Takes Two to Tackle

by Jeanette Murray

  “Nah,” she said and walked around the hood of the car to climb into the passenger seat. As she buckled up and stowed the big bag on the floor, she added, “But if you were my ‘boyfriend’ you should know it would be expected. Just saying.”

  “Is this you accepting?” He wrapped one hand around the back of her seat to back out. “Because we can’t be getting into our first fight as a couple already. Too soon.”

  “This is me—”

  “You know what? Let’s get through shopping first. Then we’ll talk. Oh,” he said, grinning as he backed into the street and put the car into forward gear, “and you could make me dinner. Then I’ll know if you’re worth keeping around.”

  She slugged him once in the shoulder with her fist, then crossed her arms under her breasts and stared straight ahead with a pissy look on her face.

  He loved it.

  ***

  After twenty minutes in the store, Mags now knew what mothers felt like when they had to drag a toddler to do the shopping. How Stephen had ever been allowed to food shop for himself was a mystery. The man had the taste of a five-year-old.

  “This is horrible,” Mags said, tossing his snack cake box back onto the shelf. “You want to add weight the right way. That’s not the right way.”

  “I don’t have my meal plan from the nutritionist yet.” He reached for it again, and she batted his hand away. “Come on.”

  “Don’t make me turn this cart around.” She pushed on, and he followed, pouting for show. “You want to do it right. I know you do. It’s important to you, isn’t it?”

  His eyes shifted to hers, but he glanced away before nodding silently. Sore spot.

  Well, she’d always been a fan of poking at a sore spot. To her way of thinking, the added zing of pain was a little additional reminder of why the sore spot existed, and why you didn’t want to repeat the experience.

  “That means you need to put twice as much effort into doing it the right way this time. Otherwise, what was the point of getting . . .” She glanced around, saw they were alone in the aisle, and dropped her voice just a bit. ”. . . getting cleaned up if you let a few cookies and snack cakes derail you?”

  He grumbled but didn’t reach for anything else unhealthy. He did, however, put up a fight when she grabbed kale. “That’s not real food. That’s ocean food.”

  “You’re thinking of kelp, which is seaweed. This is kale, a health- and nutrient-rich leafy green. You can do a lot with it.” He gave her a disbelieving look. Frankly, as she put it in the cart with resolute faith, she was doubtful herself. She’d much rather go back and grab two boxes of those snack cakes herself. Healthy eating was so not her thing. Oh, sure, she pinned healthy food on Pinterest . . . because they always managed to make it look appealing in the photos.

  It never was, when she made it. She was the walking example of a Pinterest Fail in the kitchen.

  But she at least knew the basics of clean eating. And if she wanted to be an asset to Stephen, not a hindrance, she’d keep her snack cakes out of the picture and shove as much green stuff down his throat as he could manage.

  They’d call him Popeye before she was through with him.

  As they crossed into the dairy, she grabbed some low-fat yogurt, then started to see which kind of milk they had. She was used to shopping at the discount store, where there were more dented cans than normal-shaped ones, and the milk selection consisted of Good or Already Went Bad. “Stephen, what kind of milk do you like?”

  “Hmm?”

  She waved at the eight—eight?—refrigerated cases of milk offerings. “Regular, organic, soy, almond, whole, skim, two percent . . . God, who needs this many options? It’s milk. Pour and drink.”

  “Hmm.”

  Mags turned, ready to pinch his upper arm for not listening, when she noticed his gaze was fixed the opposite direction.

  In the direction of the beer.

  Did she mention it? Did she avoid it? Did she give him two pinches for even thinking about it, like shock therapy?

  She debated a moment, watching him. He wasn’t leaning forward as if he meant to make a break for it; he wasn’t salivating. Nothing screamed immediate danger. So she did what came to mind first: reached for his hand, laced her fingers through his, and pulled gently until he was facing the milk. “I’m a one percent girl myself. Though organic sounds like it might be a good investment. You’re paying, anyway. You okay with that?”

