Time Served Read online

  “Sorry.” I smile back. “Busy. Do you have room for us?”

  “Do I have room?” George tsks. “Of course. Come over here by the window.”

  Dean and I squeeze past a line of waiting customers and slide into seats at a table overlooking the busy street. Dean’s so big and the table so small that there’s no way to sit without touching. Eyes on mine, he wedges one knee between my legs, his thigh almost touching my chair. The position is decidedly...cozy.

  I raise an eyebrow but don’t say anything, and his mouth quirks. “You come here a lot?” he asks.

  “Not as much as I’d like,” I reply, smiling at George when he swoops by with menus. “But they’re a client, so they know me.”

  “Huh.”

  I open the menu and scan the familiar offerings, upscale pub food with a huge wine selection. “You don’t drink at all?” I ask, thinking how much I’d like some wine right now.

  “No. But get whatever you want.”

  “Is that weird? Or rude?”

  Now Dean does smile, just a brief flash of teeth, the slightest crinkle at the corner of his eye. “I don’t have a drinking problem, Rachel, I just don’t drink. Get something. You look like you could use it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Thanks.”

  He shrugs. Of course.

  A server comes by to take drink orders; I get a glass of house red, Dean asks for water. When we’re alone Dean leans in, folding his big hands in front of him.

  “On Saturday you asked about my apartment,” he says, studying his scraped-up knuckles.

  I remember the argument at the bus stop. “Yeah?”

  He glances up at me. “My mother died four years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” I’d figured as much when he hadn’t mentioned her sooner, but the news is still sad. I’d certainly cared more for Camila than I had for my own mother.

  He flicks his fingers in dismissal. “She’d been saving money, and when she passed it came to me. But I couldn’t touch it until I’d been out of jail and out of trouble for a year.”

  I peer at him, confused by the sudden sharing, but he’s still looking in any direction but mine. “Anyway,” he plows on, “when I got out of jail, my parole officer got me the job at the warehouse. I found a cheap apartment nearby, and when the year was up I got the money my mother left and started looking for something better. Six months ago I bought the place I’m in now. I haven’t decorated.”

  Dean breaks off when the server returns with our drinks. He looks relieved, shooting me a wary glance as he downs half his water. Then he adds, “That’s why it isn’t ‘homey.’”

  I sip my wine and watch him, perplexed. “Well, you’re a wealth of information today. What prompted this?”

  If I’m not mistaken, Dean blushes a little. “Oreo,” he mutters.

  “Who? Reginald?”

  He nods. “Yeah.”

  “What does he have to do with anything?”

  Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. With him leaning in over his hands like this, I can smell him. Soap and pine. The temptation to reach out and touch the bruises on his face is so strong I almost have to sit on my hands to suppress it.

  “When I said I wanted to fight on Sunday, he asked why. I tried not to tell him anything, but he’s got a way, Rach. And...”

  I sit up a little straighter, alarmed. “What did you tell him?”

  “About the stuff on the bus.”

  “Our fight?”

  He gives me an irritated look. “Yeah.”

  I stiffen. “He knows about...us?”

  Dean suddenly looks mutinous. “So? Who’s he going to tell?”

  I open my mouth to argue, but falter. It’s true I’d rather no one know about Dean and me, but really, who would Reginald share it with? Then I realize that he knew about us when he’d called on Monday, insisting Dean be the one to deliver Ruthie’s letter. That rat. “What did he say?” I ask instead.

  Dean finishes his water and glances out the window at a curvy blonde in a tight red dress. He watches her for a moment and I feel my blood boil. “He said I should have answered your fucking question,” he finally replies.

  I laugh in surprise. “He did?”

  “Yeah. Anything else you need to know?”

  “Do you think checking out other women when I’m six inches away is a good idea?”

  Dean chuckles and looks guilty, but doesn’t apologize. What he says instead is, “Who’s the guy at the bar?”

