job instead?

  The thought of losing the chance for her future business gripped her gut in an icy fist. No. Definitely not. Ripping the paper from the notebook, she stuffed it in her overused tote as a sort of talisman in case she chickened out, then grabbed her keys and ran to the door.

  ***

  Sweat coated Stephen’s upper lip, his muscles quivered, and his entire body fought against the desire to grab what he wanted. To take hold of the car keys, drive to the grocery store, and get a damn six-pack of beer.

  One six-pack. For a guy his size. No big deal.

  Destructive thoughts, Harrison. You know the second you walk in that store, you’re toast. Don’t do it.

  But he had no food. Or, more specifically, no food he knew how to actually cook. He could get fast food, maybe, but that wasn’t going to help him bulk up the healthy way. He’d just end up fat again.

  He pictured his life six months earlier. Struggling with stairs, struggling to breathe lying down, constantly feeling out of shape despite the physical demands of his job . . .

  No. No way.

  So back to facing the grocery store without a customary run through the beer and liquor aisle. Could he do it?

  This was the point in the program, he knew, when he was supposed to pick up his cell phone and call his sponsor. But the problem was, his sponsor was still a stranger to him. He could call Josiah or Trey. Hell, almost anyone from the team would probably co
me over and bring some dinner. Even Cassie. He could definitely call Cassie . . .

  He nearly wept with relief when the doorbell rang. Maybe a pizza was magically being delivered. He didn’t even care that he hadn’t ordered one. He’d tip the guy five times the pie’s worth just to keep from leaving and having to make the choice. Salvation in a cardboard box.

  When he opened the door, he was shocked to see not a pizza guy, but one Margaret Logan with a giant purse clutched to her side and a determined look on her face.

  “Tell me you have food in that thing,” he said quickly.

  Her eyebrows rose up. “Uh . . . no.” She opened the bag, as if not sure, then shook her head. “Sorry . . . do you need food? I left you with groceries the other day.”

  “Yes, I need food. Yes, you did, and I already ate everything that looked appetizing. Yes, I need to get out of the house and get some food. And you’re coming with me.” He grabbed her wrist, yanked her into the house, and closed the door behind her. Grabbing his keys from the bowl, he pulled and walked until they reached the garage, where his SUV was parked. God, he’d missed driving. It was one of the few things he’d truly missed—other than the obvious—while in rehab. Even sober, after having earned the chance to go out on “field trips” with the group, a van drove them everywhere.

  “That’s . . . a tank. Not a car. Do you realize there’s a tank in your garage?” she asked, standing next to him. He ignored her and pressed the button for the garage door to go up. “Seriously, who needs a car this big?”

  Stephen had, fifty pounds ago. Anything smaller than a full-sized SUV or large pickup had made him feel like an entire family of clowns being crowbarred out of a clown car. Even now, he was tall enough a regular car was a squeeze. But pack on fifty pounds and it became ugly.

  “Luckily you parked on the other side, so you don’t have to move your car. Get in.”

  “A gentleman would hold my door open,” she said in a snooty voice he’d never heard her use before. He paused, hand on his own door handle.

  “Do you want me to?”