Legally Mine (Spitfire Book 2)

by Nicole French

  I looked sullenly around the room, feeling petulant. "It's fine. And it's just me up here, so who cares?"

  "Who cares?" Bubbe asked. "Well, I care! I'll care very much when you start your new fancy job and abandon your father and me to an attic full of roaches and mice. Bad enough you're leaving us again in the first place."

  After hearing that I had begged back the job in Boston, Bubbe hadn't stopped guilting me every second she could. She understood the financial reasons, but she had obviously been looking forward to my help with Dad.

  It didn't help that I still felt so ambivalent. It had taken a humiliating phone call with Kieran Beckford, partner at Kiefer Knightly and my former mentor, to get the job back in the first place. Kieran also happened to be Brandon's best childhood friend, so despite my desire to stop thinking about him, there was always the sinking awareness that I might possibly run into him at the firm.

  Kieran, after all, was his divorce attorney.

  On top of that, I'd had to disappoint the Brooklyn D.A.'s office to break the news of my defection, which I'd followed up with yet another phone call to Matthew Zola, who'd stuck his neck out for me in the first place.

  "I get it," he kept saying, though it didn't make me feel better about burning the bridge.

  He was so, so nice. Why couldn't I be interested in him instead? Why couldn't I fall for a stand-up guy who wasn't married, involved with gangsters, and hiding things from me?

  Zola had made me promise to meet him for a beer before leaving New York. After I said I would, I had hung up and stared at myself in my bedroom mirror for a very, very long time.

  "Get up, Skylar," Bubbe ordered. "You're leaving in a few days, and I want to take you for a graduation present. No granddaughter of mine is going to start her new job at a fancy firm looking like a secondhand ragamuffin."

  I looked around my room. I had a lot to do before moving back up to Boston, including finding a new place to live.

  "Fine," I mutter through gritted teeth, but set my pencil down and picked a shirt off the floor. It was time to stop being the madwoman in the attic.

  ~

  It wasn't until she'd steered her old station wagon into Manhattan and parked in front of Barney's that I realized just how fancy an excursion Bubbe had planned.

  "Bubbe," I said after we had gotten out of the car. "No. We can't afford anything here. Come on, let's just go to Century downtown."

  "Listen to me, young lady." Bubbe turned her small form to face me with a hand perched on her hip. "You've let your...loss...and broken heart shatter all over our house. I see you're terrified of leaving your father. But, Skylar, it's because of you that he's going to be okay. It's because of you and what you did––no, no," she said as I opened my mouth to protest, "––I know you didn't pay most of that money, but I know you paid some, and I also know that it's because of you that handsome goy paid the rest."

  "I'll be paying the rest," I insisted vehemently. "It was just a loan!"

  "Oh, for goodness' sake, Skylar. I don't know how I raised a girl so afraid of money, but here we are!"

  I just glowered at the sidewalk, suddenly fascinated by cracks in the pavement.

  "People don't do those sorts of things when they don't care, bubbela," Bubbe said, reaching up to pat at her hair, which amazingly, wasn't moving at all despite the breeze flowing down Seventh Avenue. "Now, it's because of you and whatever you did to make that boy care about you that I'm not going to lose my house at seventy-seven. And it's because of you that your father will continue to get the care he needs to beat this...problem."

  "You were never going to lose your house, Bubbe," I mumbled. "I would never let that happen."

  "Skylar, that's what I'm trying to say. I know this about you. I haven't been very appreciative the last few days, because God knows I'll be grieving your absence, but I know that you're taking this job to make sure your father and I are safe and cared for."

  It was the closest she had come to giving me her blessing.

  Bubbe tipped up her glasses. "And don't you worry about your father. I'll keep him away from the track if it takes every breath in my body."

  "But––"

  "No." Bubbe held up a single finger to my lips, forcing my silence. "My granddaughter is taking care of us, so I'm going to take care of her. And no one is going to stop me. Not even her."

  There really wasn't anything else I could say to that.

