He blinked, the lift of his brows tempered by a measured response that held both humor and respect. “Yes, ma’am. And those conditions would be . . .”
Emma ignored Charity’s open-mouthed stare with a heft of her chin, well aware that neither Sean nor his sister had ever seen her in extreme “management” mode. “You will draw a salary or you won’t work. Mornings off are fine. However, there will be evenings you will be expected to work as late as I do, unless, of course, you have a scheduled game. Understood?”
Sean nodded, the humor in his eyes fading into approval. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” she said with a square of her shoulders, steeling herself for a fight—a fight she would win, no argument. “Your title will be assistant manager—”
“No—I can work on the dock—”
Her brows arched high. “Are you challenging my authority already, Mr. O’Connor?”
Sean stared, the shock on his lips easing into a grin. “No, ma’am.” He swallowed and buried his hands in the pockets of his dusty trousers. “Being your assistant would be an honor.”
“Good. When can you start?”
“When do you need me?”
Emma’s mouth quirked. “Last month.”
He grinned and swept a calloused hand across tousled hair. “Earliest I can do is Monday afternoon. I’ll have to bump Father Mac’s risers to Saturdays after our basketball game, but I can do it.” A gleam lit his blue eyes. “Might cost you some penance.”
Emma pursed her lips, a tad peeved at Charity for masterminding this charade. “You mean over and above working for your sister?”
“Emma!” Charity flicked her with the tail of Mitch’s shirt.
He laughed. “Oh, yeah. You may have to feed me part of your dinner on nights we work late, but I’ll do it.”
“Do what? Tackle the ribs? Because they’re ready.” Mitch hefted a mountain of ribs on the kitchen table with a thud, infusing the kitchen with the mouthwatering aroma of smoked meat. A telltale blotch of barbecue sauce edged the side of his mouth. His gaze honed in on the shirt in Charity’s hand, which promptly disappeared behind her back. He squinted at his wife. “Is that my favorite shirt? The one I’ve been looking everywhere for?”
“Yes!” Emma and Sean’s confirmation rang in unison, and Emma’s stomach fluttered when Sean gave her a wink.
“Mitch, guess what?” Charity asked, ignoring his question with a little-girl glow.
His mouth skewed into a thin smile as he snatched the shirt from behind her back, holding it in the air where it dangled with all the dignity of a scrubwoman’s mop. “What? You’re going to wash and iron my lucky shirt?”
“No! And you mean your ‘lucky you’re not in a breadline’ shirt,” Charity said, lifting on her toes to distract him with a kiss. Her tongue swiped the remains of the sauce from the side of his mouth while tugging the shirt from his grip. “Mmm . . . your best so far, which is more than I can say for this shirt.” She lifted her chin with an air of pride. “No, I meant Sean has agreed to help Emma out at the store.”
“I know,” Mitch said, casually strolling to the icebox to retrieve a pitcher of lemonade. He pulled several glasses from the cabinet and glanced over his shoulder. “Anybody care for lemonade? Emma, Sean . . . Mata Hari?”
He knows?? Emma blinked, another haze of heat crawling up her neck . . . for the umpteenth time.
“You know?” Charity stared, hands propped on her hips. “How can you know? He just agreed to it a few minutes ago.”
“No, I agreed to it two days ago when Mitch asked me.” Sean winked at Emma, and her cheeks went head-to-head with the neighbor’s beets. “Thanks, Mitch, lemonade sounds good.”
“Same here, Mitch,” Emma said, her throat as dry as Sean’s tone.
Charity gawked at her husband. “You asked him? Without telling me? So Emma and I debased ourselves for nothing . . . and I had to cook in the process?”
“Not for nothing, sis,” Sean said in a hurt tone. “Feeding your poor, unemployed brother has to count for something.”
Emma shook her head, hand to her mouth to hide a seed of a smile. Goodness, I don’t know who’s worse—Charity or her brother.
“Mitch Dennehy!” Charity stamped her foot.
He handed glasses of lemonade to Sean and Emma, then poured two more. He paused to take a drink, eyes smiling over the rim of his glass. “I did it for Emma. You’re not the only one who worries about her, you know.” He set Charity’s lemonade on the table and bussed her cheek with a quick kiss. “I would have told you, little girl, but you’re so darn cute when you’re plotting up a storm that I just couldn’t resist.”
