I was the one who gave orders, not took them. No one so much as breathed, except the woman I assumed was Miss Nece, who continued on as if we weren’t even there, while they waited to see what I’d do.
This or jail. This or jail.
I still wasn’t completely convinced my family would send me to the slammer . . . until I looked at my father standing with his arms folded and his face like stone. He’d love to get rid of me.
I shrugged off my suit jacket, loosened my tie, and hung it on an empty hook next to a few pink aprons. I snagged one and tied it around my waist. “I’m yours to do with as you please, sugar.”
I flashed my best grin at the woman who was old enough to be my grandmother. Might as well attempt to win her over if we were going to have to work together. I could play nice when I wanted to.
“The next time you say sugar, you better be talkin’ ‘bout this.” She pointed at a fifty-pound bag of the white stuff. I stepped back. She looked like she might hit me with it no matter how heavy it was. “Now put on some gloves and plate those muffins real pretty-like.”
She motioned to a box of plastic gloves before I could ask where they were and then turned her icy look on my brother and father. Something about that made me like her.
“What can we—”
“See them glasses and plates? Start takin’ ’em out to the dining room,” she commanded.
Easton and Dad jumped right into action, grabbing as much as they could.
“I’ll show you where to stack them,” Mrs. Quinn said as she held the door for them.
The door was still swinging when Miss Nece turned all her attention back to me. “This is serious business. If you ain’t gonna take it as such, you can get out of my kitchen right now.”
I gestured down my body. “Doesn’t get more serious than a pink apron. I wouldn’t wear this for just anybody.”
She muttered something about Jesus and trouble, though I couldn’t understand the sentence. But I swore as I finished plating the tray of muffins I saw her smile.
Chapter Six
Sonya
“Should I be offended you’re the first male to see me naked in a while, and you’re trying to escape?”
Sam nudged the glass door to the shower. For some genius reason, I thought giving him a bath would be easier in the shower stall if we were both in it. His back half was shampooed, his face was wet, and he was putting up a fight I honestly wouldn’t have thought he had in him. Then again, he was a survivor.
And he was determined to get out of there.
I sat on the tiled floor and patted my thigh. He stopped nosing the door and looked at me warily.
“Have I done you wrong so far?” As if he could understand me, he cocked his head, considering. “We have to get this dirt off you.” I squeezed a little soap on my arm and rubbed it in. “See? I have to do it too. Then we can get something to eat.”
He cut his gaze back out the foggy glass.
“You’re going to run, aren’t you?” I sighed as he lifted his paw but stopped just short of pushing on the door.
He stared at me with those brown eyes that held so much expression. The dog seemed to be asking if it would make me happy if he let me do this horrible thing to him.
“It’ll make both of us happy,” I said as if this conversation was two-sided instead of one. “At least let me get the soap off you.”
He lay beside me and put his head on my lap. His eyes seemed to say “do your worst.” I hated to upset him, so I tried to be as gentle as I could.
“Temperature okay?”
He didn’t move, so I had to assume it was. For me, the water was a little on the cold side, but I didn’t want to scald him. I massaged carefully as I worked soap into his fur and rinsed.
His eyelids closed, and he let out a soft snore. Guess the fight had worn him out. Still, I worked quickly to make the experience as painless as possible. I even serenaded him with “Hell on Heels” by The Pistol Annies.
The song was almost autobiographical. I belted out my favorite line about still using the poor guy’s credit card because I had the AMEX Jeffrey Paulson had given me eleven years ago. Every time a relationship ran its course, I picked a new hotel to stay in until I met my next mark. What was the point in keeping an apartment when I could always land in one much better than what I could afford? And if I had no home, it was that much harder to find me . . . if anyone bothered.
I was a virtual ghost.
It never ceased to surprise me when the credit card wasn’t declined. And every so often, a new one with an updated expiration date showed up at the front desk of whatever hotel I was staying in. Why Jeffrey did that, I’d never figured out. Maybe I’d left a good impression on him. Maybe he got some sort of personal satisfaction out of it. He’d always liked to take care of me. Guess this was his way of continuing to do that from a distance. In that case, once my eye healed, I was due to try out a suite at the Four Seasons courtesy of Jeffrey. I was sure he wouldn’t mind.
“They’re going to treat you like a prince there,” I said, but Sam didn’t move. Come to think of it, he was treated like a prince here too.
Once I’d finished bathing him, I didn’t have the heart to move him off my leg, so I stayed on the shower floor, using the handheld nozzle. Semi-warm water flowed over my head. I stretched to bump up the temperature a notch but couldn’t reach the tap. Instead, I grabbed the shampoo and shivered as I lathered it into my hair. This was going to be a quick shower.
As I washed the suds out of my thick curls, water blasted my face.
“Ow.” I jerked the hand with the nozzle away from my head and touched beneath my eye. It hurt like a bitch and was even more sore today than it was yesterday.
That coin had better be worth a ton. And Tamas better be glad I wasn’t the type to hold a grudge . . . not for too long anyway.
My stomach growled, and Sam lifted his head. “Sorry I woke you up, dude.”
I eased to my feet and stretched. I’d gotten stiff sitting on the hard floor. Sam stood too.
Quickly, I finished bathing and dried us both off. Every time I touched his skinny frame, I got pissed off all over again that he’d had to live like he had. Starving. Homeless. Maybe he’d never had a home.
I hadn’t had one in a while either. Not really.
“Ready to go find something to eat in this joint?” He wagged his tail. “Let’s see what kind of trouble we can get into.”
* * *
The dining room was mostly empty when we made it downstairs. A few groups were scattered around the tables, but they didn’t appear to be eating. Mrs. Quinn had mentioned something about breakfast at six a.m., but my brain had shut down at those words. Who got up at that ungodly hour?
Sam stayed plastered against my leg. When I moved, he moved. When I stopped, he stopped. I hadn’t been completely sure what to expect from him, but at least he hadn’t run off like a wild man at the scent of bacon.
“Hi.”
I jumped and put a hand over my heart at the woman who’d snuck up on me.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said quietly. “I’m Trish.”