CHAPTER TWELVE
Sleep had been elusive.
First of all, there was her new cat who’d been determined to not only be on the bed with her, but to walk over her head every hour or so. Secondly, she was in Billboard Seingold’s freaking house, something she’d only dreamed of before. How awesome was that?
He was lying in bed, right now, right across the hall, and… O’Shea growled at herself. Frustration was eating her up.
From the moment her back had hit the mattress—after Billboard showing her to her ensuite and saying goodnight—she’d lain awake, squirming to get comfortable, wondering what the man wore when he was between the sheets. Was he a pajama bottom kind of guy? A brief wearer? Was he completely in the buff…?
About every ten minutes, no matter how many sheep she tried to count, her mind had filled with lustful curiosity, because, yup , she’d imagined him nestled beneath his comforter without clothes.
She’d wondered several times if she could somehow, stealthily, make her way into his room and take a peek. She’d actually started to slip out of bed once during the dark hours, but Zoe had begun meowing, and…shit. The last thing she wanted was for Billboard to wake up and catch her doing an unsanctioned peeping-act, so she’d frustratingly slunk back down.
She’d had to get up around three to flush another smelly cat-poop down the toilet after its noxious odor permeated her room, but she’d washed up and gone back to bed, where she’d tossed and turned for the rest of the night.
Now, the clock was finally glowing five-thirty, the sky outside was beginning to lighten, and her body refused to stay prone any longer.
“Come on, Zoe. Let’s find you some breakfast.”
She slipped out of bed, happy to be clad in a t-shirt and sweatpants, because that meant she was decent enough to wander around Billboard’s house without scrambling in her—as yet unpacked—messy suitcases. Not that she wouldn’t remove every stitch if Billboard requested it.
A girl could dream.
This time her fantasy was brief because the cat had become alert at the sound of the word breakfast. O’Shea continued to believe that for most of the feline’s life, she had to have been a loved member of somebody’s family. Poor thing. How had she ended up on the street?
Padding out of her room on bare feet, she moved silently past Billboard’s slightly cracked-ajar door, and gave a humph when she couldn’t quite see inside. Damn. No answers on the state of his clothed, or unclothedness. It looked like she’d just have to ask him if he slept in the nude. At least then her imagination could focus on his bare assets, instead of—as she’d been doing in her head—popping him in and out of various scanty outfits.
When she reached the kitchen, she opened a few cupboards until she found the one that held bowls, then popped the lid on Zoe’s second and final can of cat food and fed the purring creature. She’d have to pick up necessities for her new friend, ASAP. Even though Billboard had rummaged in his mother’s garage and come up with a box and litter, there’d been no canned food. And anyway, O’Shea wanted to replace the woman’s stash as well as picking up some toys and scratching posts. The last thing she wanted was for Zoe to start sharpening her claws on Billboard’s pristine furniture.
Yup. She’d gotten a good look at the man’s living room last night, and not only were his couch and chairs brand new, they almost looked like no one ever sat on them. Was Billboard just intrinsically neat, or did he never take time to relax his big body in front of his not-so-big, seen-better-days TV?
Another question to add to her growing list for BB.
Assuming that the man would be up sometime within the next half-hour, since he had work later, O’Shea decided to make coffee to get them both moving. After successfully putting a local shop’s grounds into his ancient-looking machine, she took a deep sniff to breathe in the welcome aroma and—
O’Shea coughed.
Damn. Another smelly crap. The cat food she’d picked up was odiferous. Could that possibly be the reason for the Zoe’s aromatic poops?
That vet appointment couldn’t happen soon enough.
In the meantime, she needed to take things into her own hands, wash the cat dish out, and find Billboard’s outdoor trash can into which she could deposit the new cause of the odor. After that, she’d do a quick web-search for the best food to feed her new, furry friend.
She washed the bowl and left it to dry, then went to the door with the can and some scooped litter. Eschewing footwear, because it was warm enough in June to go without, she opened the several locks on Billboard’s door and walked outside to pause for a moment and take a huge breath of fresh air.
Ahh. She loved the early mornings when the sun’s rays were just starting to peek above the horizon.
O’Shea was just about to move from the step to see if she could find Billboard’s outdoor trash when the door to the other side of the duplex swung open.
A tiny little lady in a bathrobe, her graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, walked out, and O’Shea, not wanting to scare her, immediately cleared her throat.
“Oh! Hello.” The woman turned, hitting her with a carbon-copy of Billboard’s dark eyes, She gave a momentary, confused shake of her head before a huge smile broke out across her face, transforming it from wary to delighted. “Who are you?” she asked brightly.
“I’m, uh, a friend of Billboard’s?”
O’Shea felt suddenly tongue-tied. Clearly this was BB’s mother, and what did one say to the matriarch when it looked as if she’d spent the night banging the woman’s son?