  “One percent . . . organic . . .” He followed her, looking at the cases of milk as if looking through the wardrobe to Narnia. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want.”

  “Dangerous sentiment to a woman in the grocery store. Don’t say that to me when we hit the ice cream section or I’m a goner.”

  “Chocolate.”

  She blinked. “Chocolate ice cream?”

  “Chocolate milk.” He walked to the last refrigerated case—still holding her hand, pulling her with him—and grabbed a half gallon of chocolate milk. “Good recovery drink after lifting.” When she raised a brow, he lifted a shoulder. “It’s a thing. I’ll show you articles when we get home.”

  She had no reason not to trust him. “Learned something new. Let’s add a gallon of white and call it done.” She waited for him to add it to the cart, then slowly slid her hand out of his to grip the cart handle again. And if her hand tingled a little, she wrote it off as missing the warmth. “How do you like your eggs?”

  “Edible.”

  “My specialty.”

  Chapter Four

  He’d survived. He now had a refrigerator full of leafy green shit that looked like death and probably tasted worse, and exactly zero snack cakes in his pantry. But he’d survived the trip through the supermarket without passing out or running through the beer aisle, sweeping all the taunting bottles off the shelves in a manic rage, and watching them crash.

  Or, you know, buying the beer and coming home like a normal human.

  That might have been the most destructive choice of the three.

  Mags bumped his hip as they stared into the now-stocked refrigerator. “What are we eating for dinner?”

  “I dunno, you bought all that stuff. What do we even make with some of it?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “You made me buy all this health food and you don’t even know what to do with it?”

  “Kale is a super food. I heard it somewhere . . . maybe on E!”

  Stephen groaned. “We’re gonna starve. We just bought two hundred dollars’ worth of food and we’re going to starve. We should’ve gotten snack cakes.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” She whipped her cell phone out and typed for a moment, then scrolled. “Yep, yep, yep, yep . . .” Nodding, she shut it off and stuffed it back in her pocket. “We’re screwed.”

  He stared again at the fridge, bursting with green vegetables and something orangish-reddish that was definitely not a fruit. No frozen pizza in sight. Super.

  “I’m fine, I’m just not in the mood to cook it tonight. Let’s try spaghetti.”

  He sat at the counter and watched her putter around the kitchen, amused at her reluctance to touch any of the actual health food they’d already bought. He knew she constantly left fruit in his bowls, and simple vegetables—carrots, broccoli, that sort of thing—in his fridge. Apparently the thought of doing anything more than chopping and eating was out of her range.

  But he wasn’t going to argue against a meal he didn’t have to cook. And ten minutes later, they were sitting on the couch, watching a movie she’d made him choose. Which meant it had action, curse words, and more action, some blood, and then a few more action scenes to round it out.

  Stephen settled the bowl in his lap, the plate with garlic bread beside him, and groaned. “I want something besides water. Did we get anything besides water?”

  “You paid for it; how do you not know what you got?” She stood, walking to the kitchen and coming back again. And handed him, over his shoulder, a can.

  He almo
st felt the sweat start to form on his upper lip again before he checked what was in his hand. “Diet Pepsi? This is chick liquid.”

  “No calories, full flavor. Go to town, big guy.” She dug in, nudging him with her knee when he just stared. “If you want something else, tell me next time. It’s Diet Pepsi or water.”

  “Why did I buy Diet Pepsi when I don’t drink it?”

  At that, Mags grinned. “Thanks!”

  “Figures.” He took a cautious sip, felt the aspartame explode behind his eyeballs, and set it aside. “Yeah, that’s not gonna work.”

  “When your nutritionist gives you more information, I can work with it.” She ate a moment, watching the buildup of the supposed plot of the movie . . . before most of the action. “Were you worried you were going to cave?”

  “What made you think that?”

  “The fact that you basically shoved me into your car like a hostage victim and forced me to come grocery shopping with you. Not to mention the way you struggled with what kind of milk to buy.” She used her fork to point at him. “I’m pretty sure that’s not because you forgot if you liked one or two percent better.”

