Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

JAKE

Elaine needs to be comfortable around me. She needs to know she can trust me.

That's the verdict I've made after spending half the morning pretending to work on websites on Jake Jeffries's laptop in my bedroom while reliving that moment in the back of the hatchback over and over again, her sweet taste still in my mouth.

She needs to realize she can trust me, and then she'll be able to come.

Because now I have another mission, in addition to obtaining the Heart of the Mountain—

That fuckhead, Todd, screwed with Elaine's head and her heart, and I'm going to help her throw off the last of him.

I've already decided I'm going to steal all of his other beloved belongings when I get back to New York. Not to resell them, but to break them, one by one, and ship the ruins to him.

I'm going to screw with his head, the way he screwed with hers. I'm going to break him.

Then maybe I'll beat the shit out of him for good measure.

Why I care so much would be quite the question if I were really a therapist. So it's a good thing I'm not.

After reaching this epiphany, I close up the work I wasn't really doing in the room that isn't really mine, and go downstairs to look for Nicole. I find her in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee the size of a child's head while she studies her phone with a frown. She has bedhead and a shirt reading Looking will cost you.

"What do you want?" she asks without glancing up. "I should warn you that it's much too early for bullshit."

"It's ten-thirty."

"Precisely."

Fair enough. I've never been much of a morning person myself. There's no sign of Damien, but I don't ask where he is. She has no reason to tell me.

"I'd like to do something for Lainey. Is there any work I can do for The Love Fixers?"

Her first reaction is to laugh, which isn't promising.

"Ask, and it shall be delivered," she says next, which doesn't clarify anything.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"It's a halle-fucking-lujah that I don't have to do it myself. I was just looking at the answers to our Craigslist ad, and it's a whole lot of nope for me. So, yeah, if you want to help her, this is the ticket." She shoves her phone at me, and sure enough, there are at least twenty emails on the screen.

The subject lines are full of exclamation points and the word "fuck."

I whistle, suddenly doubtful. "You think a bunch of wronged women will be willing to deal with a man?"

Nicole snorts as she gives me an up-and-down appraisal. "Oh, you'll do just fine. They'll take one look at you and forget the guy's name. Besides, this will free me up so I can spend more time poking into your background."

"Fantastic," I say, rolling my eyes. I go to take the phone, and she waggles her finger back and forth.

"How am I supposed to do it if you won't let me look at the inbox?"

"Sign in on your phone."

I don't know how easy it would be for her to get a bead on my phone, but I figure it would be better not to risk it. I say so, and she heaves a bored sigh. "Fine. I have a drawer full of burners."

Fifteen minutes later, I'm signed into the Love Fixers account on a burner phone. Sitting in the Love Fixers office. Lainey's office. In her sleek leather chair, as if she's some hotshot New York CEO. There's another chair, similar in style but smaller, but I was drawn to this one. I wanted to sit where she sits.

I would have known this was Lainey's space even if Nicole hadn't told me. It smells like her. It feels like her, truthfully. Most people probably wouldn't understand that, but places do have a feeling, when someone cares about them. She clearly cares about this place, although it's only half decorated. The desk looks like an antique. It's L-shaped, with a little roll-top portion on one side and a flat portion on the other, with two guest chairs across from it. The bookcases against the back wall have an assortment of paperback and hardcover books and some framed photos of Lainey and a blonde woman who must be Claire.

In the corner there's a little cat bed shaped like a giant paw, obviously a recent purchase, and it comes as no surprise at all when Professor X, who's been lurking who-knows-where in the house slinks in and settles onto it like it's a throne.

I get going with the emails, clicking through to the first.

I'd like a dozen of your fuck you very much cookies delivered to my husband on Tuesday at noon. At his office. During his presentation. It'll totally throw him off his game.

Or…is that mean?

I don't know how to feel.

Peter said he wanted a baby, and he acted so excited when I told him I was pregnant. He cried. We cried TOGETHER. But then he cheated on me. A lot. My hands are shaking while I write this. I still don't want to believe it, but I know it's true, because I walked in on him with his head between a woman's legs. He tried to pretend he was helping her look for a tick, but I'm not an idiot. And then I found the emails…

Please help.

My jaw flexes. I think of my own mother, left alone and pregnant at eighteen. Maybe she wouldn't have made the decisions she did if she'd had any support. Probably so, but I'll never know. I type my response.