  "I've been saving for three years for this, bubbela," Bubbe said with glee as she looked up at the elaborate store windows. "Don't you worry. We'll be going to Century too. But I want to have some real fun first. I always wanted to go into a store like this and actually buy something!" She pointed at a Max Mara window display, a disdainful mannequin wearing a chic monochromatic spring suit. "You'd look fabulous in that one. White is your color."

  I let her link her small arm with mine as we examined the window display together. "White is asking for a stain," I said. "Let's find something more practical. And less expensive."

  For that I received a brief slap on the shoulder.

  "You're going to be mucking it up with all of those fancy lawyers," Bubbe argued as she tugged me toward the store.

  "Bubbe, I already was mucking it up with the lawyers," I said. "What do you think I was doing with all of those internships and stuff?"

  "Yes, but now you are one of the lawyers," she said, pulling even harder.

  Her sharp look softened when she saw the worry on my face.

  "No one is going to say my granddaughter doesn't fit in with them," she said firmly, and I could see that this wasn't just for me after all. So I relented, and let my grandmother drag me inside to look at the pretty clothes.

  ~

  It took most of the afternoon to find four different suits that were stylish enough for Bubbe but cheap enough that I'd let her pay for them. I was right; Barney's had been a terrible idea. Almost everything there reminded me of Brandon. The smell of the leather in the shoe department, the brief whiffs of cologne, and the feel of the sumptuous fabrics––all of it spoke of the luxury in his life, into which I'd fallen and enjoyed so briefly.

  At one point, when we were walking through the scents department, I caught a whiff of almond, the same subtle scent that was in the shampoo or whatever hair product Brandon used to tame his thick blond waves. I had to grip the edge of the counter for a moment before I could follow Bubbe into toward women's suiting.

  After we found one upscale suit at Bloomingdales and three more at a discount store, I finally convinced Bubbe that I had enough separates to last me for a while at my new job. We loaded the bags into the trunk of her station wagon, and she drove back to Brooklyn, leaving me to run a few more errands before heading home myself.

  The truth was, I wasn't terribly eager to go home. It hadn't felt like the home I remembered, which was strange, considering New York, and specifically Brooklyn, always felt like home to me. But between Dad's behavior and the ache in my heart, I just felt listless. Drifting.

  In need of a distraction.

  After talking a walk up to Lincoln Center, the perfect solution dawned on me. I was maybe a fifteen-minute walk from the best distraction in the world: The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  When I arrived at the massive, columned building, I walked up the iconic steps practically two at a time. The Met was a place I went as a broody teenager when I wanted to escape, especially when my mother, a mercurial artist herself, would come around. Ironically, it worked as a perfect foil to her neurotic, unaccountable mannerisms. Stolid and eternal, the masterworks within were the exact opposite of the harsh, modernist art she made.

  For me, the only thing that was more meditative was the symphony, and even that had some painful memories, considering the last performance I'd seen was with Brandon on Valentine's Day. It was the first time I'd really let my guard down with him. And after I'd told him the ugly stories of my past, he'd responded with the simple response that was balm to my soul: I'm all in.

 
; Ouch. That memory really hurt.

  I wandered through the Impressionist gallery, thinking the hazy aesthetic would fit my mood. The Waterlilies never got old. It was the middle of the day on a Friday, so the museum wasn't terribly crowded, and I was able to find a seat on one of the small viewing benches.

  "I always feel like Monet is so overrated."

  The voice of a woman behind me rang out loudly across the room. I rolled my eyes, but didn't bother to look at her.

  "I mean, look at it. How hard is it to blob paint all over a canvas like that?"

  In front of me, a few other patrons frowned at the speaker, who sounded like the kind of Park Avenue princess who came to the Met more to pad her cultural resume than out of actual appreciation. She sounded moronic. It was a classic for a reason.

  "I don't know. I like it. I think it's a classic for a reason," a deep voice echoed my thoughts.

