“Can’t say that I have,” Three Piece answered briskly. “I assume you had some type of plan beyond walking in here and insulting my lack of security?”
There’s my opening. “Look, one person in Hook knows something, everyone knows it. Already there’s word you’re taking on bigger contracts, producing more lucrative items. No more license plates or plastic garbage. Maybe no one has had an interest in lifting the merchandise, but that’s going to change.” He waited for that to sink in. “You need night guards. Regular patrols. A sophisticated alarm system, surveillance around the perimeter…all of which will lower your cost of liability insurance—”
“Monday morning.” Three Piece handed him back the identification. “Bring me your ideas on paper, cost analysis included. I’m late now.”
Vaughn nodded once and stepped back. “Can’t have that, can we? We’ll talk Monday.” He stuck out his hand. “Vaughn De Matteo.”
“Yes, I read your identification.” With a stiff shoulder roll, the other man shook his hand. “Renner Bastion. Please don’t show up here in ripped jeans again. I’m not in the habit of hiring men who look like they’ve been accosted in an alley.”
“Welcome to Hook.”
Chapter Ten
When the doorbell rang, signaling Vaughn’s arrival, River was on the verge of dumping the spaghetti into the trash, turning off the lights, and hiding in the cupboard. That plan would have backfired, unfortunately, considering that Marcy’s caterwauling could probably be heard down the block. This state of domestic chaos was not the image she’d planned on projecting. Oh no. She’d actually envisioned herself answering the door in high heels and an unsoiled apron, hair twisted and coiffed, like some modern day June Cleaver, all while Marcy honed her grasp of phonics in the living room. Quietly.
Ha!
The reality of the witching hour—also known as the period of time approaching dinner and bedtime—painted quite a different portrait. The sheer quantity of marinara sauce splattered around her kitchen made it look like a staged Law & Order crime scene. Some of it had ended up in her hair—and that of Marcy, who was sitting behind her on the counter, screaming for chicken nuggets.
Judging from Vaughn’s comically raised eyebrows when she yanked the front door open, he’d expected domestic bliss to enfold him like a sugar-spun cloud.
“Hiya…” The hand holding a bunch of daisies dropped to his side. “Doll?”
She was forced to raise her voice over Marcy, who had decided now was the perfect time to sing her ABC’s at the top of her lungs. “Yeah. Yeah. This is what it’s like. It’s a freaking free for all. Okay?” Hearing the crack in her voice, River pinched the bridge of her nose and took a calming breath. “You’re thinking of running, aren’t you? Like, sprinting down the block at full speed?”
She’d meant it as a joke, but Vaughn’s face fell. “No. Jesus, no, Riv.” His throat worked. “I’m standing here praying you haven’t changed your mind. That you’ll let me in to…help. Can I help?”
She nodded and took the daisies with a quiet thank you, but neither of them moved. “It’s not easy, Vaughn. Do you know what you’re asking to take on here?”
“Yes,” he rasped. “But I’m not asking, I’m begging.”
Resisting the urge to massage away the tightness in her throat, River stepped back to allow him inside. It was different from the last time he’d been there. His stepping over the threshold seemed…symbolic. A changing over from before to after. And that observation was so terrifying and real, she shoved it to the back of her mind in an act of self-preservation.
When they walked into the living room, Marcy was throwing herself into a stack of pillows with such dedication, River knew if she forbade the activity, her daughter would only reassert herself with twice the fervor. “Marcy May.”
Of course, the child ignored her. River turned to throw a good-natured eye-roll in Vaughn’s direction, but froze upon witnessing his reaction to Marcy. At first glance, he appeared…blank. He wasn’t moving at all. Maybe not even breathing. The stillness in the room must have caught Marcy’s attention, because she rolled over, a pillow hugged to her chest, and stared back at Vaughn through a messy veil of straw-colored hair. “I want chicken nuggets.”
“Where do you…do you have them here? Are they inside or outside?” Vaughn visibly shook himself. “I mean, do we have to go get them or—”
River quieted Vaughn by squeezing his arm. “I have them here.” She swallowed a gasp when his hand covered hers, gripping tight. So tight. “Are you okay?” He didn’t answer, so she transferred her efforts to her—their—daughter. “Come over here and say hello, Marcy.”
“No.”
“I brought something,” Vaughn said abruptly, before lowering his voice. “I wasn’t sure how you felt about gifts or—”
“It’s okay.” Alarm prickled River at realizing how deep her trust in him still ran. “Whatever you brought is okay.”