No , Peter deserves 10x worse. In fact, the cookies are on me. Can I recommend an assortment of Fuck You Very Much and Peter, Peter Pussy Eater cookies? If you're ready to take the next step: a cookie reading "I want a divorce" would make a memorable centerpiece.

If you need proof of his income for child support, let us know. We have P.I.s on staff. We can help you out, no problem.

Then I put together a quick spreadsheet on my Jake Jeffries laptop, adding a note about the order, the method for delivery, and who'll be paying for it, and move on to respond to the next message, from a woman who wants to warn her ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend that he has herpes.

First off: does he actually have herpes? If not, I'm thinking there are liability issues. If the herpes is documented, then hell yeah, we can help you with that. Maybe we can even soften the message by sending a "He has a herpes" cake or cookie. We have a standing relationship with Rainy Day Bakery.

There, now I've put in a plug for Lainey's friend's bakery too. I got the name off the sticker sealing those cookies the other night.

I move on to the next email, surprised to realize that I'm enjoying myself, just like I was the other day when I broke into that house with Damien. There's something fulfilling in helping Lainey mete out justice—like she's a superhero, and I'm her trusty sidekick. Even if she doesn't know it yet.

I move on to the next message.

I need some help.

Can you pretend you're a man and send me some texts to make my boyfriend jealous? Or, like, emails from a dating app?

He cheated on me with my mother.

Well, goddamn. Someone who has worse mother issues than I do. I have a feeling Therapist Jake Jeffries could do more for her than any thirst trap messages would, but Jake Jeffries has the sad problem of not existing. I lean back in the chair, tapping my foot against the desk, then respond:

Who does that? We're sorry you're going through this.

Sure, I'd be happy to make him jealous if it makes you feel better (I'm Lainey's friend, and I am a guy), but you want my honest opinion, you'd be better off putting a "motherfucker" banner on his front door, or maybe his car. This guy's not going to learn his lesson.

Then maybe you can take yourself on a nice shopping spree—with his credit card if you have it!—and post some photos of you having fun and not giving a shit on social media.

What do you think?

I click through to the next email and grimace at the photo that's front and center—a gorgeous blonde woman with her arms around a guy who, no shit, looks like a basset hound.

My fiancé broke my heart. I thought he loved me, but we went on vacation with his friend and his friend's fiancée in the Poconos, and all three of us walked in on him and the receptionist.

"Plot twist," I mutter to myself.

"What are you doing in my chair?" asks a familiar voice from the doorway.

I've been so intent on my work that I didn't even hear Elaine come through the front door down the hall.

I set the burner phone down, glancing at the door. It takes me a second to realize that what I'm feeling—my heart thumping faster, my palms sweaty—is excitement.

Elaine looks tired, not that I'm stupid enough to ever say that to a woman. She's nonetheless sexy, obviously. She'd probably be sexy even in a Nickelback T-shirt. Those Band-Aids from last night are still slathered over her hand, and despite waking up at an unreasonable hour to go to Smith House, she managed to put her short hair into some kind of bun. Her red sweater's different from the one she had on the night we met, but the color repetition suggests it's one of her favorites. It suits her, just like this room does. It's hardly an undercover color, but she's hardly an undercover woman. She draws the eye—making a man look twice, thrice, a thousand fucking times.

A voice in my head suggests I shouldn't be thinking about her like that, or this much…

"You're home early," I comment.

She sighs and sweeps into the room, pausing to give Professor X a quick pet before heading over to the chair I'm sitting in. She grabs the back as if she intends to unceremoniously dump me out. "And you're in my chair."

Laughing, I get up and turn to face her. "Nice to see you too, even if I get demoted to the sidekick chair."

She glances at the burner phone, then my laptop, sitting open on her desk. "Are you working on your website stuff?"

"No, it turns out that stuff's pretty boring. Who knew."

A half smile ghosts across her face. "So…?"

Her eyes drift to the screen of my computer again, her painted lips parting as she notices my spreadsheet. "Nicole bullied you into doing Love Fixers stuff?" she asks, seeming kind of amused by it. Not displeased, thank God, because it only occurs to me now that I probably should have asked first.