  How much to tell her? If she was sticking with him, she needed to know everything. When he was weakest, why, how . . . to anticipate his potential slipups in the future. “I just can’t remember the last time I went to the grocery store—or almost any store—and didn’t come home with a six-pack.”

  She nodded and continued eating, giving him the chance to elaborate if he wanted it.

  He didn’t. So he changed the subject. “You said you could work with that.”

  Mags winced at the first car wreck on-screen and glanced at him. “What?”

  “You said you could work with it, when the nutritionist gives me more information. Does that mean you’re taking the job?”

  She sucked in a noodle—something that should have been disgusting but was actually sort of cute, in a weird way—and set her bowl down on the coffee table to turn and face him. “I still have to give my two-week notice to my boss. Can you wait until then?”

  “No,” he answered honestly. Who knew what mischief he could get into in two weeks? “Maybe you could give them notice now, but move in right away. Just drop me as a client from the list ASAP so there’s no conflict?”

  She screwed her face up, running her hands over the knees of her jeans. “Not ideal, but if you really need me to start, then—”

  “I do.” She’d said yes; he wasn’t about to lose her now. “I really do. In fact, you could start tonight. Now. You can sleep here tonight.”

  She laughed, picking up her bowl again. “First off, no. You’ll be fine for tonight. You’ve been fed, and you have extra food here if you need it. There’s no need to leave the house. You can call me if you want a pep talk. But I’m going to get back to my place tonight and sleep. Second, you’ll have to help me move boxes. And last . . .” She sighed and looked at him from the side of her eyes. “You have to promise not to kick me right back out when the season is over. I can’t guarantee I can find another apartment that cheap that fast. I’ll pay you rent or something, but—”

  “No rent.” The thought made him want to scowl. “I’m not taking my partner and throwing her out the second she’s done. Hell no. We’ll work it out. But I’m not dumping you out on the street the second our bargain is over.”

  That seemed to satisfy whatever curiosity she had, because she nodded once, then finished her meal and settled into the corner of the couch to watch the movie.

  She winced a lot, then covered her eyes and moaned a bit more. But that worked out in his favor, because it gave him plenty of time to study her.

  She wasn’t beautiful. He thought of Cassie as girl-next-door beautiful. His best friend was a lucky son of a bitch. But Mags was comfortable and sweet. Her big blue eyes often carried a hint of sweetness and sparkle. Her dark hair could probably reach her butt, if she didn’t always have it pulled back in a ponytail or bun. Her face wasn’t traditionally what someone might say was attractive, but all the features, plus her happy, go-get-’em attitude combined made an appealing package. She let every vibrant, energetic, colorful moment show in her eyes.

  He could borrow a little bit of that color in the coming months. Luckily, he’d locked her down. She was his now.

  ***

  Mags put a book in a box and stood to answer the knock at her door. She knew who it was. Mrs. McGovern, her landlady for the past two years, was coming over as promised. Mags had wanted to give her the moving-out news in person, and though she would have gladly met at the big house, Mrs. M loved coming to the small attic above the garage. She said it felt cozier, more suited to a personal chat.

  “Hey, Mrs. M. Thanks for coming.” She stepped aside and let the woman with fire-engine red hair—thank you, weekly hair appointments—and the scent of powder step through. Her landlady was at least eighty, probably older, with a frail build and a tough attitude.

  “What’s this?” Walking among the boxes, Mrs. M trailed a hand over a stack of her clothes, still on the hanger, draped over the arm of the couch. “Garage sale? I could have you come over and price some of my items as well.”

  “No, Mrs. M, not a garage sale.” She took a deep breath, picked up a roll of packing tape, then set it down again. “I’ve got to give my notice. I’m moving out.”

  Mrs. M paused by a pile of her toiletries, hanging out on the floor. “Is there something wrong with the apartment?”

