A Ring for Rosie Page 7

The woman was making him crazy. Truthfully, two women were making him crazy, but only one of them was making him itch. Actually, physically itch.

  Megan had decided to show off her homemaking skills by dousing his place with aromatherapy potions. He and the boys got to spend their Sunday in urgent care, where it eventually came to light they were most likely allergic to eucalyptus, lavender, or rosemary. Or possibly all three. Unfortunately, their boys inherited his sensitive fair skin along with the red in his hair. Dosed up on Benadryl and coated in calamine lotion, he spent the rest of the day scrubbing the house down with bleach and ignoring Megan’s defensive apologies.

  A small, scaly patch had formed where his shirt collar rubbed the back of his neck, but James was disciplined enough to resist the urge to scratch. Instead, he scrawled a sticky note reminder to check the laundry detergent to be sure she hadn’t switched his usual for some crap she bought from a guy who knows a guy. For a woman with no place to go, Megan sure liked to brag about her many connections.

  But the rash and the squatter parked in his guest-room-slash-office weren’t the irritant of the day. No, that honor went to Ms. Rosie Herrera and her ice queen act. As she was the only woman in the office, the three men had learned to read and gauge her moods with fairly expert precision. Once in a while one of them guessed incorrectly, but they’d learned a verbal beheading could usually be made right with copious amounts of chocolate and groveling.

  But he’d crossed the line with Rosie. Not once, but twice. Three times, actually. First, he kissed her. Then, he tried to pretend he hadn’t kissed her even though they both knew damn well he had. And last, but certainly not least, he’d opened his damn door when Megan came knocking. The problem with grasping at straws was a guy never knew how many were too many until he got hold of the wrong one.

  And the thing about Rosie was she didn’t simply plunge the offender into the deep freeze and leave him there. No, she chilled degree by degree, minute by minute, day by day. Each cool comment or perfunctory reply added to the layer of permafrost. He’s seen her work her icy magic on Colm or Mike a couple times over the years, but she’d never turned a cold shoulder to him.

  Until now.

  He’d prefer her to get pissy with him. He hated when she was pissy, but he’d take snippy over freeze-dried indifference any day. Hoping to spur some thawing by way of sympathy, he surged to his feet, tugged the back of his collar away from the fiery patch of skin, and headed for the center of the office. The open, ruthlessly organized area was Rosie’s domain.

  “Hey, Rosie?” He’d been striving for everyday easygoing in his tone, but the question came out on a high note ringing with desperation. “Do we have any antihistamines around?”

  Without looking up from her typing, she tipped her head in the direction of the kitchenette. “If we do, they’d be in the cabinet with the aspirin and other stuff.”

  James didn’t believe for one second Rosie couldn’t rattle off the inventory of every cabinet, drawer, and cubby in the place, but he didn’t press the point. Shuffling past her desk, he craned his neck to see what she was working on so intently she couldn’t even spare him a glance. To his surprise he spotted a webpage with pink and red hearts cascading in the background. A photo of a scruffy-faced guy holding skis filled the left side of the screen, and what appeared to be a bullet-point bio filled the right. At the bottom of the page, a flashing red button urged her to send the guy an instant Eros-gram.

  “Are you on a dating site?”

  The second the words escaped, he wished them back. And not because Rosie had minimized the window and was now giving him the squinty-eyed death stare. The question itself was innocent enough, and if he’d been Mike or Colm, he would have simply been called out as a snoop and they all would have moved on. But he wasn’t Mike or Colm. He was the chosen one—for better or worse—and he couldn’t get away with teasing Rosie about her love life. Particularly after he’d messed up by kissing her.

  One expertly shaped dark brow rose as she waited him out. Once, in better days, she’d told him how she’d learned early nothing made her sisters crack and babble like patient silence. And though he was all too aware she was letting him wriggle like a worm on a hook, the urge to start blabbing and blathering was building inside him.

  Words bubbled up like liquid hot magma. Everything he wanted to say to her churned and burned in his gut.

