The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) Page 3

  “Oz?” she prompts.

  “It’s ten thirty,” I tell her. “This is brunch, not lunch.”

  “Well, you mind if I go for brunch, then?”

  “There’s nowhere to get brunch in Camden. What are you really doing?”

  She sighs dramatically, tugging at the hem of her short black dress. She’s got an amazing figure, and she makes sure everybody knows it. I’ve tried pointing out the importance of dressing professionally, but every time I bring it up I sound like a pervert trying to replace her dead father.

  “Ricky’s looking at houses. I want to go with him.”

  Ugh. Ricky runs a shop that sells only earphones, and likes to run around town flashing his cash and designer clothes. Unfortunately, in Camden, that makes him king. In his own mind. And Jade’s.

  “I need you to finish the copies of the Templeton audit,” I say.

  “I’m done.”

  “Where are they?”

  She nods at my desk. “Right there.”

  Oh. Sitting in a neat pile on the corner of my crowded desk is a stack of paper with a note stuck on top that reads “Templeton Audit” in Jade’s scratchy penmanship.

  “The people from Foster Automotive are coming in—” I begin, but Jade interrupts.

  “I put them in the conference room. They have coffee. Please, Oz? I don’t feel so good.”

  “You feel fine,” I say sternly.

  “I just want to look at houses for a bit,” she tries instead. “I’ll come back in an hour.”

  I shudder inwardly at the thought of what Ricky’s going to do to Jade for an hour while promising her a picket fence and a life he has no intention of providing. “You can do better than him,” I tell her.

  “Thanks,” she says, for all the wrong reasons. “I’ll be back by noon.”

  “Eleven!”

  But she’s already gone.

  * * *

  The next two weeks pass slowly. My wrist hurts too much to fight so I take to running longer distances to keep up my workouts. Running is boring, but I tell myself it’s good practice for the race I’m signed up for on Sunday. Truth is, it’s mostly a good excuse to run by the abandoned tannery, squinting through the chain-link fence and trying to envision anything green growing in there. At present the only sign of life is the middle-aged guy stumbling out from behind the building, a woman dressed in sparkly clothing and shiny black boots hot on his heels.

  By Wednesday my face has healed up enough that there’s just a faint yellow smudge on my cheekbone, not too obvious with the tan I’ve picked up from running. It’s a relief because I’ve got plans to meet Rian downtown at Mache 42 this evening, and I don’t want to show up looking like I got the crap beaten out of me on the way.

  I’m not due at the restaurant until seven, but I arrive early to pick up my shoetag and number for the race, then at six I park at Chicago-Davis Hospital and stroll up to the coffee cart. The sun’s out but there’s a steady breeze, a welcome relief since I’m still dressed from work, jacket and tie left in the car, the top buttons on my white shirt undone. I order another iced tea and take a seat on the same bench I sat on last time, hoping for the same luck with the same woman. She’d told me her scheduled drink times, so if she’s working today, she should be along shortly. If not, I’ll move on. There’s curiosity, then there’s stalking.

  I use the few minutes of downtime to respond to texts and emails, and I’m halfway through a reply to Jade—No, you can’t add Ricky to your health insurance plan—when a shadow falls over my lap. I look up to see the beautiful doctor staring down at me, chocolate monstrosity in hand, straw tucked between her lips as she drinks. She waits until I put away the phone.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” she says.

  “That’s my line.”

  “You a fan of the iced tea?”

  “No,” I say, letting my eyes coast over her. “Not the iced tea.” No scrubs today. She’s wearing faded blue jeans, flip-flops, and a loose black tank top that gives a hint of soft cleavage, but not nearly enough. The ponytail is still in place, no makeup and no jewelry apart from the simple watch wrapped around her wrist.

  She smiles slightly as she sits beside me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I had to pick up my things for the race this weekend.”

  Her brow furrows. “What race?”

  “Pace Yourself? There are signs everywhere.”

  “Is it for some sort of cause?”

  I scratch my neck. It always itches when the topic comes up. Hell, every part of me is uncomfortable when the topic comes up. I try to sound casual. “Aren’t they all?”

  “I guess,” Susan says. “I never noticed any signs.”

  “Anyway,” I say, anxious to change the subject. “I’m also meeting a friend nearby. Do you know Mache 42?”

  She shakes her head.

  “It’s a restaurant.”

  Another shake.

  “It’s very popular.”

  She lifts a shoulder helplessly, but I think we both know she doesn’t care what’s popular or what’s not. Something tells me Susan’s world doesn’t extend much beyond the hospital and the coffee cart.

  “Well, they have a rooftop garden,” I continue, “and I’m going to check it out.”

  She uses the opportunity to check me out: blond hair cropped close, too-big body decked out in a clean button-up and dark gray trousers, polished loafers. Business casual, I suppose. “Did you wait here to tell me you had a date?” she asks, gaze landing on mine, steady and clear. I swear, those eyes will be the death of me. The dark lashes, the unblinking stare. She’s not flirting, but she’s jealous. And she’s not playing games. She saw me, she knew why I was here, and she came over. No hard to get. Just...hard.

