Maggie #2
“Oh, she lives.” His voice pours through the speaker thick with drama. “I was beginnin’ to plan your memorial service. Closed casket, naturally. I assumed you died from excessive sexual tension.”
I close my eyes. “Jules.”
“I also considered poisonin’. Rich people love poisonin’ each other.”
I step into the lobby and jab the elevator button with my thumb. “You watch too much television.”
“And you read too many romance novels.”
The elevator dings a second later. I step inside, leaning my head back briefly against the wall while the doors slide shut. By the time I reach my floor and unlock my apartment door, Jules is still talking. I walk inside and push the door shut behind me.
“It’s seven-thirty in the mornin’. Why do you have this much energy?”
“Because unlike you, Magnolia Hayes, I slept in my own bed.” He pauses. “Wait. Did you sleep?”
My face goes hot instantly. That smug little silence on the other end tells me he hears it.
“Oh my God.” Jules gasps loud enough to wake the dead. “You didn’t.”
“I hate you.”
“No, honey, you hate that I’m right.”
I kick off my shoes beside the sofa and drag a hand through my hair. “I’m showerin’ and comin’ to the shelter.”
Jules makes a thoughtful hum into the phone. “So that’s a yes.”
“It’s not a yes.”
“Maggie.”
“Jules.” I roll my eyes and rub a hand over my forehead.
“You spent the night with the terrifying hot Russian.”
“He has a name.”
A dramatic gasp crackles through the speaker. “That right there tells me everything I need to know.”
I groan into my hand.
Jules cackles. Honestly cackles.
“You’re smiling,” he accuses.
“I am not.” I press my lips together even though he can’t see me.
“You are. I can hear it.”
“I’m hangin’ up now.”
“Bring coffee. And details.”
The line disconnects before I can threaten him.
I glance around my tiny living room with its thrift-store furniture and stacks of paperback books on the side table. Last night already feels surreal. My stomach flips clean over.
I drag both hands down my face and head for the shower before I can embarrass myself further by standing in my kitchen grinning like a fool.
Twenty-five minutes later, I pull into the shelter parking lot with damp hair twisted into a clip and a cardboard tray of iced coffee riding shotgun beside me. Second Chance Savannah comes into view with its faded blue sign and flower boxes out front.
Home.
The second I climb out of the truck, barking explodes from inside. Then the front door swings open. Jules steps out in black jeans, sunglasses, and a fitted gray T-shirt, looking less like a shelter manager and more like a man heading to a photo shoot. He plants one hand on his hip.
“Well, well.”
“Oh, don’t start.”
“Too late.” He lowers the sunglasses slowly. “Look at you.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“You look suspiciously moisturized.”
I nearly choke on air. He grabs one of the iced coffees before I can smack him with it.
“You’re a terrible person.”
“And still your favorite.”
“That title is hangin’ by a thread.”
“Mhmm.” He falls into step beside me as we head inside. “Did the Russian billionaire feed you breakfast in bed?”
“No.”
“Did the hot Russian billionaire sit there lookin’ intense, mysterious, and emotionally constipated?”
“Yes.”
Jules clutches his chest. “Finally. Honesty.”
I laugh despite myself.
Warm air wraps around us the second we step into the lobby. A volunteer waves from behind the desk.
“Mornin’, Maggie.”
“Mornin’, Claire.”
One of the pit bull mixes starts wiggling so hard in his kennel that his entire backside smacks the gate.
“Hey, Bubba.” I crouch beside the kennel while he presses his nose through the bars. “You causin’ trouble already?”
“He screamed because breakfast was three minutes late,” Jules informs me.
“Relatable.”
Bubba sneezes directly into my face. Jules loses his mind laughing.
“Oh, that’s karma,” he says.
I wipe my cheek with my sleeve. “I hope a cat pees in your shoe today.”
“See? This is why the billionaire likes you. You’re spicy.”
I point toward the hallway. “Office. Now. Before I throw you into the puppy room.”
Jules presses a hand dramatically to his chest, then flicks his fingers through the air like he’s accepting a royal invitation. “Promises, promises.”
He follows me into the cramped little office we share.
The room looks the same as every other day.
Clipboards stacked everywhere. Donation letters spread across the desk.
A giant whiteboard full of schedules and vet appointments.
But as soon as I sit down, I feel off balance, like part of me is still back at that massive house.
The feeling hits me hard, and Jules notices right away.
He closes the office door behind him and leans against it with his iced coffee in hand.
“All right,” he says. “Talk, missy.”
I drop into my chair. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Maggie.”
“Jules.”
“You have your romance-novel face.”
“I don’t have a romance novel face,” I say, shuffling paperwork on the desk.