  I’m sorry. I’m not sorry. I’m a shit for being not sorry. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want any of this. I don’t want her in my house, near my kids. She’s making me itch, and not in a good way. I want to kiss you again for real, but I can’t. I can’t. Oh, God, I can’t.

  “James?”

  She spoke in a low, prompting tone, her consonants clipped and frosty. But her chilliness didn’t prevent the usual zing of heat from zipping through his bloodstream at the sound of his name on her lips.

  “I’m sorry. None of my business.”

  But instead of brushing his insincere apology aside as she normally would, Rosie continued to stare at him dispassionately. “No, it isn’t.”

  A smart man—hell, a sane man—would have taken his cue to exit stage right, but James was pretty sure he wasn’t playing with a full deck at the moment. “But is it? A dating site, I mean,” he persisted.

  Turning away with a sniff, Rosie clicked the mouse to open the window again. “Devin is thirty-five, an attorney, and enjoys skiing in the winter and boating during the summer. He has a pleasure cruiser slipped at Monroe Harbor and is looking for a woman to sail off into the sunset,” she recited in a monotone.

  “Sounds like a jackass.” The comment popped out before he could bite it back. He cringed as he waited for the comeback he so richly deserved.

  “Takes one to know one, I suppose.”

  Bingo. Score one for Rosie. She pursed her lips and flipped through the other photos good old Devin had supplied with his profile page. Sure enough, there was a picture of him atop a snow-capped mountain, one of him shirtless behind the wheel of his boat, and another with some friends hamming in a crowd wearing Cubs regalia. No doubt, a World Series celebration.

  Rather than partying at some rooftop shindig, or joining the masses at Clark and Addison, James was catching puke in a kitchen pot. The twins had brought home a stomach bug and were kind enough to share with him. Definitely not quality family time.

  To his amazement, Rosie clicked on the messaging button and her fingers flew across the keyboard. His mouth thinned into a grim line, he stared a hole into the back of her head, but Rosie’s perfect posture never even swayed.

  “You realize you’re on company time.” His harsh tone proved her right about his being an ass. When she didn’t respond to the implied threat, he couldn’t stop himself from pushing further. “And using company assets.”

  Rosie added the final punctuation to her message with a flourish and clicked the send button hard enough he could swear he heard her mouse squeal. Pivoting a scant few inches, she cast a sidelong glance at him. “Fire me.”

  “Rosie, don’t be—”

  “Don’t tell me how I should be.” She lifted her hand and turned her back on him again. “Antihistamines are in the cabinet over the copy machine.”

  He stood staring at her back for a long minute, not wanting to leave things as they were, but uncertain how to proceed. At last, he gave in to the urge to scratch the itch under his collar and headed for the kitchenette-slash-supply room.

  When he emerged, he found Rosie swishing her desk chair back and forth as she spoke to someone on her cell phone. Another infraction any company with an actual Human Resources department might take exception to, but guys who lived in glass houses eventually learned not to show their asses. She kept her back to him, though he could tell by the tilt of her head and the curve of her cheek she was smiling.

  Was a guy on the phone? Devin responding to her Eros-gram like one of Pavl
ov’s dogs?

  He didn’t want to know.

  Setting his sights on his office door, he did his best not to listen to her conversation as he passed. He slowed his steps when he realized it didn’t matter if he could hear her. She was speaking in such rapid Spanish he would barely be able to pick out even the most rudimentary words. But in the split second before his office door clicked shut, he did hear one word he recognized: jackass.

  * * * *

  Rosie glared at the wood paneled door, agitation and annoyance roiling inside her. She dipped her head and drew a shaky breath, surprised she couldn’t see the heat of her indignation rolling off her in waves.

  Georgie chuckled. “I take it he walked by.”

  Gripping her phone tighter, Rosie shook her head and spun her back to James’s office door. “Yes. The jackass.”

  “Were you saying something about eating? I thought I caught the word comer in there.”

  “You would pick up on that.” Rosie chuckled softly.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time in kitchens. You pick up a few words here and there.”

  “I was telling him to eat a bag of dicks.”

  This time, Georgie guffawed. “Man, you sure love saying that, don’t you?”