The truth, O’Shea , she told herself. Just not all of it. There was no way she’d admit to her crush on Billboard, and that she truly would have loved to be underneath his huge body all night. That would open up an awkward chasm between them.
“I’m O’Shea, a friend of Brigid’s actually. From Louisianna,” she fumbled. “You know Brigid, right?”
“I do,” the woman answered, her grin still firmly in place. “I know all George’s colleagues. I just haven’t come across any mention of you before.”
George.
O’Shea had never heard anybody call Billboard by his given name, and wondered if it was because he didn’t like it. O’Shea certainly didn’t like hers.
Maybe his mother was the only one allowed to use it. And that mother was right now clearly waiting for information.
O’Shea cleared her throat.
“Umm, that’s because we only knew each other briefly when he came south to help Brigid. I wasn’t planning on staying with him when I came to visit. Not at all. I was actually checked into a hotel, but then I found a stray cat in an alley and smuggled her into my room. Zoe cried too much which I thought might disturb the other guests, and which would have been bad since my brother paid for my stay and I didn’t want him penalized, so I called Billboard and he came to pick me and Zoe up.”
Yeah , that was the ramble of all rambles, but O’Shea felt like she had to get it all out, to try and make Mrs. Seingold understand that prancing about on her son’s doorstep at dawn was unplanned and innocent.
“That’s nice, dear,” the woman answered, her smirk firmly in place. “I’m glad you and my son are friends .”
Shit. She’d emphasized “friends”.
“Can I make you some breakfast?” the woman continued. “We won’t see George for another hour at least. He tends to sleep as late as possible, and when his alarm rings he only has time for a quick shower before he heads off to grab a fast-food breakfast sandwich on his way to the office.”
“Uh, sure,” O’Shea said. Huh. Billboard was a late sleeper. And a junk-food eater. Who knew?
O’Shea glanced down at the detritus she still held in her hand. “I was actually looking for the outdoor bins, because Zoe is really smelly.”
Mrs. Seingold peered at the tin O’Shea was holding, and wrinkled her nose. “It might be the food. That brand is notorious for its pungency. Especially the fish flavor.” She straightened. “The trash and recycling are right around the corner of the house.” She pointed. “Why don’t you drop them in, then come join me. Will scrambled eggs and toast be okay?”
O’Shea couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made her breakfast. Certainly, neither of her self-absorbed parents nor her grandmother had ever managed to do more than throw a box of cereal on the table when she’d been young. And her brother, as wonderful as he was, couldn’t cook worth a damn, even though they’d mostly been tasked with feeding themselves. “Creative” was the word that came to mind each time she thought back to those dark days.
“Scrambled is fine. But don’t go to any trouble,” O’Shea assured her. “I’m good with grabbing a breakfast bar.”
The woman rolled her eyes. “That’s not how one should start the day.” She turned to enter the house. “Now hurry along and get rid of that stuff. I can’t wait to find out all about you.”
O’Shea bit back a laugh. She’d heard from Brigid that Billboard’s specialty in the Marines—other than piloting a helicopter—had been interrogation. She had a feeling she was about to find out where he’d picked up his skills.
Making quick tracks across the yard and around the house, she easily spotted the bins, deposited the can in the recycling and the poop in the trash. The only thing that concerned her as she moved back toward the partially opened door, was whether Zoe would be okay without O’Shea for a while, or whether she’d take it upon herself to wake Billboard up.
She shrugged. The big man had signed on for the two of them when he’d picked them up, and if Zoe slid under his covers…
Damn. Lucky cat .
“Mrs. Seingold?” O’Shea shook off her insta-lust, and called out the woman’s name as she poked her head in the door.
“Come on in, O’Shea. I’m at the stove. And please call me Celia.”
“Uh, okay.” O’Shea walked into a spotless kitchen that was just starting to brighten as the sun rose outside; light flooding in through the oversized windows that sat open behind a well-worn kitchen table. “Is there anything I can do to help?” She took it upon herself to wash her hands. O’Shea wasn’t the best cook in the world—mostly because she didn’t have the patience for it—but she could manage rudimentary recipes, and sometimes even surprised herself when she really paid attention.
“No. No. I’ve got this. I could cook in my sleep,” Celia chortled. “Billboard is pretty adept at feeding himself, but with me right next door, he knows all he has to do is call, tell me he’s running late, and I’ll make him a nice meal. So I have plenty of practice.”
That sounded like heaven to O’Shea. There were many nights, working overtime, where she would come home and grab a cold piece of pizza from the fridge before crashing. She wondered if Billboard knew how lucky he had it?
“Can I set the table, then?” O’Shea asked. She really wanted to make herself useful.
“Sure,” Celia answered amicably. “Silverware is over in that drawer,” she tipped her head, “napkins are over there, too, and glasses are in the cupboard next to the fridge. I’ll dish up the plates directly from the stove.”