  Guilt vised her heart. “No, oh, no, definitely not.” She rushed over and gave the woman a hug. The woman who had become something of a pseudo-great-aunt to her. She’d given Mags a place to stay when she had been living in her car, cleaning houses, and showering at the gym, because paying for a gym membership was cheaper than rent. And she would never forget that. “I love the apartment. It’s just . . .” Time to test it out, Margaret. Be a big girl. “I’m moving in with my boyfriend.”

  Mrs. M blinked at that, clearly taken aback. “A boyfriend? When did this happen, dear?” She glanced around for a place to sit, and Mags hurried to clear off a cushion on the love seat. Her pots and pans could sit on the floor. Her landlady couldn’t. “Is this relationship new?”

  And here was the problem becoming friends with your landlady. Mags went back to taping up the book box, knowing Mrs. M wouldn’t be offended by the multitasking. “No, it’s . . . well, yes, sort of. I’ve known him for a few years now.” There, not a lie. “But things have just moved so fast.” Also true. “And I’m taking some time off from the agency. Just giving myself a break.”

  “Well.” Mrs. M looked around the apartment. The furniture had come with the place, fussier than Mags would have chosen for herself, but free, so who could argue? “I suppose I can just keep the place as a guest house, for when my grandchildren visit. They like their space. That was the intention, anyway. Privacy makes having house guests so much more enjoyable, you know.”

  Mags smiled. “Or you could rent it out again. I’m sure there are plenty of people who would love to rent this place.”

  “None of them are you. I trusted you with my home, so I trusted you with my apartment. I don’t need the money. I’ll just let it sit for a while.” Mrs. M’s eyes were clear, but her voice wavered. “I want you to know, you are welcome to come back. If things don’t work out, you can come back. Every girl should have a safety net.”

  If she hadn’t been sitting, Margaret would have rushed over to give the woman another hug. Unconditional support and affection . . . she’d been missing it in her life before Mrs. McGovern had come into it.

  “Now, the real question.” Standing and surveying the small studio again, Mrs. M added, “When you’re gone, who will clean my house?”

  ***

  Stephen hustled up the stairs and started to knock on the door Mags had described when she’d texted him earlier requesting help with boxes.

  Maybe request was a bit of a stretch. More like demand.

  Get over here and help
me move this crap, Harrison. Consider it a workout.

  He grinned at the bossiness she’d managed to achieve without even using a single emoji. But when he went to knock on the door to the above-garage apartment, he realized it was already open. And there were voices. She had company.

  “When you’re gone, who will clean my house?”

  The voice was thin, and a bit raspy. He imagined this was the landlady Mags had told him of.

  “I will, Mrs. M. You’ve done so much for me.” Margaret’s voice was firm, and he pitied anyone who went up against that stubbornness.

  “But, dear, if you aren’t working for the agency—”

  “I’ll come back to clean. I know it’s hard for you to find people to let into your house. I’ll keep coming over.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to—”

  “I’ve got to come back over every so often anyway. I’ll miss you, Mrs. M.” He heard the honesty there, and knew she meant it. Whatever Margaret Logan was, she wasn’t a liar.

  Except for the part about being his fake girlfriend . . . but that was his fault.

  “Well, dear, I have to say I’m a little surprised by this sudden move. You’re such a solid, sensible girl. Is moving in with a man right after you start dating really the only way to keep his attention?”

  Not wanting to make her explain further, he decided to knock and announce his presence. He stomped a few times on the stairs, as if just landing there, and knocked on the open door. “Knock, knock. You here, Mags?”

  “Stephen.” A little breathless, she opened the door the rest of the way. Her hair was partly covered by a wide, stretchy headband with the rest in a messy bun, she wore tight yoga pants, a simple tank, and bare feet with bright purple toenails. “You’re earlier than I expected. Not everything’s boxed.”

  He stepped on when she motioned him inside, then paused and held out a hand to the elderly woman with bright red hair standing with grace in the middle of the item-scattered living room like a candle flame in a hurricane. “Hi, you must be Mrs. McGovern. Margaret’s talked about you. I’m Stephen.”