  Every muscle in my body tensed. I froze, willing myself not to turn around for fear of being seen. My hair, normally a bright orange beacon, was fortuitously tied up under my dad's old Mets cap. Much less noticeable. I could only hope he hadn't memorized my body the same way I'd memorized his.

  "Do you mind if we check out the next gallery?" asked the woman. "I'd prefer to look at the Renaissance works instead."

  There was a pause. He wasn't looking at me, was he? And what the hell was he doing in New York? Was that even him at all? My skin prickled with that sixth sense, but I didn't dare turn around. I couldn't.

  "Sure," said the man's voice. Was it his? How could I not know?

  Their steps and her voice trailed off as they left the room. It wasn't until they were exactly twenty-five steps away (I counted the clicks of the woman's heels) that I turned around, just in time to see a dark-haired couple disappear around the corner, the man's hand proprietarily resting at the woman's back.

  I turned back around and pressed my forehead into my hands. Great, just great. I couldn’t get that face out of my head, and now I was hearing his voice when others spoke. Next, I'd start pedaling conspiracy theories to anyone who would listen.

  The thought had barely zipped through my head when suddenly I had the strangest feeling that I was, in fact, being watched. I couldn't have told you why, but the hairs on the back of my next stood up, and goose bumps ran down my arms. I twisted around quickly, hoping to catch whoever was spying in action. But, of course, I was the only one in the room, and all the doorways were open.

  I was alone. And apparently going crazy.

  I pulled knees up under my chin and stared at the Waterlilies again, entranced and simultaneously unable to focus as my mind spiraled out of control. Then I pulled out my phone and called the first person I could think of. Jane didn't answer. So, I took her advice and called someone else. Matthew Zola picked up right away.

  ~

  It was half past six by the time I got back to Brooklyn, slightly sweaty from the long train ride. I was meeting Zola at a small, crowded gastro pub in Park Slope, the kind that had been remade with live edge wood and industrial lighting to appeal to the hipster crowds that had taken over that side of Prospect Park.

  Zola was sitting at the end of the long, hand-varnished bar top, sipping on a pint of beer. Clearly just getting off work, his suit jacket was laid on the seat next to him, and his tie was loosened around an unbuttoned collar. He perked up as he saw me weaving through the crowd, and I regretfully noticed again how handsome he was. Too bad I wasn't the slightest bit interested.

  "Hey there," he greeted me with a kiss to the cheek. "Thanks for coming out."

  "Thanks for the invite."

  We were slightly awkward, considering we'd really only spoken a few times before. But even if I wasn't interested in him romantically, there was something about Zola that seemed really friendly, like he was another kindred spirit. It was just a hunch.

  "No problem" he said. "Can I get you a drink?"

  "A scotch on the rocks," I started to say before trailing off.

  I had been drinking scotch for years, but now my drink of choice reminded me too much of Brandon, who also enjoyed it. Great. Now I couldn't even drink without thinking of him.

  "Actually, just a glass of red wine," I said lamely as I took my seat at the bar.

  Zola signaled to the bartender and ordered while I arranged my purse on the bar top. What was I doing here?

  "So, I wanted to say, I get why you had to turn the job down. It seems like it was a hard decision to make."

  I nodded, although I didn't really want to talk about it. "Thanks. Yeah, I just...I need the money. My dad's treatments aren't cheap."

  Zola nodded, knowingly. Considering the guy saw his fair share of junkies working for the D.A.'s office, he knew what that looked like. He had also seen firsthand what kind of injuries Dad had suffered.

  "My old man had a gambling problem too," he offered. "You're doing the right thing. The only thing that can help him is real treatment, if he'll take it."

  "He better," I said, even with a sinking feeling in my stomach.

  "Yeah, about that," Zola said. "We're still building the case against Messina. I can't talk about it, but...well, we're getting more support, but we could still really use your family's testimony."

  I sighed and shook my head. "I'm sorry, but you know the answer to that."

