Takes Two to Tackle

by Jeanette Murray

The older woman surveyed him for a moment, ignoring his hand. Then she nodded at Mags. “I understand now. You’ll have your hands full with this one, won’t you?”

  Stephen blinked, then let his hand fall to his side. “Uh, okay. What all are we taking today?”

  “Everything not furniture-related. The furniture all stays. So clothes and other personal items. Let me pack the kitchen, though, as the dishes are a mix of hers and mine.”

  “You can take the dishes, sweetheart,” the landlady said. But Mags just shook her head, leaned over, and kissed the woman’s papery cheek.

  “We’ve got it. But thank you.”

  After Mags let her landlady out and watched her walk down the stairs and make it across the short walkway to her own back door, she closed her front door and leaned against it. “I didn’t realize how hard this was going to be.”

  “What?” Stephen glanced around, noting the lack of boxes and plethora of trash bags.

  “Lying to people I like. Which I can basically count on one hand, and Mrs. M was a big one.” She pushed a hand up and over her face, running it over the headband until she fussed with her bird’s nest of hair. “Keeping you in line, fine. Living in your guest room, no big deal. But lying, I hate.”

  “I’m sorry.” He took a chance—they were supposed to be lovers, after all—and reached for her. She went willingly into his arms for a hug. And it struck him . . . this was the most human contact he’d had in months, maybe close to a year. Hand shakes and fist bumps and side-arm guy hugs were fine, and served their purpose. But this body-to-body molding, breathing against each other, twining-limbs contact felt good. Damn good.

  Was it good because he’d missed it? Or because it was Mags?

  Stepping back, he cleared his throat. “I don’t see a lot of boxes.” Or stuff, for that matter.

  “I’ve got trash bags. No sense in buying boxes for this.” She sat back down, cross-legged, on the floor to begin tossing makeup into a plastic grocery sack. “If you want to help, you could carry down a load of my clothes and lay them in your backseat. They’re too bulky for me to.”

  He waited another moment, then bent down and pressed a kiss to her head. “Thank you.”

  “You’re paying me,” she reminded him as she continued her toss-and-dump method of packing. “There’s no need to thank me.”

  “Yeah, there is.” He took a load of clothing in his arms, then headed for the door. When he glanced back, he found her watching him, but for once, couldn’t make out the look on her face.

  ***

  Stephen helped her carry the things she wanted into the guest room upstairs, and left the rest down below. She was adamant about not filling up the guest bedroom with “crap”—though it was her crap, so what did he care?—and just asked for a single shelf in the garage to store the rest. It felt impersonal and very temporary. He didn’t like it.

  But he also hated that she didn’t want to spend money for a box for her things she planned to put in the garage. First thing in the morning, he was finding an empty plastic tote or two and having her pack anything she wasn’t ready for in there. No arguments.

  From the doorway of the guest room, he watched her put things away, meticulous and precise on the locations. As much of a whirling dervish she’d been as she packed, she was the total opposite unpacking.

  “I have to call my mom tonight,” he said without thinking. She turned and gave him a raised-brow look. “To tell them we’re dating, before they hear it from some random blog. My little sisters are blog and social media junkies. You want in on that?”

  “Oh, boy, can I? Lying to my landlady wasn’t enough fun. I’d like to add deceiving my fake potential-mother-in-law to the mix.” She shook her head, and wouldn’t look at him.

  “Mags.” He walked in, gripped her shoulders, and turned her around. “If you can’t do this, we’ll change the arrangement. I’ll hire a life coach. Or I’ll tell the coach where to shove it.” Her eyes grew wide, like china-blue saucers, and he swept his thumbs over her cheekbones. “I hate upsetting you like this. You’ve been a good friend to me. I don’t want to ruin it and scare you off.”

  She blinked, opened her mouth, then closed it again like a guppy.

  “Or we can just stand here all night until you say you’re fine,” he added, joking and squeezing her upper arms a bit to break whatever trance she’d fallen into. “Mags?”

