“Enlighten me. I haven’t had a chance to interview the parents yet.”
“The parents are dead,” I tell her. “Robert and Rachel McQuaid were killed in a horrific crash two months ago, leaving Rory and his five brothers and sisters in the care of their aunt—their only living relative.”
She sits down in her chair. “Jesus.”
“The kid’s been dealt a shitty hand—he’s not handling it well. But he doesn’t belong in lockup. Talk to his social worker; I’ll bet my left nut he was a saint until his parents died.”
“That’s really saying something—I know how precious your nuts are to you.”
I nod.
“Unfortunately,” Lisa sighs, “Rory picked the wrong person’s car to steal.” She rattles off the name of a cranky, influential former presidential hopeful. “And he wants the boy’s ass in a sling.”
“Fuck that,” I growl.
I don’t know if it’s because I have a hard-on for his aunt or because he reminds me so much of myself, but if anyone wants a piece of that kid, they’re going to have to come through me first.
“Besides, a public servant has no business owning a car like that.”
“Okay,” Lisa allows. “Then what are you offering?”
“Court-mandated therapy, once a week. Monthly progress reports.”
“Twice a week,” she counters. “And I want to pick the therapist. No feel-good quacks permitted.”
“Done.”
Lisa’s gaze travels over me, head to crotch. “I’m surprised at you, Jake. I don’t remember you being so . . . soft.”
I move forward, bracing my hands on the arms of her chair, caging her in. “Soft isn’t in my vocabulary—I’m still as hard as they come.” I smirk. “And after.”
Her eyes settle on my mouth. “Good to hear. Particularly since Ted and I broke up.” She holds up her ringless left hand.
Lisa definitely falls under the “known” category, which means no awkward first-date dinner conversation, no twenty-goddamn-questions that I don’t want to ask, let alone answer. Nope—it’ll be straight to the fucking.
Excellent.
“It’s a long story,” she says. “Which I’m sure you have no interest in hearing.”
Yes. Lisa knows me well.
“You still like tequila?” I ask.
“Absolutely. You still have my number?”
“I do.”
Her smile is slow, and full of promise. “Good. Use it.”
I stand up and walk toward the door. “I’ll do that.”
“And I’ll get started on the paperwork.”
A FEW HOURS later, after approval from child services and a quick compulsory appearance before an indifferent judge, Rory walks out of the courthouse with us. We head back to my office to gather his many siblings. They all seem happy to see him—if the affectionate “stupid idiot” and eager questions about his stay in “jail” are any indication. The sky is dark by the time I escort Chelsea and her charges back out to her car. I wait next to the driver’s-side door as she gets them loaded and buckled in.
Then she comes around and stands in front of me, all warm eyes and soft gratitude. And I’m struck again by the smooth flawlessness of her skin beneath the glow of the streetlight.
Fucking gorgeous.
This close, I notice the adorable dusting of freckles across the bridge of that pert nose and wonder if she has them anywhere else. It’ll take a slow, exhaustive search to find out. And I’m just the guy for the job.
She pushes her hair behind her ear. “Thank you, Jake, so much. I don’t know what I would’ve—”
“Aunt Chelsea, I’m starving!”
“Can we get McDonald’s?”
“Do you know what they put in McDonald’s? Insects won’t even eat it.”
“Shut up, Raymond! Don’t ruin fast food for me!”
“You shut up!”
“No, you shut up!”
“Aunt Chelsea!”
“Hiiiiiii!”
I can’t help but laugh. And wonder if she owns earplugs.
Chelsea blows out a breath through her perfect, smiling lips. “I should go before they start eating each other.”