"No," I say quickly, lowering into the sidekick chair, and instantly swiveling. "I wanted to. You made it sound…"

Like it might be nice, doing something worthy, helping someone. And also like it could be fun.

"You wanted to?" she asks, her face brightening as she reads the spreadsheet. Shifting her head to look at me, a lock of hair escaping the pins, she says, "Jake, you don't need to spend your own money on this."

"I do," I say firmly. "He cheated on her while she was pregnant. She needs to know not everyone's like that."

Her smile spreads wider, meeting her eyes, and suddenly I feel self-conscious. I've pleased her, which is what I wanted to do, but I don't want to trick her into it. I want to earn it—just like I want to earn her release.

"I'm not doing it to be nice. It's personal. My father abandoned my mother when she was pregnant."

Her eyes widen, and I realize that I've told her too much. The truth keeps slipping out with her, probably because I can tell her the truth. She already knows my biggest secrets.

"Okay," she says, her eyes twinkling. "So you're a big bad tough guy thief who only sends out free FU cookies when the guy really deserves it." She settles back into the chair, still smiling at me. "This is why I still have to work for Mrs. Rosings, you know. I keep comping people because their stories get to me."

"Or because you accidentally adopt clumsy cats."

Professor X yowls and starts pacing on top of her throne, as if she's developed a sudden understanding of English. I wouldn't put it past her. After slicing me with a green-eyed stare, she settles back down, as calm as you please, and forms a little ball of fur. Christ. I'm starting to really like this cat.

Of course, that's nothing on what I feel for the woman beside me.

"Or that." Elaine watches me for a moment, and in her eyes, I can tell that she sees me, really sees me, and no longer dislikes what she sees. It feels like a vindication.

"How'd you think of the cookies anyway?" I ask, clearing my throat.

She shrugs. "It was this story Todd told me, about a peanut butter cup someone had at work."

"Go on," I say, thinking of Ryan and the way he balloons up when he so much as thinks the word peanut. I sit, and nod to her chair.

A smile flickers across her face as she lowers into it. "There was this big gourmet peanut butter cup set out on the counter in the break room, and he thought it was up for grabs, so he took a bite, didn't like it much, and threw it away. Except it turned out it was this specialty treat one of his co-workers had bought for himself, and he was really upset someone had taken it. So Todd told me he bought the guy a new one, they had a laugh about it, and all was well."

"I assume you're going somewhere with this."

She shakes her head slightly. "You're impatient. So I meet this guy at a party, and when he gives me his name, I say, ‘Oh, Todd ate your peanut butter cup,' and he looks shocked. Because it turns out Todd hadn't copped to it at all. In fact, he'd made this big deal about it, pretending he was going to help the guy find out who the culprit was, when it was him all along."

"Sounds like a superhero villain," I say, feeling a pulse of hatred for Todd, the douchebag. Todd, the piece of shit who could get away with anything, by virtue of being rich and "important." Admittedly, I have also gotten away with lots of dumb shit, but I had to work for it.

"Anyway. That's how I thought of the cookies. An FU by sugar."

I start typing into the search bar of my laptop, but I give her a sidelong glance. "How long did you stay with him after that?"

A corner of her mouth lifts higher. "Three years." She shrugs. "What can I say? He was my peanut butter cup. I didn't like it much either, but I convinced myself I did because I'd already taken a bite."

She glances at the screen, Peanut Butter Cuppies , then bursts out laughing. "You're getting him a gift?"

"You did say he just got engaged. Why don't we really stir up some shit and say it's from the guy he stole it from?"

Her eyes gleam. "He'll think it's one hell of a grudge for him to do it after all these years."

"I think a monthly delivery would be best, don't you?"

She leans in a little, her smile in her eyes, and I feel a swell of something warmer and sweeter than attraction, like I just ate one of the one-pound peanut butter cups on my computer screen. It's intoxicating…and terrifying. "I think I like you after all, Jake Not-Jeffries."

That feeling wraps its arms around me and hugs. I swallow, I squirm, I try to shake it off. "Should I get my name legally changed? Not-Jeffries has a certain ring to it."

"Can't tell you without knowing what you'd be changing it from," she says pointedly.

