“You’re an attorney.”
“I’m a party to the agreement.”
“You wrote it,” she pointed out.
“Which is why you need to have someone else read through it,” he retorted.
She rolled her eyes. “It just states everything we talked about.”
His eye roll trumped hers. Nodding to the document, he fixed her with a stern glare. “Right, but there might be aspects to what we talked about that you haven’t considered.”
“Are you trying to rook me out of a baby? You might be good, Tom, but unless you can prove me unfit, you wouldn’t stand a chance. Courts still favor the biological mother,” she said with a smug smile.
“I don’t need you to tell me that.”
If his petulant expression were any less appealing, she might have heeded his advice. A part of her knew that she probably should anyway, just to counter-act that little boy sulk he had going on. She sighed and picked through the container again, searching for a cashew she might have missed the first time through. Without glancing in his direction she asked, “If you were my attorney, what would you advise?”
Tom set his container aside and plucked the last egg roll from the box resting on the cushion between them. He pursed his lips as he broke off the end and inspected the roll’s contents. “Well, you’d be signing away any possibility of a palimony claim.”
“I didn’t think they did those much anymore.”
“Maybe not, but the precedent is still there.”
Maggie slumped onto the arm of the couch and swung her feet onto the cushion, knocking over the empty container. “I don’t need your money, Tom.”
He snorted softly, fixing her with a bland stare. “It’s rarely about money, Maggie.”
“Yes, but that’s all you get in the end, right?” She stabbed at her dinner, spearing a chunk of chicken with her chopstick. “Any kind of split up is basically a divorce. Someone always comes out worse for it. As long as it’s not my baby who suffers, I don’t care.”
“You say that now.”
“And I’ll say it later, too,” she stated flatly. “It’s not like you’re
gonna
set me up in a manner to which I’d like to become accustomed, right?” She sank her teeth into the chunk of chicken and pulled it from the chopstick. “You aren’t trying to
Gigi
me, are you?”
“Gigi you? What does that mean?”
“Old musical,” she mumbled as she chewed. “A family of French courtesans raise a young girl to be a kept woman…You know, I used to think I wouldn’t mind being a kept woman,” she mused.
“What changed your mind?”
She shrugged and set the container on the coffee table. “Never met a guy as handsome as Louis Jordan or as charming as Maurice Chevalier.”
“This isn’t just an agreement, Maggie. I mean, I’m hoping it turns out to be more than this.” He waved a hand at the paperwork.
“How so?”
“I’d like us to have…a relationship.”
“A relationship?” she asked, raising a querying brow. He shifted and his discomfiture gave her a little rush of pleasure.
“I want to see you. I want to spend time with you. I like talking to you, that is, when we’re not bickering.”
A pleased blush warmed her cheeks. “You would, huh?”
“If you…” He cleared his throat. “If that’s what you want too.”
Maggie stacked the pages on her stomach then held them out to him. “I can’t sign this, anyway. You got my name wrong.”
“I did?”
“Legally, I’m Mary Margaret McCann.”
“Mary Margaret,” he murmured, as if tasting her name on his tongue. She glanced up and he smiled. “I like that. Mary Margaret. It suits you.”
“My parents would be glad you think so.” She watched as he devoured the last of the egg roll. “What’s your middle name?”
“Daniel,” he mumbled through stuffed cheeks.
“Thomas Daniel Sullivan.” Maggie wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t really flow.”
He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin then crumbled it, tossing it into the empty container before pulling her feet into his lap. “Well, that would make sense. Daniel is my dad’s name. Was…Is…I don’t even know if he’s alive. Anyway, he probably took the flow with him when he left.”
His hand closed around her toes, warming them through the fuzzy purple socks she wore. He started to rub and she sighed, closing her eyes and succumbing to the pleasure. “You never heard from him again?”
“He called once on my birthday and talked to Sean. Sent my mother off the deep end,” he said gruffly.
“And that was it?”
He snagged his beer from the side table and took a swig. “It was probably better that way.” He gasped as he lowered the bottle. “The mere mention of his name could set my mom off for weeks.”
“That’s horrible! He didn’t fight her? He never tried to see you?”
Tom sighed and picked at the label with his thumbnail. “You’ve met my mom, Maggie. Would you want to deal with her for more than ten minutes?”
“She’s not that bad.”
He fixed her with a pointed stare. “Yes, she is.” Maggie opened her mouth to defend the woman then clamped it shut. “You know she is,” he said with a nod. “She shits all over Sean, treats Tracy like she’s some hooker her son picked up, and wants the world to believe she thinks the sun shines out of my ass.”
“She doesn’t think the sun shines out of your ass?”
“Only when she thinks it’ll do her some good.” He put the bottle back on the table and cupped her foot between his palms again. “My dad left in 1971. My mother wouldn’t give him a divorce until 1984.”
“Whoa. That’s a hell of a separation.”
“Yeah, well, he tried, but she made his life a living hell. He finally just gave up and waited for her to divorce him. Of course, she waited until old Danny Sullivan had finally made a little money, and she was able to stick it to him good.”
“Jeez.” She slumped a little deeper into the cushions. “Is that why you decided to get into family law?”
“No. That’s why I’m careful to stay on my mother’s good side,” he said with a wry smile. “I went into family law because Arnie Becker got laid all the time on
L.A. Law
.”