“You absolutely do.”
I busy myself looking over adoption applications.
Jules snorts. “Oh, Miss Magnolia is nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You alphabetized the donation receipts yesterday.”
I freeze.
Traitor.
His grin widens.
“Oh wow,” he murmurs. “You like him.”
I stare down at the paperwork in my hand, and that probably answers the question all by itself. Generally, I’d already have a smart comment ready. Instead, my chest feels tight and tangled in a way I don’t know how to explain.
Jules pushes away from the door and drops into the chair across from me.
“Okay,” he says more gently. “How’d dinner go?”
I don’t look up, twisting the pen between my fingers.
“Oh Lord.” He points his finger at me. “That expression means feelings.”
“I hate when you’re observant.”
“It’s my greatest gift,” he smirks.
I blow out a breath. “It was nice.”
Jules squints at me. “Nice how?”
I lean back in my chair. “First of all, Ivy named the puppy, Winston.”
Jules presses a hand to his chest. “An icon already.”
I smile despite myself. “Then she spent half of dinner insisting Winston is basically a guard dog now.”
“He weighs less than my handbag.”
“Exactly.” I point at him. “That’s what Alexei said. He looked right at her and said, ‘He’s six pounds.’”
Jules snorts.
“And Ivy informed him size means nothing when you have instincts.”
“That child is my favorite Agapov.”
Mine too.
The thought arrives so fast it nearly startles me. I glance down before Jules can read my entire soul off my face.
Too late.
“There it is again,” he murmurs.
I rub a hand over my forehead. “Stop lookin’ at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re two seconds away from stagin’ an intervention.”
“I’m considerin’ it.”
I let out a small laugh. “It felt…” I pause, looking for the word. “Easy.”
Jules grows quieter. “That surprises you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” he asks.
I shrug lightly. “Because it shouldn’t feel easy sittin’ with a man who looks like he could order a hit between courses.”
Jules presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh. “But it was.”
I nod. My mind goes back to Ivy giggling over dessert and Alexei watching us with that look that makes my stomach flutter.
“He paid attention,” I say quietly.
Jules studies me over his iced coffee. “To you?”
I nod again. “To everything. He listens. Like every little thing matters.”
Jules leans back slowly, crossing his legs. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”
I stare at him. “Why?”
“Because emotionally unavailable rich men are much easier to resist when they’re assholes.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “He’s intense,” I admit.
“Oh, honey, I gathered that the minute he walked into this building looking like he owns offshore bank accounts.”
I kick his shoe under the desk.
“Ow.” He points at me accusingly. “No violence in the workplace.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet lovable.” He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. “So, what happened after dinner?”
I feel the blood rush to my face immediately.
Jules’s eyes widen. “Oh my word,” he says dramatically.
“Shh! Keep your voice down.”
“You did sleep with him.”
I cover my face with one hand. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Continue,” he insists.
I peek at him through my fingers. “He kissed me.”
“Scandal.” Jules leans forward so fast the ice rattles in his cup. “And?”
I stare down at the desk again. “And I forgot the name my mama gave me.”
That earns a slow whistle. “Good for you, honey.”
I laugh at him.
“I was worried the tattooed Russian mafia man might come across bland,” he says.
I point at him. “You promised not to call him mafia.”
“I promised no such thing,” he says around a sip of iced coffee through his straw.
“You implied it.”
“Sweetheart, the man looks like he owns private islands and buried bodies,” Jules says, stirring his straw through the ice in his coffee.
I press my lips together. Because honestly? He’s not wrong.
Jules narrows his eyes at me from across the desk. “Oh no.”
I glance up. “What now?”
“You think it’s attractive.”
“I do not.”
“Maggie.”
I grab a folder off the desk and hold it against my chest like that’ll somehow save me. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Jules drops his head back dramatically toward the ceiling. “I have failed you as a friend.”
I snort and shove a stack of papers away from me. “You’re so dramatic.”
“And you spent the night with hottie Russian mafia man.”
I roll my eyes. “You make him sound like a supervillain.”
Jules points at me immediately. “Mmhmm. Notice how you danced right around denyin’ it.”
I throw a pen at him.
He snatches it out of the air one-handed with an offended gasp.
“Again, violence in the workplace.”
“You earned it,” I tease.
“Oh, absolutely not.” Jules leans forward across the desk, his eyes sparkling with nosy excitement. “We are not skippin’ over the good parts.”
I already know where this is headed. I chew on my bottom lip.
Jules’s jaw drops. “Maggie Hayes.”
“Boy, hush.” I shove both hands over my face. “Can we not do this at eight in the mornin’?”
“You slept with him. And you liked it.”
“Keep your voice down.”