  "Skylar, the D.A.'s office can keep your family safe. We can place your dad and grandmother into protective custody. Maybe even near you."

  I tipped my head. "Come on. Like that wouldn't be the first place Messina would look for a rat: his only daughter. Besides, I told you already: they won't budge."

  Zola shrugged, the easy movement attractive across his chest. He really was a good-looking guy: tallish, but not too tall, slim but with decent shoulders, and a handsome, honest face. His dark eyes twinkled.

  "Had to give it another try," he said with a wink as he took a drink of his beer.

  "Will you let me know what happens?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "You know I can't discuss a case with you, but when it goes to court, I'll let you know. Shouldn't be too long now."

  "Good," I said darkly. "I hope you lock that fucker up for the rest of his life."

  "With any luck," Zola confirmed. He looked at me curiously. "Hey, are you all right? You seem...angry. More than usual."

  I released the death grip I had around my whiskey glass and placed my hands flat on the bar. "Sorry. Things have been...a little intense."

  I turned to look at him. His dark eyes were kind, watchful. They flickered briefly down to my lips, then back up. Oh. So it was like that.

  "I, um, have a confession of my own to make, Skylar," Zola said as he turned his beer bottle around and around on the bar top.

  I perked an eyebrow. "Oh?"

  He shrugged boyishly. "Yeah. Well. I think you know I didn't push you for that job just because I thought you were smart."

  My brow raised a little higher. "No?"

  "I mean, I wouldn't have given your resume to my boss if it didn't pass muster," Zola admitted. "But...I did want to see you again. You know, because I thought you were kind of cute too."

  I opened and closed my mouth several times before he peeked at me with an amused grin.

  "Surprised?" he asked.

  I worried my jaw, but found that I wasn't. Not really. So instead, I shrugged.

  "I don't know," I said. "Maybe. Maybe not."

  Zola watched me carefully, appearing to weigh something in his mind. "Can I..." he started, "...can I try something real quick?"

  His eyes zeroed in on my lips again, and this time didn't flicker away. I tipped my head to the side. He was pretty damn handsome. Maybe this would serve as the kind of distraction I needed.

  "All right," I consented.

  Zola smiled, the kind of smile that would make most girls light up inside. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss on my lips.

  Nope. Nothing.

  When he backed away, there was quite a different look in his eyes: o
ne of regret.

  "Well...that didn't go how I planned," he said with a wry smile.

  I couldn't help but smile back. "It's really not your fault."

  "It's not you, it's me? Do I have that right?"

  I chuckled, even though disappointment dropped in my stomach like a bag of bricks. This just wasn't going to get any better, was it?

  "I guess. But it's true. I'm just...going through some stuff right now. Not really available, if you know what I mean."

  Zola squinted at me for a moment, then nodded regretfully.

  "Well," he said, "I hope he knows what he's got."

  I didn't say anything. There was nothing to say that wasn't going to make me start crying, especially since I still had a healthy dose of excess hormones running through me. The thought made my entire body tense.

  "Friends, then?" Zola asked.

  I looked up, this time genuinely surprised. "Really?"

  Zola shrugged and smiled again. "I still think you're great, and it would be fun to get a beer every now and then when you're in town. As friends, of course. All the lawyers I know are dicks, so it's nice to have someone I actually like to talk shop with. Work for you?"

  I nodded.

  I reached in to give him a hug, and he tucked me close. There was nothing romantic about it. And it didn't feel strange at all. But it also made me feel even more acutely what I was currently missing in my life.

  After finishing our beers and chatting about my upcoming job, we went outside.

  "You let me know if you need anything," Zola said with another friendly hug. His hands lingered slightly around my waist, but otherwise there was nothing romantic about it.

  "Thanks," I said as I adjusted the brim of my Mets cap. "Let me know if you're in Boston ever."

  "I go up there every now and then," he said with a nod. "I'll see you, Skylar."

  He got in his cab and left while I stood on the corner, thinking about what I wanted to do next.