  I hold her stare, then smile slowly. “Jealous, doc?”

  She doesn’t smile back. Instead her attention shifts to my still-bandaged wrist, then back up to what remains of the bruise on my cheek. “Who hit you last week?”

  I laugh at the unspoken implication that I may have deserved it. “A guy at the gym.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Accidentally on purpose.”

  “And watermelons sprained your wrist.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What are you doing here, Oscar?”

  Bingo. She remembers my name. “You can call me Oz, doc.”

  She studies me, assessing. “You can call me Dr. Jones.”

  I freeze. Did I read this wrong? I thought we had some kind of nice spark last time, no reason to rush, careful not to fan the spark into smoke instead of fire. But if she merely thinks I’m a creepy stalker rubbing in the fact that I have a date—which I don’t—then I’m completely—

  Her straight face gives out and she smiles, chuckling into her drink.

  “Are you messing with me?”

  “I think I’m funny,” she says, pulling out the straw and licking off the whipped cream that clings to it. “No one else does.” She rotates the straw, making sure it’s clean. The last time she did this there was nothing sexual behind it. This time, however, she knows better. We both do.

  “Why’d you come over?” I ask.

  “To say hi. Why’d you come?”

  “To say hi.”

  “Hi, Oscar.”

  “Hi, Dr. Jones.” I check my watch. Six forty. It’ll take me fifteen minutes to navigate traffic to the restaurant and find parking. “I have to go.”

  She stands before I do, but lingers, looking up at me. “Enjoy your date.” There’s something in her stare, perplexed, annoyed, but then she looks down to fish car keys from the leather satchel slung over her shoulder.

  “Are you done for the night?” I ask.

  “Yes. Pretty much.”

 
“When do you usually get off?”

  A dry laugh. “When do I get off? Not often enough.”

  My breath vanishes. Because she’s not talking about the end of her shift, she’s talking about sex. Again. And the faint pink flush in her cheeks and the fact that she hasn’t moved away from me says she might want to do something about it.

  No, not might.

  Does.

  And I do, too.

  “Doc,” I say.

  “Susan,” she says.

  “Susan,” I say. “Come with me.”

  * * *

  Mache 42 is tucked just off a busy intersection, far enough away from traffic to be quiet, close enough to be popular. Susan follows behind me in a little red car, and when we stop at a red light I glance in the rearview mirror to watch her. Her lips are moving fast, head bobbing...She might be rapping. She stops singing long enough to pop a fistful of something in her mouth, chewing absently as she peers out the window at the surrounding shops, expression mildly curious. A car horn beeps to point out that the light is green, so I pull forward and navigate the side streets until we find a couple of parking spots a few blocks away. I climb out of my SUV and wait for Susan on the sidewalk.

  “Were you rapping?” I ask as she approaches. There’s a small fleck of something dark at the corner of her mouth, and I hesitate before pointing it out.

  “Probably,” she says, dragging the back of her hand across her lips, vanquishing the fleck. “And thanks.” A pause then she adds, “Junior Mints. I was starving.”

  I shake my head. “A doctor who raps. Do you rap for your patients?”

  Her laugh is surprisingly humorless as we begin walking. “No. I save their lives, but apparently that’s not enough.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I look down to see her jaw tight, brows narrowed in annoyance. The expression smoothes as she visibly shakes off whatever’s bothering her. “Nothing,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. “What do you do, Oscar? You live in Camden but buy watermelons in Chicago?”

  “You know much about Camden?”

  “Only its reputation.”

  We stop and wait for the light to change to cross the street. “We don’t have watermelons.”

  “Do you have Junior Mints?”

  I can’t help but laugh a little. “Yeah, Susan. We have Junior Mints.”

  The light turns green, the walk signal appears, and we approach the restaurant. The three-story building has a tidy brick façade, planters brimming with green and white plants flank the front door, and enormous tinted windows reveal just enough to let us know the restaurant is full.

  “After you,” I say, gesturing for Susan to enter first.

  “I’m underdressed,” she remarks, peering around. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, and I suppose I should have known her jeans would be out of place in a restaurant with a three-month waitlist and a too-handsome-for-his-own-good chef.

  “You look fine,” I tell her, meaning it. Dresses and high heels are nice, but I’ve had more than my share of both. “You look good.”

  She shrugs. “It was just an observation.”

  I nod at the hostess, prepared to tell her we’re here to meet the chef, but the chef himself beats me to it.

  “Oscar Hall!” Rian McConnell emerges from the kitchen, dressed not in his chef whites, but in jeans and a T-shirt, his shaggy dark hair loose instead of tucked under his usual skull bandana. He’s the head chef but he takes Wednesdays off—the restaurant’s “slow” night, believe it or not, given the packed dining room—and tonight he’s dressed to give me a tour of the garden. Or us, rather.

  I peer over at Susan. She’s gazing expectantly at Rian as he nears, hand extended. We shake and exchange greetings, then he turns his megawatt smile on Susan. “Rian McConnell,” he says, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

  “Susan Jones,” she answers.

  “You’re an accountant, Susan?” Rian looks...impressed. And interested. Dammit.

  Susan frowns. “No. Why?”