O’Shea found everything easily enough, and soon, the good smells were making her stomach growl. She remembered the coffee she’d started. “I have coffee on, next door,” she told Celia. “Should I go pour us a couple cups?”
The older woman shook her head. “I’m a tea drinker, but if you want some, the eggs will be ready in three minutes. And if you don’t mind,” she continued, grinning, “I’d love a picture of your Zoe. Once she’s settled in, I’ll give her a visit.”
“Will do, and I’ll make it fast.” O’Shea aimed for the door, but was nearly tripped by two, very fat orange tabbies, twirling themselves around O’Shea’s feet as if they were one entity.
“Pumpkin. Squash,” Celia reprimanded the pair. “Leave O’Shea alone. Shoo!” She waved her spatula at them, and they simply gave her twin, green-eyed looks of boredom before sauntering away. “Don’t mind them. They rule the roost.”
“They’re beautiful,” O’Shea praised. “I’ll make sure I pat them when I get back.”
“Oh, they’ll let you know if and when they want patting,” Billboard’s mother chortled. “Otherwise, I’d steer clear.”
Ahh. O’Shea got it. Sort of. Not all cats were cuddlers. She’d need to research cat-independence the first chance she got.
Hurrying next door, she saw that Zoe had settled in a puddle of sun by Billboard’s sliders, and didn’t seem in any hurry to move. She snapped a quick picture for Celia. Then O’Shea cocked an ear toward Billboard’s room. There wasn’t a sound from him, either, so he clearly wasn’t stirring yet.
She poured a large cup of black coffee, lamenting that it didn’t contain the chicory root she normally craved at home, but she wouldn’t be fussy. Maybe today she’d be able to do that shopping she’d thought about, making sure she had… yup , her chicory root, and more chocolate.
“That was quick,” Celia approved when she returned. “Let me see your little baby, then have a seat.”
O’Shea walked over and held the phone for Celia to see, and after the appropriate cooing noises were made, O’Shea obediently went to the table.
There was a cup of tea steeping at one spot, so O’Shea took the chair across from it, immediately sipping and appreciating her hot beverage. Within a few seconds, her meal was in front of her on the table, and it included a small slab of ham which she hadn’t expected.
“I just warmed that up from leftovers,” Celia told her, not standing on ceremony, but sitting down to dig right in. “Now,” she said pointedly, “tell me about yourself.”
And here we go …
Twenty minutes later, O’Shea was marveling at the amount of information Celia had extracted from her. She’d only meant to tell about her job as a detective with the OPD, and perhaps even mention her aspirations to sergeant, but she’d somehow ended up spilling about her personal life; her wonderful brother, her deadbeat parents, and her hopes of finding a position in Boston.
“You’re a very ambitious young woman.” Celia seemed to approve. “And to come from such difficult beginnings.” She shook her head, as if lamenting for O’Shea, which made O’Shea’s heart clench. Sympathy had most always been missing from her life.
“I’ve done what I had to, to survive,” O’Shea told her. If Celia knew the whole truth, it would boggle her mind. “I’m sure anyone else in my position would have done the same.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Celia admonished lightly. “You’ve accomplished a lot with so little. Now tell me…”
Oh, oh. It sounded like Celia was through with small talk, and was getting to the nitty-gritty. This was, no doubt, where she’d ask about O’Shea’s intentions toward Billboard.
O’Shea braced herself.
Celia pushed away her now empty plate, skewering her with what O’Shea imagined was a probing, motherly look. “Why do you call yourself O’Shea?”
O’Shea blinked. It wasn’t what she’d expected. And nobody had asked her that for a very long time. Not since she’d let it be known—at least with her fellow officers—that the subject was off limits.
O’Shea, once again, needed to go with something close to the truth, without having to get into details.
“I umm, was named after my grandmother; my mother’s mother, who I lived with for periods of time when my parents were…absent.” Translation; drunk on benders . “Karen, that’s my grandmother’s name, was… is not a nice person.” Yeah. The harpy was still alive, and wasn’t that just a shame. Simply saying her name, O’Shea had the urge to vomit, but she swallowed her bile. “As soon as I could make it happen, I forbid anyone to call me that, and I’ve simply been O’Shea ever since.”
“O’Shea being your father’s surname,” Celia supplied.
“Correct. He’s just…a weak man, uncaring of his kids, cowed by my mother who is just like her mother. But there’s nothing overtly nasty about him, so I kept O’Shea.”
Maybe she should have petitioned the courts for a complete name change once she’d reached her majority, but by that time she was so used to being called O’Shea, she hadn’t bothered.
Celia shook her head. “I know there’s more to that story than you’re telling, but I won’t pry.”
O’Shea nodded, thankful for the reprieve.
The woman’s face, however, suddenly brightened, and she clasped her hands together gleefully on the table in front of her, leaning in.
Here it comes…
“I’m more interested in finding out what’s going on between you and my son.”