“I think ‘cute’ may depend on one’s perspective,” Emma said with a dry grin, her cheeks still warm from Charity’s ploy.
Charity whirled to confront Sean. “And you agreed? Just like that? After turning Father, Collin, and Brady down flat?”
Sean shrugged, a grin tipping the corners of his mouth. He winked at Emma, effectively flaming her cheeks once again. “I’d do anything for Emma, you know that, sis. Besides, she’s a whole lot cuter than they are.”
“Come on, Sean, we’ll catch the tail end of the game while the ladies put the food on the table.” Mitch cupped a hand to Charity’s waist and drew her close for a kiss, then headed toward the door. He turned to shoot her a sultry grin, wagging his shirt in the air. “And this, Mrs. Dennehy,” he said with a superior lift of his brow, “will find its way to Mr. Chu, someone who knows how to give a man’s shirt the respect that is due.”
With a jaunty salute of his glass in the air, Sean followed Mitch into the parlor, leaving both Charity and Emma agape.
A giggle bubbled from Emma’s throat, her embarrassment all but forgotten. Hand to her lips, she peeked at Charity with penitent eyes. “Are you mad?”
Charity snagged a piece of barbecue from the platter and popped it into her mouth. “Mad?” she asked, lips curved into a definite smile. “Nope. More like proud that I have a husband who knows how to get me what I want. Because that, my friend,” she said with a sparkle of tease in her eyes, “is the mark of a well-trained man.”
5
Finally home! Luke waved a bouquet at the board member who’d dropped him off and glanced at his watch. After ten—another late night with Carmichael and the Boston Children’s Aid Society board, hammering out a strategy to bolster dwindling funds. A tired groan rumbled in his chest as he mounted the steps to his four-story brownstone on Commonwealth Avenue. Tucking the roses for Katie under his arm, he reached for the tarnished brass handle of the etched glass door, almost oblivious to the thrumming of tree frogs and locusts crooning in the towering oaks overhead. Apparently philanthropy had taken a hike when prosperity had, disappearing faster than that weak, watered-down broth doled out at soup kitchens down the road. Unfortunately, like those haunted faces in breadlines that wound around the block, the BCAS needed far more sustenance to survive.
As do I, Luke thought with a twist of his lips, missing Kit and Katie so much it hurt. He sighed. Especially Katie. His body suddenly grew warm, but not from the summer night. He took the stairs two at a time, and his pace quickened along with his pulse as he shed his suit jacket and loosened his tie. Tonight was their one-month anniversary. He’d seen precious little of his new wife this week, and he missed her. A lot. He honed in on their second-story apartment down the hall like a bullet bearing down on a bull’s-eye, craving the soft, solid feel of his wife in his arms. She hadn’t been able to work at the BCAS once this week because Kit had a cold, and the tension of her absence was evident in the edginess of his nerves. To make matters worse, he’d spent the last week getting home long after Katie was asleep, and now all he wanted to do was hold her, cherish her. Love her.
He eased the key in the lock and quietly opened the door, eyes scanning past the darkened parlor to the kitchen light at the back of the flat. Exhaling his relief, he bolted the door and tossed the suit coat on a chair, then rolled his sleeves as he
strode down the hall. He paused at the door, bouquet in hand, and a rush of love swelled at the sight of her. She stood on a chair, bare feet perched on tiptoe as she tucked a bag of Pillsbury flour on a top shelf. His eyes roved the length of her, drinking her in, still in awe that Katie O’Connor belonged to him.
She jumped down, and her blue floral-print dress breezed up as she did, belted at the waist before hugging the gentle curve of her hips. It flared midcalf to shapely legs bereft of silk stockings, and his mouth went dry at the thoughts filling his head. A petite five foot two to his six foot three, she was just a slip of a thing whose strong-willed nature towered as tall as his own. But, sweet chorus of angels, when she needed him, depended on him . . . this woman could make him feel over ten feet tall. His pulse kicked up a notch. And she was all his. His “Little Miss Sass”—a nickname she’d certainly earned . . . and then some.