  “Because Oz here...” Rian gestures to me, and Susan looks up in surprise.

  “You’re an accountant?”

  Now Rian looks cheerfully confused. “Do you two know each other?”

  Trying to, I mouth over Susan’s head. “Let’s see this garden.”

  Rian’s grin turns into something smug and knowing, but he merely spins on his heel, waving for us to follow. I trail behind Susan, trying to figure out how a woman whose dinner consists of a chocolate drink and fistful of candy can fill out a pair of jeans so beautifully.

  The building is old enough that it doesn’t have an elevator, so we enter a dim, narrow stairwell tucked behind a door in the back corner of the restaurant. It’s dank and musty, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying the sway of Susan’s hips as she climbs in front of me, the faint dip of her waist outlined when her loose shirt shifts from side to side.

  “And here we are,” Rian announces a minute later, using his shoulder to open a heavy metal fire door and exit onto the rooftop. Sunlight streams in and Susan and I wince, hands raising in unison to shield our eyes.

  “You all right?” I ask, stepping onto the rooftop and pausing at her side.

  “Temporarily blind, but otherwise fine,” she replies. “You?”

  “Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because your sexy chef friend kissed me and you haven’t?”

  “I—What?”

  She stares up at me. “What?”

  “Did you just say—”

  “You two want to see the garden or ogle each other?” Rian’s ready to tease us some more, but his phone chooses that moment to ring and he pulls it out of his pocket to answer, holding up a “just a minute” finger before taking a few steps away to talk.

  “Why are we here?” Susan asks, looking around. For a second I don’t know what to say. She correctly identified my unaired jealousies, then...nothing. I’d much rather discuss the no-kiss situation than the garden, but I think that’s what she wants me to do, so instead I answer the question she did ask.

  “To see how it’s done,” I reply, finally tearing my eyes from the confounding woman in front of me to study the garden. It’s unexpectedly large, maybe thirty yards by twenty. The entire space is a carefully laid out network of planter boxes, each brimming with growing green plants, trellises and gently hissing irrigation systems. At the far end are two wooden towers, approximately three-feet tall, and even from here I can hear the buzzing that identifies them as beehives. The opposite side hosts a tiny chicken run, with a caged area tall enough for a person to stand up, a small red coop on one end and space for the birds to dart back and forth outside. At present two chickens peck absently at the feed scattered on the ground, and when the wind picks up I catch the faint smell of animal.

  “This is pretty unbelievable,” Susan muses, turning in a circle, looking impressed. “Who knew?”

  Beside us is an entire planter box full of tomatoes climbing over trellises, and the wall space beside the door is draped in netting that supports a wall of tiny green beans. “Rooftop gardening’s a big thing now,” I tell her. “Same with beekeeping.”

  “So why does an accountant want to learn about gardening?” she asks, looking up at me. She’s close enough now that I can reach up to capture the ladybug that lands on her cheek, holding it on the tip of my finger for her to see.

  “To see what’s possible,” I answer, blowing off the ladybug and watching it fly away.

  “You want to open a restaurant?”

  “Not exactly. At the moment I just have a...concept.”

  A knowing look crosses her face. “You want to grow watermelons in Camden. A safe watermelon that won’t hurt another man.”

  “I—” I look at her sharpl
y, but she’s turning back to Rian approaching, tucking his phone back in his pocket. Her lips are curled in a smile, and though Rian and I were college roommates and I love him like a brother, I’d toss him off the roof just to be alone with Susan right now.

  Dammit. I want her. I want to kiss the smirk off her lips. I want to hear what she has to say next. For too long I’ve been missing the elusive spark that makes me desperate to get back for seconds and thirds. And the long buried part of me that craves—needs—a fight is dying to make this one last as many rounds as we can handle.

  I realize Rian’s discussing the garden, something about how it’s two years old, supplies the restaurant with eighty percent of its produce and eggs, and a hundred percent of its honey.

  “You’re both chef and gardener?” Susan asks as we wind our way through the planters. Rian picked up a basket from somewhere and casually plucks tomatoes, cucumbers, herbs and what he assures me are edible flowers from random clusters of green.

  “Chef first,” he says, smiling at her over his shoulder. He catches my glare and grins wider. That fuckwit. He knows I like a challenge and that I’ve been bored lately. Like a good friend and asshole, he’s trying to provide one.

  “We have gardeners who drop in a few times a week to maintain things,” he continues. “A beekeeper who checks the hives. Two of the prep cooks keep an eye on the chickens, collect the eggs, et cetera. And depending on who’s cooking, we all come up to gather the produce as needed. Beautiful, isn’t it?” He holds up a fistful of basil for Susan to sniff, which she does, but we all know “beautiful” doesn’t refer to the herb.

  Fuck off, I mouth when he extends the basil to me.

  He laughs and adds it to the basket, telling us what’s in bloom now, and what will come into season as the summer continues. There’s talk of growing zones, shade and sun, water needs, and companion planting. It’s more information than I was prepared for, and it doesn’t help that I can barely concentrate, watching Susan bend to study a plant, scratch her temple as she asks questions, smile as she bites into a strawberry.