“You’re welcome to help us with more baskets.”
“I’m betting that didn’t sound threatening in your head at all.”
“Yep. But you can take breaks to barf.”
“Wow! Best boss ever!”
She laughed. “I’m probably your first boss ever.”
“Since I quit mowing Mr. Nessen’s lawn in eighth grade, yeah. You’re so much better and in every respect. You don’t have any hair growing out of your ears, for starters.”
“Oh God,” she said, leaning back. “Here comes another story about your odd childhood.”
“Nuh-uh! Well, maybe. I’m just saying you’re a way better boss than Mr. Nessen. You don’t yell, you don’t clomp out on your porch to watch me work while furtively picking your nose, you don’t have any hair growing out of your ears, you haven’t tried to hit me with several issues of AARP magazine, and you’re not a racist. I’m pretty sure.” He raised his voice over her giggles and continued. “Annnnnd now you’re mocking me.”
“But there’s so much to mock! It’s almost entrapment.”
Jesus. She looks incredible when she laughs. Not that it’s on the table, but if I was going to hook up with anyone here, it’d be Delaney.
Whoa. Where’d that come from? He’d never wanted to get laid less in his entire life. He wanted to earn his money and get his phone and see if he could make Delaney laugh some more and yell at Blake and get his money back and then buy something really really nice for Delaney.
What the hell?
Not something silly and shiny, like her own CVS franchise. Something charitable and selfless, like her own YMCA.
WHAT THE HELL, RAKE?
Talking! Talking would drown out his inner Blake voice. “So besides Easter, what else do you do? For charity, I mean.”
The greedy shrew was flaunting her lack of poverty by devouring crème brûlée right in front of him. The way she was licking that spoon was definitely bordering on the criminal. Damn, that mouth. That wide, pretty mouth that he definitely wasn’t picturing stretched around his—
“Rake?”
“Eh?”
“I’ve been saying your name for the last ten seconds.” She’d paused in mid-lick. “Maybe this is all I do.”
“Nope. You’re in it deep, Delaney, you’re a Good Samaritan down to your bones, and you’re hooked on the hard stuff. Most people would be okay with volunteering a couple of times a year, but not you: You need it allll the time.”
Her tongue flicked as she licked her spoon again and shook her head. “How have you made charity work sound like a meth addiction? I’ve talked to actual meth addicts who don’t make meth sound like meth.”
“So you admit you have a problem. Ha! I should have been a lawyer; you just crumbled under my cross-ex.”
“Yes, that’s not what happened.” She saw him shiver; lately he’d been either too hot or too cold, often within moments of each other. “Want another blanket?”
“No, but a cell phone and access to funds would be great.”
She sighed. “I could float you a loan for a—”
“I’m fine.” In the Tarbell lexicon, “borrowing” was a sin slightly less dire than theft. “And even if I wasn’t, all my money is going toward a phone. I don’t care if I get pneumonia, getting yelled at by my brother is my first priority. And I’m not letting you distract me, either. So who do you help when it’s not Easter?”
Hmm, what other charities were there? His mother and Blake had set up some tax shelters, he knew, and mailed him gobs of paperwork every three months or so that he never read (what were they even trying to prove with all the paper?). And hadn’t the NFL figured out how to profit off at least one charity? But which— Ah! He’d bought an ex a pink Tom Brady sweatshirt a few years ago. He’d picked her up at Faneuil Hall and the expression “rabid fan” did not begin to apply. She’d been fun, and cute, and not shy about semipublic sex
(wait, do I have a thing for al fresco banging? how have I not realized this about myself?)
and toward the end he hadn’t really minded that she kept calling him Tom and had bitten him so hard on the throat that it hurt to swallow for two days. “Breast cancer awareness, right?”
This prompted an epic eye roll; for a second he worried she was having a ministroke. “Breast cancer awareness? Give me a break.”
“Oooookay.”
She snapped her head up to glare at him. “Who doesn’t know breast cancer is a thing? Anyone? In the last ten years, who has ever said ‘Thank goodness for breast cancer awareness, because I’ve been alive for twenty years and never knew it was a thing’?”
“Nobody?” he guessed.
“Nobody.”
“But—”
She cut him off, and a good thing, because he had no idea what followed “but.” “The money needs to go to research, not awareness. But nobody bothers to check. No one looks up stats. They buy something pink and think they’ve done their part. And if I ever get my hands on Lance Armstrong, I will break his fucking neck. Even before the scandal, Livestrong hadn’t accepted new research applications for years. And you know what really pisses me off?”
“No,” he replied, and he definitely wasn’t terrified.
“People who do charity work Christmas week and don’t give a shit about us the rest of the year.”
Whoa. Give a shit about us?
“When you put it like that, it makes me realize I definitely should stop donating to charity. After this week, I mean.”
His lame joke caught her off guard and she snorted in spite of herself. “Not where I was going with that, you dick.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry. I know you were just asking to be nice. It’s—it’s kind of a trigger for me.”
“Noted.” Who, Delaney? Who doesn’t give a shit about you or Sofia or Teresa the rest of the year?
“We work smaller,” she said, calming. She was stacking things on the room service tray, possibly so she didn’t have to look at him while she explained. He did nothing to impede her. “Not one or two big charities a year, but lots of little ones. Easter baskets and school clothes and food shelters, and we’re working on a private—never mind, it’s not important. But whatever we do, it depends on the donations we get. And don’t get,” she added under her breath.
“It’s nice you keep busy.” He kept his tone mild, and wondered if he dared ask the question. “Me, I collect recipes. It’s not just a superfun hobby, it helps with my weekly menu planning!”
“Sure it does.” She moved the tray to the desk, went to the closet, and brought him another blanket. “You should probably sleep some more.”
“Never! I’m guessing I don’t get paid sick time.”
“Good guess.” But she smiled, and he mentally swore he would fill several baskets tomorrow. At least a dozen. Two dozen!
Twenty-one
I’d never hurt her. I’d never hurt any woman. I’ve hurt men who have tried to hurt women and never regretted it, not once; black eyes get better and broken noses can be reset. I knew that by the time I was thirteen.