Maggie pulled the throw pillow from under her head and fulfilled its destiny by tossing it straight at his head. He laughed and snagged the pillow, stuffing it under her feet before resuming the foot rub. She hummed her approval and closed her eyes again. “That’s why you became a divorce attorney. And why Sean won’t leave Tracy,” she murmured.
“He’ll never leave her. If she wants out, she’ll have to walk away. Without the kids,” he stated as a matter of fact.
“She’ll never leave the kids.”
“Then they’d better learn to live with each other, huh?”
She nodded but kept her eyes screwed tightly shut. “She loves him.”
“Got a funny way of showing it.”
His tone was mild, but she heard the hurt and hope that laced his blithe words. She shook her head. “She’s feeling lost. Like she doesn’t know who she is anymore.” Something in her voice must have caught his attention because those long, strong fingers ground to a halt. “Don’t stop,” she implored.
Tom pressed his thumbs into her instep, working in a slow circle toward her toes. “And you, Maggie? Have you ever gotten lost?”
A small smile quirked her lips. “I get lost in the grocery store.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” She favored him with a wan smile. “I’ve never been like Tracy. I didn’t have my life all mapped out at eighteen. I never had any designs on conquering the world, or even the metro-Chicago area. I just kind of…floated.”
“Is that bad?”
She barked a sharp laugh. “It probably isn’t good.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Maggie.”
His solemn expression tugged at her heart. His frank admiration pleased her more than it should. She wanted flirty, charming Tom back. She could handle him. Sincere, serious Tom was a bit too disconcerting. Needing to regain the upper hand and anxious to get back to more familiar footing, she flashed a bright smile.
“So, Sergeant Sullivan, are you in for the duration, or are you shipping out soon?”
His startled blink made her feel a little more in control. “Huh?”
“You staying here tonight or going home?” she asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. “I put in a thirteen hour day and had a foot rub. I think it’s time for bed.”
His forehead creased. “You’d let me stay here?”
She tossed off a nonchalant shrug. “It’s up to you. Just remember, you can’t fool with Mother Nature.”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re not just trying to set me up, are you? You
gonna
get me stripped down then kick me out again?”
Swinging her legs from the couch, Maggie sat up. “I’m just making the offer. You have to decide if you can take the chance.”
“If I stay, what else can I rub?”
Her indelicate snort powered her ascent. “Nothing.” A jaw-cracking yawn caught her up short. She pressed her hand to the small of her back and stretched. “Well, maybe my back…” she amended. “You have approximately thirty seconds to decide.”
“I’m in,” he answered promptly.
She gave a quick nod then strolled over to bolt the door. On her way past the sofa she snagged his hand and pulled him along, leading him toward her bedroom. “You get the crappy pillow and you sleep on Fred’s side of the bed.”
He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest and pressing their joined hands to her belly as he shortened his long stride to match hers. “You sure know how to make a guy feel welcome, Ms. McCann.”
“Well, nothing’s in writing yet. You can still bolt,” she said, casting a quick glance over her shoulder.
“Nope. I told you, I’m in. I’m totally in.”
Chapter Eleven
He surfaced slowly, his subconscious meandering through a field of wildflowers which seemed to be, oddly enough, scented with cinnamon. Warm. The warmth enveloped him, centering at the small of his back and radiating up his spine. Soft, heavy heat immobilized him, but he wasn’t trapped. No, he was right where he was supposed to be, surrounded by spice-laden flowers and anchored by the fuzzy weight of…”Fred,” he growled into the pillow.
The cat revved his motor, stretching his front paws until they brushed his bare shoulder blades. Fred’s purr did nothing to conceal the silent threat of barely sheathed claws. “Maggie,” he murmured, afraid to move a muscle for fear of evisceration. “Move your cat.”
No response. He cracked one eye open and licked his parched lips. His tongue picked up the rasp of dried spittle and he winced. He moved his head an experimental half-inch and found his cheek was glued to the pillowcase. Great. Not only had he slept like the dead, but he also managed to nearly drown her too. He licked his lips again. “Maggie?”
She didn’t answer. Tom snaked a hand out from under his stomach and groped the tangle of sheets next to him. The threat of stiletto claws was diminished by the brush of cool cotton and the alarming realization that she was gone. He planted both hands on the mattress and reared up, dislodging the corpulent cat before he could engage weaponry.
Fred glared at him, emitting an ominous mixture of meow and growl as he kneaded the knotted blankets, staking out a new spot. Tom glanced around the empty room, taking in the jumble of clothes on the floor, the slanting sunlight filtering through cracked blinds, and the unmistakable absence of Maggie. He ran a hand over the cat’s blocky head. “Sorry, bud.” Adding a little scratch behind pointy ears for good measure he asked, “Where’s our girl?”
Fred deigned to forgive him just enough to let out a piteous meow and lean into Tom’s caress. Searching for a clue, Tom followed the cat’s green gaze to the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. His jaw dropped when he read the time. “Ten to ten?” The cat celebrated a successful clock reading by stretching his front paws and flipping onto his back, offering up his ample belly for a scratch. Tom obliged. “I can’t remember the last time I slept past eight.”
The hum of Fred’s motor kicked up again, filling the room with its drone. He scrubbed his face with his free hand. The stretched cotton of his boxer briefs pulled taut and the crushing weight in his gut served up reproof from his bladder. With a groan, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.