Chapter 2

“You gonna clean that up?” Jacob asked dryly. “Since you are the responsible one.”

Lucky for me I’d been carting around the ridiculous cherub statue this whole time in a flimsy plastic grocery bag. Locking my eyes with Jacob’s as intently as the dog had been staring into mine, I dumped out the knickknack, slipped the bag over my other hand, and grabbed.

Squishy, I’d expected. But did it have to be so warm?

Suppressing a shudder, I pitched everything into a nearby trash can, cherub and all. Jacob had the good sense to keep a straight face while he refrained from comment.

Though I strongly suspected he was grinning on the inside.

Thankfully, there was a restroom in the antique mall where I could scrub off the top few layers of skin while Jacob returned Snickerdoodle to his foster parents. The soap was a dried-up sliver that reeked of fake sandalwood…but at least it wasn’t soft and moist.

On the way home, Barb called, but Jacob let it go to voicemail.

“Aren’t you gonna get that?” I asked.

Jacob navigated a traffic snarl caused by a guy trying to parallel park in a spot he’d be lucky to fit into with a shoehorn and a crane. “I’ll call her back. She’s probably just making sure we got the gift.”

He spotted a gap, tried to go around, and was quickly cut off by someone in a rusty pickup with nothing to lose. His phone rang again.

“She seems awfully invested in that thing,” I said. “What if she asks you to send her a photo?”

“Like we’re holding it ransom?” Jacob muttered a few choice curses at the guy ahead of us. “Why would she do that?”

Because I threw it out, obviously. And even if we were to turn around and go back for the damn cherub, no doubt some opportune weirdo had already fished it out of the trash by now and was using it to store their weed.

The phone rang again.

“We’ll tell her I broke it,” I said. “I’ll take all the blame.”

Jacob cut his eyes to me. “Why wouldn’t you? You’re the one who threw it out.”

We both knew damn well that he didn’t want the dumb figurine in our house any more than I did, but before I could get into it, my phone rang. I glanced down at the caller.

Barbara.

I flashed the incoming number at Jacob. He sighed. “You don’t have to field this—she’s my sister. I’ll call her back as soon as we get home.”

“Hopefully she won’t keep you on the line too long.” This would be our last night together before Jacob—and most of our co-workers—flew off to Nantucket Island to take home some ridiculous trophy and score bragging rights for the entirety of the Midwest. Seriously, the last thing I’d care to do. But right up Jacob’s alley.

I didn’t pretend to be interested in the actual mechanics of the game, but I could emphasize the fact that the parting sex would be good—and the reunion sex even better. I snaked a hand awkwardly across the console and gave Jacob’s thigh a squeeze. “Speaking of home—I’ll need to give you something to remember me by while you’re gone.”

Jacob had been clutching the steering wheel in a death grip, but the color returned to his knuckles and the tension around his eyes eased as he slid my hand a quick look. “Is that so?” he said playfully. “What if I need to conserve my energy for the competition?”

I inched my hand up his inseam. “You can always sleep on the plane.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up. I’d gotten his attention.

“I have it on good authority that the coffee table makes for some interesting angles,” I said. “Especially now that it’s free from extraneous tchotchkes.”

Jacob’s nostrils flared.

Call me selfish, but I didn’t want to share him with a dog, let alone some random kid. Our time alone together was precious. And if it meant me carrying around the coffee table texture imprinted on my bare ass all weekend to remind him of how precious that time was—so be it.

By the time we finally pulled up in front of the cannery, we were both more than ready to be home. As I was unbuckling my seatbelt, Jacob slipped a hand behind my head, carding his fingers through my hair, and pulled me into a kiss.

Not a middle-aged, married-guy kiss, either.

A forceful, eager, scorching kiss that promised all the dirty things he wanted to do to me. On the coffee table. And the dining room table. And maybe even the stairs, if I was lucky.

Fingers tightened in my hair and anticipation zinged down to my groin as Jacob nuzzled me, skimming my jaw with his beard. In his smokiest bedroom voice, he said, “Let’s get inside before we scandalize the whole neighborhood.”

He didn’t need to tell me twice.

I was halfway up the walk with my keys in my hand when a car pulled up behind the Crown Vic. I didn’t think much of it—all the neighbors have cars, after all, and parking’s always at a premium—though the slam of the driver-side door was, in retrospect, pretty darned aggressive.

And then there was the annoyed shout that followed.

With the heavy Wisconsin accent.

“What the heck, now neither of you answer your phone?”

Barbara.

I gave an inward wince and turned to face the music.

Literally…given the big black instrument case Barbara yanked out of the car.

My guilty mind went into overdrive trying to find the connection between the cherub, the fact that Jacob’s sister was storming up the sidewalk, and the case in her hands. And then the passenger side door swung open and Clayton sulked out. (Sulk being an apt description of pretty much every action he’d performed since puberty took root.)

“Barb?” Jacob said with great eloquence.

She paused at the foot of the walkway, glared at her brother, and jerked her chin in Clayton’s direction. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him!”

Clayton sighed.

“We were just in Galena,” Barb said. “Picking up a new trumpet.”

They don’t have freaking trumpets in Wisconsin?I thought. But the part that baffled Jacob was, “You drove here from Galena?”