  “What?” I turn to follow his gaze over my shoulder, freezing when I lock eyes with Todd. He’s sitting with two other firm accountants, bottle of beer in hand. He looks away the second our eyes meet, but the contact is enough for Dean to pick up on. “No one,” I say, when it’s obvious he’s waiting for an answer.

  “He’s been sneaking looks at you the whole time we’ve been here.”

  “Maybe he likes your hoodie.”

  Dean’s lips curve, and damn if it’s not sexy as hell. “You think I should take it off?”

  The server returns just in time to prevent me from answering in the affirmative. I order crab cakes and salad; Dean opts for steak frites and another glass of water. I’m surprised to realize I’ve finished my wine and order a second—and final—glass.

  “So?” Dean says when the server has left. “What’s got you so worked up?”

  “I’m not worked up.”

  “You looked pissed when I saw you. And you drank that wine like it was going to fix something.”

  “Enough wine can fix anything.”

  “You don’t want to talk about it? Not even after I told you that great story about my apartment?”

  “You’re a natural-born storyteller, Dean.”

  He laughs, looking around the crowded bar. “Your call, Rachel.”

  Maybe it’s the way his features soften when he smiles, or the flash of genuine emotion on his handsome face. Or maybe it’s just the way it’s nice to hear him say my name without scowling or cursing or bossing me around.

  “There’s somebody at work I really hate,” I hear myself say. “And today I discovered she’s done something I think is really going to undermine the work I’ve been doing on this Fowler case.”

  “That the thing you’re doing out in Camden?”

  “Yeah. And...I went to Cranston today.”

  Dean’s dark eyebrows raise, his second show of emotion in as many minutes. “No kidding.”

  I shake my head, staring into my empty glass. “I had a panic attack.” I risk a look up through my lashes to see if he’s laughing at me, but the bland look is back, his dark eyes steady on mine. “And I met Kurt and his daughter Sabrina.”

  “She the one in the wheelchair?”

  I bury my face in my hands and nod, willing the tight knot in my throat to go away. I want to cry just thinking about it. And I can’t even decide why.

  Our refills arrive and I take a sip—fine, a massive mouthful—of wine, praying it helps me calm down.

  “Why’d you go to Cranston?”

  “We were looking for someone. A doctor.”

  “You find him?”

  “Her. And yes. That’s how I know about this other person screwing me over.”

  “Was it that guy at the bar?”

  “No.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Todd. An accountant at the firm.”

  Dean makes a face. “But you know him?”

  “I work with lots of people. Just because I know his name doesn’t mean I know him.”

  “You haven’t seen him looking at you.”

  “Stop it.”

  The food arrives then, and for a few minutes we eat in silence.

  “Do you like working at the warehouse?” I ask finally.

  “It’s all right.”

  “What did you have to do in town today?”

  Dean watches me as he chews a piece of steak, taking his time. Stalling. “A work thing.”

  “Do you wear a tie to work in the warehouse?”

>   “What? No.”

  “Then why do you have one?”

  “You go through my bag and I didn’t notice?”

  “I have X-ray vision.”

  He points his steak knife at me. “I always knew there was something off about you.”

  I watch Dean cut another piece of meat. “You aren’t going to tell me?”

  He pauses, lips pursed, and then apparently recalls Reginald’s advice because he sighs and answers. “I have to take this course, maybe for management. I don’t know. It’s nothing. A waste of time.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  “Because I have to.” He shovels the steak into his mouth, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation.

  “Someone thinks you could be promoted?”

  He shrugs, Reginald’s instructions forgotten.

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  Dean swallows, then changes the subject. I give up and let him. “What’s the name of this person who’s bothering you?” His eyes drift back to Todd.

  “It’s a woman,” I reply. “Caitlin Dufresne. She’s not here.”

  “What’s she like?”