  “Sorry, yeah.” She shook her head, like removing the foggy brain. “I’m doing the best I can. I’m just not great at this deception thing.”

  “I appreciate what you’re doing, in case I didn’t mention that before.”

  “You did.” She poked him in the stomach, hard enough that he took a step back. “But I’m still getting paid, so don’t think a few apologies and sweet words will get you out of writing a check.”

  Her words were spoken lightly, and there was amusement in her eyes. But it still cut, just a little, that she took his whole-hearted thanks and reduced it to the cash incentive.

  Of course she did. You offered to pay her. It’s the only reason she took the gig in the first place, dumbass.

  “I’ll let you keep unpacking.” He headed for the bedroom door, then grinned over his shoulder. “And where, exactly, are my meds again?”

  “They’re in the far right kitchen cabinet. The one that never had any dishes. You should keep that stuff up higher,” she said in a lecturing tone. “In case there are ever kids around.”

  Right. Kids. Totally his scene. He rolled his eyes and left her to her unpacking.

  Chapter Five

  Mags had been cleaning Stephen’s six-bedroom, five-bathroom minimansion for over two years. But despite knowing the baseboards and toilet bowls intimately, she realized that “moving in” had her discovering new little areas she hadn’t noticed before.

  Had she really noticed that almost all the photos in his home were of his mother and sisters? Almost none of him, or if he was in them, he was in a group. Several of him and his teammates—mostly out of uniform—and a few framed photos, signed, by football legends of seasons past. But unlike some of the other Bobcat houses she cleaned, there weren’t many photos of him in his football gear, or any memorabilia or perfectly matted and hung articles of his successes on the gridiron.

  There also wasn’t much art, for art’s sake. She could get that. Picking pieces that worked in a space could be difficult, especially if you were picky. She’d mentally collected so many items over the years, prints of landscapes or other art that she knew she would want. But she’d yet to have somewhere to really hang it. Or the money to buy it.

  Maybe he just wasn’t as interested. Couldn’t blame him. Not everyone got into having something up just to have something up. It meant the items he did choose to hang—those family photos and friend snapshots—meant all the more to him. And it was sweet.

  She followed the sound of Stephen’s voice, and knew he was on the phone with his mother and sisters. No mention of a dad in any conversations . . . Was he gone? Passed away, or absent? Maybe he would tell her sometime.

  She wandered into the kitchen and decided she’d get a snack, maybe sit beside him while he gave his family the rundown of his new “girlfriend.” Be there for moral support as he deceived people who clearly meant a great deal to him. He sat at the counter, back turned to her. He spoke, but his arms were in front of him, no phone to his ear. So he was on speakerphone, then. Trying to be quiet, she went to the fridge and grabbed a yogurt, then reached around him for a spoon in the island drawer.

  “Is that her?” a high-pitched, feminine voice squealed.

  Mags dropped the spoon, the sound clattering on the tile below. The yogurt nearly met the same fate—with a splat, likely, not a clang—but Stephen reached over to grab it. When she peered over his shoulder, she found herself looking at an iPad, with a young girl’s face taking up most of the screen and her own eyes peeking beside Stephen’s neck.

  FaceTime. Not speakerphone. She’d been caught.

&nbs
p; No way to duck down and ease back now.

  “Hi,” she said slowly, offering a cautious smile. Stephen raised a brow at her, but his lips were twitching. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll get out of your way.”

  “No, stay!” Another young lady pushed into the screen, and the two girls jockeyed for position in front. “Stephen, tilt the iPad over. I wanna see!”

  “Move,” the first one said, elbowing her sister . . . or who Mags assumed was her sister. “I didn’t get to see her.”

  “You both are embarrassing yourselves,” Stephen drawled. He wrapped an arm around Margaret before she could beat a hasty retreat in the mess of the moment. “If you’d stop squabbling and hold the screen away so you both can see, I’ll show you what’s keeping me busy these days. This is Margaret.”

  “You don’t have to—hey,” she finished weakly, waving as the little corner box showed now Stephen, his arm tightly wound around her middle, her breasts squished against his side. “How are you?”