Barb ignored him. “And then this genius had to go and announce that he’d signed up for some band trip for school and he’d be gone for ten whole days! In New Orleans. With 24-7 liquor and girls going around flashing their—” she huffed. “He’s not ready for something like that!”

“You never let me do anything,” Clayton muttered.

“He claims I’m being overprotective. Wanna know where he learned that word?” Uh oh. “So here we are. Uncle Jacob needs to do something about this kid before I have a heart attack.”

“Back up,” Jacob said. “The school’s not gonna haul a minor across state lines without parental permission.”

Barbara gave him a look that made me glad she hadn’t inherited the telekinetic gene…at least as far as we knew. Then something occurred to me that I don’t normally think much about: Clayton did have two parents. And I’m guessing he was well aware which one was the “fun” one.

“He’s thirteen,” Barb said. “He’s never been gone longer than overnight, and no farther than a bike ride away. I told him to prove he’s ready by spending the weekend in Chicago with his uncle—just something simple to start out with. Give him a real taste of what it’s like to be away from home.”

Jacob’s eyes narrowed.

Barbara crossed her arms. “I told him if he wants me to sign off, he needs to show that he can handle it.”

“I can’t just call off work at a moment’s notice, Barb. I’ve got plans.”

What came over me at that particular moment, who’s to say? Was it sympathy for the fact that Clayton had been dealt a shitty absentee dad thanks to some psychic breeding program he didn’t even know about? Or was it just the need to prove I was plenty responsible?

I may never know.

“I’ve got this,” I said. Barb and Jacob both looked at me like I was nuts…which only made me lean into the idea harder. “Jacob will be back Sunday afternoon. I’m sure we can survive without him. I’ll need to go in to work for a couple of hours on Saturday and make the rounds, but I’m guessing the Cannery would be pretty hard to burn down.”

Barbara was suddenly none too keen on leaving her kid behind. “Y’know what? Never mind—”

Jacob chimed in, “We’ll do it some other time.”

And now I felt like I had something to prove to him. “You’re saying Clayton would be fine for an entire week in New Orleans, but he can’t be trusted unsupervised for a couple of hours in the living room?”

If Jacob had a problem with that, he should’ve considered what he was getting himself into when he claimed I’d be the “fun” parent.

“Fine. Then, it’s settled.” Barb shoved the trumpet case into Clayton’s hands. “I’ll be back Sunday night, and then we’ll see who’s so eager to go on this ridiculous trip.”

“Wait,” Jacob said. “You’re leaving your kid for three days with nothing but a trumpet and the clothes on his back?”

Barb narrowed her eyes. “You have a washing machine. Don’t you?”

“Not even a toothbrush?”

“There’s a twenty-four-hour Walgreens at the end of the block. I’m pretty sure he’ll survive. Especially since he’s so capable and mature.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance as Barb stormed away, climbed into her car, and headed back to Wisconsin.

And then the enormity of what I’d gotten us into sank in.

We weren’t expecting company, after all. Our spare bedroom was set up as an office. I’d eaten the last of the cereal this morning. And though our porn these days was mostly streaming, there was a handful of DVDs we kept around for old-time sake, so some kind of warning would’ve been appreciated.

That’ll teach us to save a phone call for “later.”

Jacob and I watched her tail lights disappear. Then I charged into the house with him close on my heels, hoping against hope that there was nothing embarrassing lying around. Thankfully not. But that didn’t make the situation any less awkward.

“We got this,” I told Jacob.

“If you say so.” He looked entirely unconvinced as he ushered Clayton into the cannery. “I’ll get out the air mattress.”

Clayton strolled past me like I was part of the woodwork, flopped onto the leather couch, whipped out his phone, and proceeded to do something that involved a lot of thumbwork. Texting a friend, I presumed…until I craned my neck and saw he was engrossed in some mindless game.

The air mattress hadn’t seen any use since the time Agent Garcia’s apartment was getting fumigated, so Jacob seemed eager to put it through its paces. Everything is automated these days—including air mattresses—and all you had to do was plug it in and wait for the thing to inflate.

In theory.

In practice, the motor filled the mattress about a quarter of the way, made a weird, high-pitched sound, emitted a smell like burning plastic, and promptly died.

“Not a problem,” Jacob said with just a smidge too much confidence. “There’s a valve on the side we can fill with a bike pump.”

Easier said than done. I don’t know if the emergency stopgap was actually meant to be used. With the first plunge of the bike pump, the hose shot out, and half the air went with it.

“You have to fill it really full,” Clayton said, without lifting a finger to help. “Or else I’ll just sink down the middle.”

It was a two-man job, with one of us keeping the hose shoved into the hole while the other one pumped. We took turns, initially. Until we realized that handing over the reins just let out as much air as we’d put in. Every time he heard the hiss of air escaping, Clayton was sure to let us know he’d never be able to sleep on a saggy bed.

To expedite things, I ended up taking care of the valve while Jacob worked the pump. Not at all how I’d seen the evening panning out…a thought I came back to again and again as I watched him pumping away with all the determination and focus you’d expect.

Finally, though, the mattress was full enough to bounce a quarter off, and we did manage to shut the valve without losing much air. Even Clayton seemed to think we’d done a good job, if his lack of complaining was anything to go by. But when I turned to glory in my obvious and undeniable responsibility, I discovered the kid wasn’t admiring our hard work—he was splayed on the massive leather couch, out like a light.