She smiled wide at her nickname, a smile that still turned my insides to goo after two years. “You’re always flying around. Can I come with you sometime?”
I looked down at my heart, the one person capable of destroying me. “Not on a work trip, but maybe we can go somewhere with Lil. Where do you want to go?”
Crisis averted. A buffer body was always a must, her friends Lil and Jorge filling the role beautifully.
She shrugged, nibbling on her lower lip as her nose scrunched in thought. “I don’t know. Maybe Florida?”
Nope. I wouldn’t go near a beach with her even with Lil as a chaperone. Hell, I wouldn’t go with the entire Vatican and the Pope to boot. Not happening.
“Of all the places on this Earth to go, you choose Florida?” I laughed, laying the disdain on thick.
“What’s wrong with Florida? Beaches and palm trees are a better backdrop than brick and more brick.”
“Don’t forget the retirement communities and rehabs, honey,” I shot back, watching her bristle at my words.
“Seriously?” she squawked with an epic eye roll. “You’re such a killjoy, dude.” She blew a mocking raspberry and spun on her stool, her bared legs brushing against mine, my jaw clenching at the contact.
And just like that, I was reminded that as much as Keely Doyle was my everything, she was also a massive pain in my ass.
Keely
Chocolate-covered caramels were my kryptonite. Not shoes. Not handbags. Just ooey-gooey caramel and its perfect partner chocolate magic.
I popped another in my mouth, still feasting on Valentine’s Day goodies in August. I had a stash at home and another in my desk thanks to Dad, his annual basket of sweets enough to last all year. He liked having someone to spoil since Mom and Bridget always seemed to be on diets, turning their noses up to anything that remotely resembled sweets. Their loss. More for me.
The sugar spike kept me going as I entered the latest round of citations, a corn hole competition leading to a spike in public intoxication tickets. I didn’t blame the attendees, either. Corn hole and booze were a match made in heaven, unlike the boning of my dress and flesh.
The metal dug into my ribs if I dared to slouch, making me curse fashion once and for all. Whoever said beauty was pain deserved a swift kick in the grapefruit.
I sat up as straight as possible for precious wiggle room, just as someone stormed in the door, the bell overhead not getting a chance to ring, clacking abruptly before falling silent. The suddenness of it all had me reaching for the panic button hidden beneath the counter, knowing help would arrive within seconds once pressed. It was one of the perks of working in a government building.
My fingers hovered above it while the visitor stalked to the counter, a handsome man with evergreen eyes and tousled brown hair, a magazine rolled tight in a meaty hand. Everything about him screamed angry, from his balled fists to his flushed cheeks, yet I wasn't afraid. Something about his pressed jacket and slacks didn't say I'm here to kill you. More like hey, wanna buy some office supplies?
“Did you see this crap?” he grumbled, tossing the magazine on the counter, a picture of a smug man in a tuxedo on the cover. “Who do they poll for this shit? Or is it just another thing they buy?”
Boston’s Most Eligible Bachelor was scrawled across the top, the dark lettering blending in with the man’s black hair. It was one of the dozens of lists local tabloids pushed out each year. The same ones Mom collected and displayed like works of modern art. The same rags that contained bits and pieces of my life at one point.
“Hello,” I greeted, trying to keep my cool. “Who is he?” I studied the cover, the corners still turned upward from being rolled tight. It answered my question, Calvin Heathcliff Houser written in gold, not that the name rang any bells either. I didn’t know the who’s-who of the town anymore.
“The heir to the media giant! Jesus!” He snatched the magazine back, rolling his eyes. “Do you live in a bubble?”
“I do work in a basement,” I joked as I gestured to the narrow lobby, nothing but white cinderblocks and a fake fern keeping me company most days. The majority of people I dealt with were from the court system or media - not men griping about who won what title in gossip rags.
“I’m sorry. I’m taking my frustrations out on the wrong person.” He flashed a smile, revealing sparkling white teeth that only came from copious amounts of chemicals and a dentist’s chair.
“It’s okay.” It wasn’t, but I wanted him out of my hair sooner rather than later. I didn’t have time for gossip hounds anymore. That was my past life.
“No, it’s not,” he pushed back with a frown. “I came in here raving like a lunatic about a magazine. You probably think I’m nuts.”
“A little,” I admitted with a smile.
“Maybe I am, but I’m sure you are too,” he laughed, shoulders deflating. “I really am sorry. Forgive me for being a butthead?”
“Sure.” I obliged, unable to stay ticked at a grown man that called himself a butthead. More people needed to own up to being one. Myself included. “So how can I help you?”
He leaned against the counter, his spicy cologne overpowering the stagnant basement smell that lingered regardless of what plug-ins or sprays I deployed. “I ran into a roadblock in my research. What databases are available here?”
“Public records like marriage and death certificates, property data, and the like.” Basically, I was the keeper of all life’s crappy paperwork, not that I’d say that to a visitor.
He pressed his lips together as he studied me for a long moment, eyes seeming to stare through me as he leaned closer. I’d never seen such a dark shade of green before, as beautiful