  Both girls were silent for a moment. The one on the left tilted her head to the side, studying her, like a border collie. Neither moved after that. They didn’t even blink.

  “Is the screen frozen?” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

  Stephen brushed his lips over her temple, causing her to shiver. “They’re speechless. They can’t believe a hottie like you is putting up with a dog like me.”

  Mags rolled her eyes.

  “Oh! I saw that!” one shrieked. “She totally rolled her eyes at you. She’s onto your bullshit, Stephen. Totally onto it. I love her!”

  The other just kept watching her, until Mags felt like a bug under a microscope.

  “Both of you chickens, move.” The screen tilted, whirled until Mags felt like she might puke, then settled on a woman who looked like a prettier, older, more feminine version of Stephen. Which sounded wrong, as she said it in her head, but Margaret decided the broad features suited the woman. And when she smiled, it was warm and full of light, and she decided there and then, lying to this woman was going to be horrible.

  “Stephen, sweetheart, hold the screen out better so I can get a look at who I’m talking to.” Margaret waved, and the woman nodded. “Hello, dear. I’m Stephen’s mother. Is he staying out of trouble?”

  Stephen groaned, but Margaret could hear the fun and light in his tone as he did so. “I’m trying, Mrs. . . .” Shit. Harrison? Was his mother’s last name Harrison, or something else?

  “Just call me Barbara, dear. And you’re Margaret, as I heard him tell my two pea-headed daughters.”

  She waved quietly, wanting to bury her face against Stephen’s chest to avoid further scrutiny.

  “I assume he’s kept you up to speed on his recent issues?”

  That made Margaret blink. “Yes, ma’am. I know.”

  “Good. Then you’ll ride him hard and not let up.”

  She choked on air when Stephen started a chest-rumbling chuckle at the unintentional innuendo. Then she pinched his side, out of reach of the camera. “Of course, ma’am.”

  “Barbara. Now, Stephen, you know we love you, and we miss you. If it weren’t for tennis season, we’d head out there for spring break, but—”

  “I know, Mom.” His voice was so warm, and she loved that he clearly adored his family. Where the hell were they even at, that they couldn’t visit? Ho, boy, she had a lot to learn about her “boyfriend.”

  Cram study session, coming up.

  His mother leaned in, jostling the video a little. “And when you next see—” The screen went blank. Mags blinked, then looked up at Stephen.

  “Did we lose Internet connection?”

  “Nope. She hung up.” He grinned and slid the iPad across the counter. “She does it once a week, at least. She’s probably done with me, though. If she weren’t, she’d have called back by now, blaming the tablet for hanging up. I can’t get her to understand that you have to keep your fingers away from the red button when you touch the screen midcall.”

  “I think it’s sweet.” Was it hot in the room or was it just her? She glanced down, then realized they were still plastered together. The man was a furnace. Slowly stepping away, she grabbed her spoon and yogurt and went to sit on the opposite side of the island. “Where are they?”

  “Maine. It’s where I grew up.”

  “Tennis? Which one plays tennis?”

  “They both do. Each wanted to play when they were little. Something about the cute skirts.” He made a face, which made her laugh. “But at least they have the chance to. With summer, they have a ton of clinics and tournaments going on at any given time.”

  “So far away, I bet it’s hard to get the chance to visit.” She watched his eyes sadden a little, and cursed herself for it. “But,” she added, giving him a wink, “you’ve got me here to pester you. And that is even better.”

  He snatched her yogurt away and took a bite before passing it back, making a face. “Light yogurt. What the hell is the point?”

  “Some of us didn’t just lose fifty pounds,” she said as she took a dainty bite.

  He growled and reached for her, but she jumped off her stool and dashed away, laughing.

  ***

  “You’re quitting?” Margaret’s boss, Mira Flannery, stared gape-mouthed at her. “You can’t quit. You’re my most requested maid.”

  Mags bit back a smile. It was that reputation she prayed would carry her on once she started back into cleaning in six, eight, twelve months. Whenever Stephen decided he was done with her.

