“What’s this?”
Leah immediately looked guilty. “I didn’t wake him! And I didn’t ask him to make me anything.” She pushed her nearly empty oatmeal bowl to one side. “I couldn’t sleep. So I came down—”
“To see if you could snag the last piece of triple coffee cheesecake,” Jack teased.
“Which was gone.”
Jack, in his black boxers and faded T-shirt (MY GOAL IS TO BE THE CAUSE OF YOUR NERVOUS BREAKDOWN) giggled. “Rookie mistake, Leah. If you weren’t an only child, you’d have known that that caffeinated sugary goodness was gone five minutes after I stuck it in the fridge. Why do I put any desserts in the fridge ever?”
“Four minutes,” Angela muttered. It had been delicious: creamy and cool, sweet and smooth on her tongue, with the slightly bitter chocolate/coffee aftertaste.* Knowing she’d beaten everyone to it just made it all the more succulent.
“So insomnia’s going around, I guess.” She poured herself a cup of hot chocolate (whole milk, shredded Godiva chocolate, cinnamon, a drop of vanilla extract . . . Jacky’s indulgent recipe had turned her off Swiss Miss for life) from the dispenser and sat across from them.
“So this is how we’re all spending our Saturday night,” she joked. “Such partiers.”
“Sunday morning, technically.”
“But you’re okay, right, Leah? The baby’s okay?”
“Yes. The baby . . . the baby’s fine”
Jack’s eyes widened. “Um, that pause was terrifying. Should we be calling an ambulance?”
Leah shook her head. Angela was amused to notice she was in one of Archer’s old button-downs and a pair of gym shorts that had seen better days. “The baby’s perfectly healthy. That’s not why I’m up. But you’re very nice to be concerned.”
“I’m not concerned or nice. I’m just trying to avoid a lawsuit,” Jack lied.
“I’m fine, the baby’s fine. Besides, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” Leah said. “That’s not a challenge. It’s just a fact. There is no point in telling you. You won’t believe me.”
“If you’re trying not to pique our interest,” Jack said, “you’re sucking at it.”
“Do you make any caffeine-free desserts?”
“Yeah, that wasn’t an obvious topic change. Fine, keep your secrets. That’s what we do around here.” He looked at Angela. “Right?”
He knows! He knows I have a crush on Jason Chambers and his crazy/cool socks!
“They’re just socks, I don’t care, they’re not even sexy!” Oh, my God. Here comes the most awkward pause in the history of human events. Say something. Either of you. Something.
“I don’t think you’ve had enough cocoa.”
“Never mind.” Angela pushed the thought of erotic socks to the back of her brain. “Jack, I’m starting to think it’s time for a checkup.”
“Why? You seem fine to me. No more driven or shriller or controlling than usual.”
“For you, dumbass. A checkup for you.” To Leah: “Oh, don’t laugh, you’re just encouraging him.”
“Can’t help it.” She giggled. “You’re all adorable.”
“That’s a blatant falsehood. What lies has that lying SOB Archer told you when he lied about us?” Before she could respond, Jack held up his hands and made soothing motions. “It’s okay. Shouldn’t have put you on the spot. You don’t have to pretend Paul and Mitchell are adorable. It’s enough to acknowledge my and Angela’s adorableness.”
“Duly acknowledged.”
“So the baby’s fine.” At Leah’s nod, Angela continued. “And, Jack, you don’t need an appointment.” Jack nodded. “And I’m not obsessed.” She nodded for herself. If someone were to walk in—who wasn’t a family member—they’d think we were all secret-keeping lunatics. Oh, wait . . . “So we’re all in the kitchen at 4:30 a.m. because everything’s fine.”
“Seems like.”
“That’s an accurate summation,” Leah said.
“So none of us have anything to tell each other.”
“Nope.”
“What the chef said.”
Delighted, Jack turned to Leah at once. “You think I’m a chef? Tomorrow, I’ll make you oatmeal and porridge! Later today, I mean. But not triple coffee cheesecake. Because I’m bored with that one now and we’re out of coffee.”
“I could buy you more coffee,” Leah said hopefully.
“Bring me all the coffee,” the teenager declared, “and I shall visit upon you the most divine Chocolate Coffee Cardamom Layer Cake you’ve ever had.”
Leah beamed into her cup of cocoa. And Angela, who was still uneasy from her dream/flashback, couldn’t help smiling. Because, yeah, something was up with all three of them. But Jack had made it clear he wasn’t ready to be forthcoming, and Leah’s health was, frankly, no one’s business but hers and Archer’s.
And that was . . . that was all right, Angela decided. Sure it was. She could feel herself prodding that new idea. So . . . DON’T be a controlling jerkass in this instance? Hmm. Radical thought. Am I on board? This one time I might be on board. I’ll be more controlling tomorrow to make up for it. Promise.
“Angela?”
I wouldn’t have been capable of this five years ago. Or maybe even last year. Maybe Archer isn’t the only one who grew up.
“Helloooooo?”
“I’m here,” she said automatically.
“Sure you are.”
Sometimes, she was coming to learn, you didn’t have to spill everything and then talk it to death. You could just . . . be together. Even if it didn’t solve anything.
Or maybe she was just tired. Either way: “So, who wants a refill besides me?”
Turns out, they all did.
TWENTY-NINE
Angela had missed the same spelling error three times in a row
(no more 4:30 a.m. hot chocolate for you, missy! at least not this week)
and when her phone rattled (Mitchell’s suggestion that she download a rattlesnake rattle* for her ringtone was genius), she was glad for an excuse to take a break. To her surprise, Jason Chambers was calling. The chat had been short
(“Of course you can come over.”)
and sweet
(“It’s nice to hear from you!”).
Also: ugh. Nice to hear from him? She sounded like someone’s aunt. And not a cool aunt, the way Dennis had been the fun uncle. Somebody’s grumpy aunt, the kind who kept all the balls that dropped into her yard and wrote bitchy letters to the editor about how noisy the downtown area was.
When Detective Chambers turned up a half hour later, she was ready for him. She’d put on makeup, run mousse and a curling iron through her hair, picked out appropriately sober-yet-stylish clothing that flattered and covered at the same time.
And then she undid all of it because good God, who dresses for a date when a homicide detective was giving you an update about your murdered father?
So she brushed the curls out of her hair, blew her bangs out of her face (her hair was always in one of two stages: “I’m growing it out” or “I need a haircut”), and slipped into black leggings, a thigh-skimming cranberry-colored long-sleeved tunic, and plain navy flats. She looked in the mirror, pronounced herself as not trying too hard, and went to the kitchen to wait.
Minutes later, she opened the kitchen door before he had a chance to knock and saw at once that she wasn’t the only one low on sleep: His kind eyes had shadows beneath them. The navy blue suit was clean but rumpled, like he’d napped in it. And the dark stubble blooming along his jaw wasn’t sexy at all and, oh, God, why did she lie to herself? She wanted to give herself beard burn. He wouldn’t even have to do anything. Just stand still while she grabbed his head and rubbed his face all over her.
Archer had come in behind her and shook hands with Jason. “Hey, Detective, how’s it going?”
“Fine, Mr. Drake. Could you come with me now?” he asked Angela. “I’ve got something I think you need to see.”