  “How dare he stand there and make commentary on my dating choices? Who does he think he is?”

  “I’m pretty sure he got the ‘jackass’ message.” Georgie must have sensed the rant clawing its way up Rosie’s throat because she deftly changed the subject. “You’re seeing Charlie tonight?”

  Still seething, Rosie hummed an affirmation. “A Monday night date. I don’t know I’ve ever had one.”

  “Life in the restaurant biz. What are you wearing?” Georgie prodded. “New underwear?”

  Jolted back to the conversation, Rosie glanced down at the skirt and sweater set she’d pulled from her closet. “This phone call is taking a turn.”

  “You should always buy new underwear for a date.” A clatter of metal trays sounded in the background. “New lingerie is good luck.”

  “Monica said bad luck. She told me I should wear the underwear I don’t want anyone to see so I have a chance at getting lucky.”

  Georgie hummed as if considering the approach critically. “And are you?”

  “I am wearing perfectly good underwear. Not new, but nothing my mother would be embarrassed by if I were involved in an accident.”

  “Way to play the middle of the road. I bet you’re wearing beige, too.” The sound of a bell jangled through the phone and Georgie called out a cheerful “Be right with you” to her customer. “What time is he picking you up?”

  “Seven,” Rosie replied. “You’d better go.”

  “People like to look around first.” Georgie dismissed any notion of urgency with a wave. “Okay, well, like I said, Charlie is a great guy, but he’s fresh out of a relationship. He may not be in the right headspace yet. Keep things light.”

  “Be like rubber, not like glue,” Rosie intoned gravely.

  “Yes. Light and easy. If you can manage some no-strings sex, it might take the edge off.”

  “And, I will say good-bye,” Rosie announced.

  “Call me in the morning,” Georgie ordered. “Monica and I will expect details. Oh! And say yes to Devin the sailor man. Might as well start lining ’em up and knocking ’em down,” she added cheerfully.

  “Very nice.” Sarcasm dripped from each of Rosie’s words. “And Mike thinks you’re such an angel.”

  “No, he doesn’t. He likes the devil in me.”

  Georgie’s tinkling laugh coaxed a snicker out of Rosie. “No doubt. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “And don’t forget we’re shopping on Thursday night. Talk to you later, bye!”

  Laughing quietly, Rosie stowed her phone and turned her attention back to the stack of payables on her desk. Drawing on the powers of concentration she plied through years of night school, she worked through them at a steady pace. She slid the pile into the file folder marked pending, then paused. Unsure what to tackle next, she scanned the well-ordered desk.

  Her evening with Monica and Georgie was an eye-opener. How could she sit between those two women and claim she was satisfied with the status quo? Her life was beige and bland. A pathetic waiting game she could never win because her turn would never come. She’d responded to a few conversation starters on the Sparker app Georgie had loaded on her phone but had been too chicken to commit to a meeting.

  Grabbing her phone, she pressed the button to wake the backlit screen and tapped her way through to the MatchStix app. Her breath came ragged and uneven as she scrolled. Finally, she highlighted a nice-looking man named Manuel. And another named Brett. Brett was a high school science teacher who liked to read thrillers and bike the lakefront. Without giving herself a moment to second-guess the impulse, she tapped the tiny red-tipped matchstick beside his photo and watched as the graphic burst into flame.

  Her cheeks burned so hot she felt like she was on fire. Monica and Georgie were right. She had to move on. Now. Today. Maybe with Georgie’s friend the chef, or with one of those Internet set-ups like Devin, or maybe this Brett guy. The world was full of men. Nice men. Funny men. Men who’d appreciate a woman like her.

  Shoving her keyboard tray in, she snatched her handbag from her bottom drawer and stood. The clock at the corner of the computer screen read ten forty-five, but she didn’t give a damn.

  “I’m going to lunch,” she called out to no one in particular.

  Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed her coat and shrugged into the sleeves, covering the camel-colored twinset she’d thought looked sophisticated on the store mannequin. Tucking her purse under her arm, she lit up a couple more profile pictures on her way to the door. What the hell, right? The more the merrier. She was about to become a first-class serial dater.