  I think of the car ride with Baxter. How we came up with one thousand accurately evil adjectives to describe her awfulness. “She’s like all of the most horrible things you can think of,” I say, spearing an artichoke with my fork. “She’s deceitful and a kiss-ass and a liar and a cheater and a huge whore. But she’s smart, too, so she gets away with it. And—”

  I break off as Dean covers my fork hand with his own, stilling me. “You’re going to break the plate, Rachel.”

  I realize then that I’ve been stabbing the artichoke again and again, as if it’s a voodoo doll and I’m a raging psychopath. “Sorry,” I mutter, pushing the mangled artichoke to the side. “I hate artichokes.”

  “That wine help you relax any?”

  As I promised myself I would, I’d stopped at two glasses and switched to water. “I guess not.”

  “Want to get out of here?”

  I pause, eyes lifting to Dean’s. His face is still but his eyes are blazing hot. I guess my rage turns him on. Hell, I think it might turn me on, because suddenly that knee between my legs can’t get close enough.

  “Yes,” I say.

  Dean raises a hand to flag down the server, and I stifle a smile. I won’t kid myself that one semi-civil conversation and half a decent meal mean we’re in some kind of healthy, functional relationship, but after the day I’ve had, this is still the highlight. Maybe I’m setting the bar a little low, but then again, maybe I want to make sure Dean steps over it.

  Things are looking up until I hear my name.

  I freeze, recognizing Sterling’s cool, polished tone. It takes everything I’ve got to keep the horror I’m feeling from showing on my face as both Sterling and Morgan approach our table, whiskey glasses in hand. The server appears behind them and Dean asks for the check, then sits silently, watching me watch my bosses.

  “Hello,” I say, aiming for polite and ending up at strained.

  “Busy place tonight,” Sterling says. “Very popular.”

  “Always.” I nod, gaze flitting between Sterling, Morgan and Dean, which is a mistake, because as soon as I look at him, Sterling and Morgan do too. “Um...” I say, when it becomes obvious I’m not making introductions. “Dean, these are the senior partners at the firm, Don Sterling and Joseph Morgan. This is Dean Barclay, my...friend.” I pray desperately that the infinitesimal pause doesn’t give away that Dean’s my trailer-park ex-boyfriend, ex-con and current preferred method of relaxation.

  “Nice to meet you, Dean,” Morgan says, shaking his hand. To give both Sterling and Morgan credit, they appear completely unfazed by Dean’s size or his penchant for sweats. And Dean doesn’t do anything to embarrass me, like shrug.

  “Likewise,” Dean says politely.

  The server returns and slips the bill onto the table, and there’s a split second of terrible awkwardness as I automatically reach for my purse and Dean flexes his knee between my legs in warning. I clamp my hands together and keep chatting with the partners, watching from the corner of my eye as he passes the server a credit card, regretting my two glasses of wine and the crab cakes, wondering if it was too expensive.

  “You two leaving?” Morgan asks, a little too casually.

  I look at him closely. “Did you pretend to talk to us so you could take our table?”

  “What?” He looks extraordinarily guilty. “No. Don, would we do that?”

  “Absolutely not,” Sterling exclaims. “Except...I am really hungry.”

  I laugh politely. “Then your timing is excellent.”

  The server returns with the card and a receipt, and the torture is over. Except...

  “It was nice meeting you, Dean,” Morgan says as we stand. “Will we see you at the party next month?”

  I freeze at the quasi-invitation. Every August the company has a party to welcome the new hires and celebrate promotions. It’s billed as a casual summer gathering, but it’s actually pretty formal. And I cannot imagine Dean in a bow tie any more than I can imagine him mingling with my coworkers.

  “Absolutely,” Dean replies easily. “Looking forward to it.”

  The men slip into our just-vacated seats and smile goodbye, waving as we leave. I feel them and Todd and everyone else watching as we weave our way through the crowd, two seriously mismatched people with nothing but raging hormones in common.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out as soon as we reach the sidewalk.

  “For what?”

  “For that!” I gesture behind us, hustling away from the restaurant and any prying eyes.