She was singing to herself, strains of “Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue” filling the kitchen as she swayed to her own off-key beat. With a soft Charleston kick, she pulled a chicken from the refrigerator, and Luke couldn’t help but grin. In two pulse-pounding strides, he stood behind her, intoxicated by her scent of rosewater and Pears soap. He took her by surprise when he hooked hungry arms around her waist and nuzzled the nape of her neck. With a tiny squeal and a jolt, she dropped the chicken on the counter and twisted in his arms. Her blue eyes spanned wide. “Luke McGee—you scared the living daylights out of—”
He pressed her to the counter and effectively silenced her complaint, kissing her until his blood heated several degrees. With uneven breathing, he feathered her earlobe with his mouth. “How ’bout I kiss the daylights out of you instead?” he whispered, voice husky with intent.
A soft moan of consent left her lips and he kissed her again, tossing the bouquet aside to thread fingers into the soft, blond hair at the side of her head. He cupped her face in his hands, thumbs grazing her cheeks as he stared into her eyes, convinced he was the luckiest man alive. “Katie,” he said, voice thick with emotion, “you have no idea how I’ve missed you.”
With a stroke of his stubbled jaw, she gave him a shy smile. “Oh, I think I do,” she whispered. Her brows dipped. “Wait—are you hungry? ’Cause I can warm up that meat loaf . . .”
His gaze strayed to her lips. “Oh, I’m hungry all right, Sass, but not for meat loaf.” Kissing the tip of her nose, he tugged her to the table and prodded her into a chair. “But first things first—how’s Kit? Then tell me about your day while I finish off the last of the chocolate cream pie.” Zeroing in on the icebox, he shot a grin over his shoulder. “That is, if there’s any left.”
“Hey, McGee, I’ll have you know I saved the last piece for you, despite the fact it’s my favorite.” Katie popped up from her chair and butted him aside with a smirk. “Which wasn’t easy, considering I’ve been alone the last few nights with nothing to do but stare at it after Kit goes to bed. Go on and sit—you look exhausted.” She dished the last piece onto a saucer while he plopped into a chair, then placed it before him with a fork in the middle. “Kit’s better today—the fever’s gone, but the runny nose definitely kicked in, along with her appetite.” She poured milk and handed it to him before sliding into her chair, chin in hand. “She actually tried to eat everything that wasn’t nailed down today,” she said with a wry smile. “Including the pie.”
Luke grinned and shoveled a forkful into his mouth, practically gulping it whole. “Thanks, Katie.” He swallowed another few bites, then took a quick swig of milk. “I’m relieved Kit’s on the mend—she had me worried.” He polished off the dessert, then pushed the plate away while he upended the milk. “Of course, some of my worry stems from the fact that Bobbie Sue and Gladys threatened to quit if you don’t come back soon.”
“Oh, so you need a buffer, do you, Mr. Priss?”
A wayward smile eased across his lips as he tugged her onto his lap. “I think that’s fair to say, Mrs. McGee,” he said, his breath warm in her ear. He dipped her back to explore her throat with his mouth, then pulled her upright again with a groan. Cuddling her to his chest, he planted a kiss on her head. “So help me, Katie, I’m so crazy in love with you, you’ve got me sidetracked.” He sighed and kneaded her shoulders. “Tell me what you’ve been doing the last three days.”
———
Never would there be a better time and Katie knew it. She sucked in a deep swallow of air as if it contained the courage she desperately needed. The beat of his heart pulsed in her ear as she lay against his chest, its rapid throb in rhythm with her own as she thought about what she had to do. Law school loomed a mere three weeks away, and her husband needed to know. She swallowed hard, knowing full well that what she had to say would jolt Luke McGee’s world. And mine, she thought with a shiver. He buffed her arms, and she pressed in closer, breathing in the clean scent of his starched shirt, a hint of Bay Rum, and the faint trace of a man too long in a suit.
She forged on, expelling tentative words along with shaky air. “Well, Kit mostly napped the first day while I caught up on mending. We listened to Little Orphan Annie on the radio and read lots of books. Then we made cookies yesterday and picked up the laundry from Mr. Chu’s, and Kit fell asleep on the couch while I cleaned house and ironed. Today she was feeling a lot better, so it was our busiest day.” She twisted a lock of her hair, which correlated nicely with the knot in her stomach. “We shopped at Dennehy’s and Woolworth’s, bought stamps at the post office, splurged on a soda at Robinson’s, went to the bank—” the air hitched in her lungs—“bought groceries at Miller’s, fixed dinner, put Kit to bed, did the dishes, and now I’m putting groceries away.” She finished in a rush, unable to ignore the sudden stiffness in his chest.