She wants me to offer up my last name willingly to prove that I trust her. I do. To a point. But I know she'll tell Damien and Nicole for my own good. Part of me wants her to do that, but there's another part—the kid who's never left the room he was locked into—who doesn't want to trust another human being with my brother's life. That part of me thinks it needs to be just us, against the world, and no one else can fully be let in. I'm also uncomfortable with my own need for her. I've known her a week, and only really known her since finding out who she was at the party, and yet…

I care about her.

I'd gladly destroy Todd for her.

I want to make her smile, and moan, and I want so badly to take some of the heaviness off her shoulders.

That terrifies me.

So even though I'd like to tell her my last name, then kiss her, then lock the door to this office and spend the rest of the afternoon showing her what sex should be, I clear my throat and look at my computer screen. I select the biggest peanut butter cup on the page. Hurling it at someone's head might kill them, and while I doubt the delivery person will do such a thing, a man can hope. "Should I include a balloon?"

I dart a glance at her, worried she'll be upset, but if she is, it doesn't show. "Jake Not-Jeffries, you should always include a balloon."

As I make the order, I feel her eyes on me, lasering through me again as if she's a non-lethal Cyclops from X-Men. When I ask for the address, she gives it to me without flinching, and I'm glad for that. It was her address once, but she doesn't regret that she no longer lives there, even though I recognize where the building is located. It's nice. A whole hell of a lot nicer than this place with the sagging walls and blotchy paint.

We both laugh as I type in the note to Todd.

I'll never forget , with the name of his peanut-butter-loving co-worker.

Then, when it's done, Lainey tells me about her piece of luck with Mrs. Rosings. I'm glad for it, because it means waiting is our best strategy—why risk breaking in when they could be home if Mrs. Rosings is going to hand wrap an opportunity for us?

It means that I get more time with Lainey. I want that. I want it bad, even if I feel guilty that I'm not more proactively working on solving Ryan's problem.

I pull up the Love Fixers spreadsheet again and turn my chair toward hers. "I want to be your sidekick, Elaine."

She smiles at me, that one lock of hair still loose at the side of her face. Without meaning to, I lean in and tuck it behind her ear, my fingers feeling the soft skin of her neck and trailing down it like they don't know how to pull away. Her eyes dilate, but she doesn't touch me. Doesn't swat me away either.

"I already have Professor X," she says.

"She's your familiar. You need a sidekick too."

Her mouth lifts. "So I'm a superhero and a witch? What's my code name?"

"You'll be the Love Fixer, of course."

"And you?"

I think for a moment, then grin. "The Love Bandit."

"Of course," she says with a soft smile that activates that warm feeling in my chest again. Maybe that's her special power—dispensing sugar and retribution. Dazzling people with her witchy splendor enough that they'll do anything for one of her smiles. "Will you draw us, Jake?"

I think again of that moment last week, when I dropped the book and she flipped through it. "You didn't seem to think much of my scribbles," I say, lifting my eyebrows.

"I thought you were one of those guys," she says, nodding toward the spreadsheet. "A cheater. A thief—"

"Well, you were right about that last part."

She takes my hand, her touch sending a shockwave through me, because she did it purposefully, pointedly. Watching me, she weaves her fingers through mine and holds on tightly, telling me something without words. "I wasn't right about you at all. And I lied. Your illustrations are amazing. Obviously . I want to see all of them."

I think about the sketchbooks. It's my history with Ryan, or some form of it. It's our story, which doesn't actually have an ending. Yet.

"Someday," I agree, and I mean it. I'd like to show her someday, even if our time is limited.

Two weeks, Roark told me. And Roark is not the type of man who gives extensions. If I don't manage to locate the necklace within two weeks, I'll have to go back anyway. I'll have to beg him to spare Ryan's hand—even if it means accepting whatever price he sets.

Not for the first time, it occurs to me that he might have purposefully set me a task he didn't think I could fulfill, or at least not fulfill alone.

I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss it.

"Jake," she says, her tone urgent, her eyes holding mine. "I don't know—"

"I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do. Ever." It's the type of promise a person probably can't fulfill, but I mean the words as they leave my mouth. I nod to the computer again. "But I want to do this with you. I want to help. Do you think you can take off some time tomorrow afternoon so we can give Peter, Peter, Pussy Eater a real fuck you he'll always remember?"

She feigns a cough. "I think I'm coming down with something."

"That's my girl."