  Dean snags my elbow to stop me. “Would you calm down?” he asks. “Nothing happened.”

  I shuffle in place, uncomfortable. “I don’t expect you to come to that party. I don’t know why they... It just...”

  He adjusts his gym bag on his shoulder. “I’m not planning to go either. It just seemed easier to accept than explain why I couldn’t.”

  I freeze stupidly. “Oh.”

  Dean studies me, a half smile transforming his handsome face into something a little less intimidating, and somehow even hotter. “You want to go back in there and tell them why I can’t come? What we’ve been doing?”

  I blush so hard I can feel it in my toes. “No!”

  He laughs. “Cause I’m fine with that. I have no secrets.”

  “Stop. Shut up.”

  He slides a hand down my back to squeeze my ass, making me jump and turning me on. “Dean! Not here.”

  “Where then?”

  I glance around, wondering if we’re supposed to take three buses back to Camden or if he’d be willing to come to my apartment. It’s closer, and my body is desperately craving all the things he has to offer. And it wants them now.

  “My place?” I suggest tentatively.

  A lot of things cross Dean’s face in that moment, surprise, hesitation, relief, pleasure. Then the cool mask returns. “Lead the way,” he says.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The twenty-minute walk to my building takes fourteen, and we’re silent the entire way. In fact, Dean doesn’t say a word until I push open the door to my apartment and he steps inside, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows and amazing city views. When I’d first bought the place the views were what had attracted me: I wasn’t as high as I would be when I made it to the thirty-second floor of the King Building, but it made me feel powerful. Successful. And somewhere between then and now, I’d stopped looking.

  “Wow,” Dean says, dropping his bag and striding over to the windows, peering down. “This is something.”

  I hesitate by the door, not sure what I should do. I glance around at the gleaming kitchen on the right, the granite countertops and high-end appliances hardly touched. I’d hired a designer who’d picked out the Italian leather sofa and colorful artwork in the living room, where I rarely spend time. It’s my home and it’s beautiful, if imper
sonal. Now I feel weird showing it to Dean. Showing him who I’ve become.

  “You want a tour?” I ask finally, stepping out of my shoes.

  He glances at me over his shoulder. “Yeah, sure. Give me a tour.”

  I gesture to my right. “This is the kitchen.”

  He nods. “Nice.”

  “You’re in the living room.”

  He looks around dutifully. “Gotcha.”

  I head down the hall to the left, pointing out the rooms as we pass. “Guest bathroom, guest bedroom, home office, my bedroom.” Dean’s bare feet are so quiet that I couldn’t say for sure how it is I know he’s behind me, just that I do. Even when he’s not touching me, I feel him.

  “You’ve got a nice home¸ Rachel.”

  I pause at the door to my bedroom, but he just glances at it over my shoulder before turning around and heading back to the living room. I take a deep breath, check my appearance in the mirror and follow him.

  Dean’s back at the windows, taking in the view. “My office is on the thirty-second floor,” I say, because I can’t seem to think of anything less vain. “The views are even better.”

  He turns to face me. “You spend a lot of time looking out the window?”

  I shake my head, feeling foolish. “Do you want a drink or anything? I have water.”

  He shrugs. “Sure. Water’s fine.”

  I open the fridge, letting the cool air wash over my heated skin. I feel like a stranger in my own home, desperately hoping he’ll like it and wondering why I care what he thinks. I grab a bottle of water for Dean and contemplate the open bottle of wine for myself, ultimately taking another bottle of water before closing the door and turning.

  My heart leaps out of my chest when I find him standing a few feet away, waiting quietly. “You still upset about Caitlin?” he asks.

  I shake my head no, but what comes out is, “Yes.”

  He accepts the offered water but doesn’t open it. “What would you do if she were here right now?”

  I blink, startled. But the answer is easy. “Club her over the head with a wine bottle.”

  He laughs. “Then what?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “I don’t know. Do you feel better?”