He shifted to study her face, thick blond brows raised in question. “The bank? But I left money for groceries in the drawer. Did you run out?”
“No, there was plenty for groceries,” she said, avoiding his eyes.
“Katie?” He tucked a finger to her chin. “Then why did you go to the bank?”
She wriggled off his lap and stood to her feet, her breathing compromised considerably. “Because . . . I . . . well, I needed the money.”
He blinked. “Money? For what?”
She hefted her chin, steeling her nerve, but a lump still caught in her throat. She swallowed it and met his gaze head-on, her body as tense as the sudden tic in his temple. “For law school,” she whispered. “First-semester payment was due today.”
He stared, mouth slacking open. The deep tan in his face faded several shades, highlighting the spray of freckles across his sculpted nose. “Law school?” he repeated, his voice as raspy and thick as if chocolate pie were lodged in his throat. He rose to his feet while a muscle twittered in a rock-hard jaw. “Tell me you’re joking.”
Katie took a step back, one hand braced to the chair for support as her eyes pleaded with his. “You knew from the very beginning that law school was my dream.”
He slammed his chair in, his voice hard. “That was before I made you my wife, Katie, the mother to my child. Not once since I put that ring on your finger have you mentioned anything about law school.”
“Luke, I know this is a shock—”
“A shock?” He jerked his plate and fork from the table and practically hurled them into the dishwater, sloshing water all over the sink. He turned and ripped the tie from his neck, singeing her with a glare. “No, Katie, this is more like getting slammed with a blunt object.”
His temper ignited hers. “You’re being ridiculous—this is not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” His brows lifted to a dangerous level. “You take money we don’t have, then lie to me about law school—”
“I didn’t lie!”
He fisted the tie and took a step closer. “You deceived me, Katie—it’s the same thing. You’re my wife, for pity’s sake—we’re supposed to make these decisions together.”
“Would you have said yes?” Her chin jerked up.
&nb
sp; “Are you crazy? No, I wouldn’t have said yes. You have no business in law school. You have a daughter to care for, a part-time job at the BCAS, and we don’t have the money.”
She sucked in a deep breath, willing herself to be calm. “Lizzie’s agreed to watch Kit five days a week, and you know yourself Carmichael plans to trim the payroll.”
“And the money?” he asked, his voice as cool as the chicken bleeding on the counter. He braced hands on his hips, forearms strained with muscles.
The words on her tongue thickened, hesitant to part from her lips. “It’s Parker’s,” she whispered, feeling the heat swarm in her cheeks at the mention of Luke’s best friend whom she almost married. “From the account he set up for me when he broke our engagement.”
His eyes flickered in hurt, as if she’d just swung that blunt object he mentioned right at his head. And then in a slow blink of his lids, his gaze hardened to ice and his jaw went rigid, shadowed with bristle that made him all the more ominous. “I see. Well, you sure know how to kill a mood, Katie Rose.”
“Luke, this can work, I promise.”
“No, it can’t . . . because I won’t allow it.”
A harsh breath heaved still in her throat. “Excuse me? You won’t allow it?” She slapped hands on her hips and leaned in. “In case you forgot, this isn’t the BCAS and you’re not my boss.”
He moved close, hovering over her like impending doom. “I’m your husband, Katie Rose,” he said in a tone as tight as the muscles in his face. “What I say goes.”
“Over-my-dead-body,” she enunciated, incensed at the crick in her neck as she seared him with a look.
“If . . . necessary.” He ground out the words between clenched teeth.
She spun on her heel and stomped to the counter, snatching a knife and cutting board from the drawer to hack at the chicken. Heaven help me, I married a Neanderthal. She stabbed the poultry with the blade, sawing it into pieces with her husband in mind. Down the hall she heard the bathroom door slam and the shower turn on, and she was sorely tempted to steal his water pressure by turning on the kitchen spigot full force.