  Oh, that didn’t sound right . . .

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Flannery. But I’ve broken a rule. I started dating a client.” She did her best to look ashamed, glancing down at her lap, but she couldn’t stop fidgeting in her seat. “So I have to submit my two-week notice.”

  “This is . . . unexpected.” Sitting back, her boss surveyed her sharply. “I didn’t expect you to fall for a client. You’re my most dependable employee. It’s why all those football players requested you. Perhaps we can work something out . . .”

  Margaret’s heart gave a thump. No, no, no . . . the dating a client bit was supposed to be her easy out. “I’m sorry, I just don’t feel comfortable. After breaking a rule like that, it wouldn’t be right.”

  “I see.” Ms. Flannery bit her bottom lip a moment—an immature move that was at odds with her midforties appearance—and tapped her pencil against the desk. “I think I do see. You’re going into business for yourself.”

  The bottom dropped out of Margaret’s stomach. “What?”

  “If you think you can just quit and begin poaching all your high-end clients for yourself, you’re wrong.” With a tight smile, Ms. Flannery waved a hand. “You signed a noncompete. You couldn’t even begin to approach those clients for at least six months after your termination. You’d never survive that long without them. You might as well keep your job here, in that case. If you think you can walk right out that door and start calling your current customers, you can—”

  “I may get back into the cleaning game in the future,” Mags cut her off, “but I would never break the noncompete clause. I am moving in with my boyfriend and plan to spend time with him.” For now.

  As if surprised her threat to keep Margaret on the payroll backfired so easily, Ms. Flannery simply rocked back in her chair. “You’ve quit, so you won’t collect unemployment.”

  “Fine.” Margaret grabbed her bag and stood. “Is there anything else?”

  “Don’t bother showing up the next two weeks. Now that you’ve handed in your notice, you’re finished.” The thin, grim quirk of Ms. Flannery’s lips might have been called a smile . . . if Margaret thought she’d had any humor in her. “Security reasons, you understand.”

  “Of course,” Margaret replied with equal false cheer, then waved and left.

  That hurt. Even now, she knew Ms. Flannery was juggling schedules and fighting to figure out what workers would be best suited for the clients Margaret left behind.


  Not left behind for long. Six months to go before she could begin again, as her own boss. Stephen had given her that. But for now, she needed to text her existing—rather, former—clients and suggest who they should request in her absence.

  ***

  Stephen returned home from his workout, nearly dead with exhaustion but simply grateful he’d managed to survive the training session. Building muscle and gaining weight the right way—as opposed to drinking his calories one six-pack at a time—wasn’t going to be easy. But today showed there was hope.

  Sweating still, he walked into his home and was smacked in the face with the scent of lemon furniture polish. His eyes nearly stung with it. Groaning, he covered his face with the sweat-soaked towel and forced himself to walk farther into the house.

  “Mags?” he called out. No answer. “Mags! Damn it, open a window! Are you trying to gas us out?”

  “Stop being such a baby.”

  He yelled and jumped back, rapping his elbow on a wall. She’d been standing right in front of him as she’d spoken. He took the towel off and let it fall to the tile floor of the kitchen with a wet plop. One eyebrow winged up as she watched it fall and land. Then she nudged it with her toe.

  “Just because I’m living here doesn’t mean I’m your live-in maid. I’ll clean the bathrooms and the kitchen and not leave a mess. But I’m not picking up every single nasty thing you drop. I’m not your mother.”

  “Darn right you’re not,” he muttered as she walked away. Because he was male and not dead, he couldn’t help but appreciate the way her backside moved in her tight black pants as she headed toward the stairs. “Hey, you look different.”

  She paused by the bottom stair, one hand on the railing, turning to wait for him to finish. “And?”

  “And . . . you look nice.” She did. Unlike the boxy, shapeless maid uniform he was used to seeing her in, or the yoga pants she’d worn when she moved, she was wearing nice black slacks, with some sort of frilly top and a black jacket over it. “Going to the bank for a business loan?”

  “Hardy har har. No, I went in to quit.”