  She had to buy a new dress.

  * * * *

  The moment Rosie was gone, James’s office door flew open and both of his partners stormed in.

  “Okay, we have a problem,” Colm announced, using his former cop voice.

  James hated Colm’s authoritarian tone. Hated the fact he automatically responded to the command in it. Colm had no power over him. They were equal partners in the business and practically the same age, but when Colm used his Lennie Briscoe Law & Order voice, James instantly turned into Lieutenant Dangle from Reno 911!

  Faking a calm he hadn’t felt since Megan blew back into his life, James took his time looking up from the folder he’d been staring at for the last five minutes. Apparently, his slow stare wasn’t as effective as Rosie’s because both men dropped into guest chairs uninvited rather than scurrying off. Huffing, he closed the file and fell back in his seat. “Oh? You think?”

  “Georgie called Monica, and Monica says Rosie has a date with one of Georgie’s chef friends tonight,” Colm reported, unfazed by either the stare or the monosyllabic sarcasm.

  “Charlie,” Mike interrupted. “Nice guy. Good fondue.”

  “Fondue?” Colm and James asked in unison, both their heads swiveling in Mike’s direction.

  “Yeah. You know, they bring you a pot of some weird cheese all melted down, and you dip stuff with those long forks?”

  “I know what fondue is,” Colm replied, his expression still incredulous. “But you have to be a chef to make cheese dip?”

  “We aren’t talking Velveeta,” Mike pointed out.

  “You know, for some reason, I am not having a hard time picturing you and Georgie dipping hunks of bread into a pot and feeding them to each other.” James rocked back in his chair as the image took hold. “I bet it was precious.”

  Mike’s grin was wide and self-satisfied. No amount of shit blown in his direction was going to stick. “Ask me how the Mexican chocolate was.”

  “I don’t want to know.” James held up his
hands in surrender.

  “Hot, spicy, and sticky,” Mike persisted.

  “Dude, never bait a guy who’s getting more than you.”

  James grunted. He hated it when Colm used his gruff-but-wise Lenny Briscoe voice. “Hey, you were mocking the fondue, too.”

  Colm smirked. “Yeah, but I stopped when he got all worked up about Velveeta. You have to know how to pick your battles.”

  James ran a hand over his face. “At the moment I feel like Hitler.”

  “Whoa. Not a good feeling.” Mike blinked, clearly taken aback. “You’re not having genocidal thoughts, are you?”

  “No, but I feel like I’m fighting a war on two fronts,” James clarified.

  Mike nodded as he swallowed the analogy. With a glance at Colm, he shook his head. “Good you’re putting your handy-dandy degree in world history to use, but next time you might choose to be FDR. He fought a two-front war, too, but is generally a more favorable comparison.”

  “Roosevelt’s wars weren’t fought on his turf,” James pointed out.

  “Have you been bingeing on Band of Brothers again?” Colm asked.

  James chuckled. “Saving Private Ryan was on last night.”

  “We’re issuing a blackout on war movies for the duration,” Mike announced in an officious tone. “I don’t think they put you in a good frame of mind.”

  Looking at the concern etched into his friends’ faces, James found he didn’t have the energy to prop up his usual defenses. Slumping, he closed his eyes. “I can’t remember what being in a good frame of mind feels like.”

  “Someone needs to get lucky,” Colm muttered in an undertone.

  “No,” Mike snapped. “Getting lucky is the last thing he needs. Christ, he has woman trouble enough, and he’s not even getting any.”

  James did his best to rally, but his heart wasn’t in it. “How do you know I’m not getting some?”

  Mike set his jaw and spoke slowly and deliberately, like he was a teacher talking to a particularly recalcitrant student. “Because, you getting some boils down to three possibilities. My sister…” He lifted his index finger. “I’d like to think you learned your lesson there.” Mike flipped up a second finger. “Rosie, which we all know isn’t happening. No need to discuss this further.” Finger number three joined its brethren. “The last option is someone other than my sister or Rosie, which puts a whole other spin on things.”