I Think I Love You (13 page)

"Yes, my sister was just telling me she's going to be working with you to make sure you don't rob them blind."

Regina wanted to kick Justine.

"Was she now?" He seemed highly amused when he looked back to her. "I guess you had a chance to talk to your mother."

Regina squirmed and nodded.

"And our working together is agreeable to you?"

"Whatever it takes to help my parents."

"Good. When can I expect to see you tomorrow?"

"Is nine too early for you?"

He smiled. "Why not make it eight?"

She smiled back. "Why not make it seven?"

"Great. I'll bring doughnuts."

They stood looking at each other until Justine cleared her throat. "Well, I think I'll take my suitcase in now."

"I'm right behind you," Regina said. "Good-bye, Mr. Cooke—"

"Call me Mitchell." He shifted foot to foot and watched Justine walk away, then turned back to Regina. "Listen, I really stopped by to tell you that your dad returned a few minutes ago. I didn't want to say anything in front of your sister in case you wanted to keep things... private."

"Has he been drinking?"

He nodded. "I helped him up to the apartment and he was sleeping when I left, but I thought you should know."

She jammed on her glasses and blinked away tears of humiliation. "Thank you... thank you."

He shrugged. "Unless you have a brother showing up, I'd be glad to go back later and check in on him."

"No brothers. Just two sisters."

"Where's the other one?"

"She's—" Regina broke off at the sound of another car approaching.

"Busy little place," he observed.

"Probably someone lost."

He squinted. "In a limo?"

Regina's vital signs increased as a black stretch limousine nosed its way down the twisting driveway. "Oh... no."

"Who is it?"

She swallowed. "You're not going to believe this...
I
don't believe this—I think that's my other sister."

"Is she someone famous?"

"Sort of."

Her heart hammered as the limo pulled alongside Justine's Mercedes. Justine had made it as far as the porch and was riveted on the arrival. A stone settled in Regina's stomach at the ramifications of the scene unfolding.

"I'll be going," Mitchell said. "I don't want to horn in on your family reunion."

She touched his arm without looking at him. "Would you stick around for a few minutes?"

"Sure. I always wanted to meet a celebrity."

When the vehicle stopped, the driver hopped out and jogged back to open the door. One long tanned leg appeared, followed by another; then all six feet of Mica emerged, clad in a black miniskirt and a white silky blouse. Her hair flowed around her shoulders like a cape. Regina never stopped being in awe of her little sister's beauty. Next to her, Mitchell exhaled a low whistle. Mica had that effect on men.

The driver set bag after bag on the ground. Mica pushed back her sunglasses, gave him a wad of bills, and waved him off. Then she turned large, luminous eyes in their direction and waved. "I'm home!"

Regina grinned back and started walking, but a noise behind her caused her to turn. Justine had dropped her suitcase and was stalking down the sidewalk toward Mica. "You little back-stabbing tramp—how dare you show your face here?"

Before Regina could position herself between the two of them, Justine had launched herself at Mica. They fell to the ground grunting, then rolled into a bed of ivy, legs kicking.

Mitchell Cooke looked thunderstruck.

"Help me," Regina said with a sigh.

Chapter 9

DON'T reveal all the skeletons in your closet at once.

Regina arrived at the shop ten minutes before 7:00 a.m., but Mitchell's van was already there. She sneaked a peek into the visor mirror and conceded she should have taken him up on his offer to meet at eight—she certainly could have used an extra hour of sleep last night. She'd covered the circles as best she could and hoped her glasses camouflaged the rest.

The upside of leaving the house early was that her mother and sisters were still sleeping, so she didn't have to witness a brawl before breakfast.

She closed the car door quietly, and took a moment to appreciate the early-morning stillness of the trees, the citrusy scent of heavy dew, the dawn song of an unidentified bird. Nature went on about its beautiful business, heedless of the screwed-up humans passing through. She sighed. This visit home had all the makings of a catastrophe.

Regina entered the back door quickly to circumvent the chime in case her father was still sleeping in the apartment above. The warm, peppery scent of good coffee rode the air, lifting her mood ridiculously. She followed her nose to the cluttered room between the stockroom and the showrooms that had been originally set aside to serve as an office but had over the years become part kitchen, sitting room, and chaotic catchall. A decrepit refrigerator sat in one corner. Mismatched cabinets and counters lined the perimeter of the room, overflowing with manila file folders and catalogs. To his credit, Mitchell had cleared a path to the massive metal desk in the middle of the room, where he now sat with his long legs propped up, enjoying a mug of that great-smelling coffee. Sam looked at her from his resting place on the floor, with droopy eyes that said he, too, could have used a few more z's.

"Good morning," Mitchell said way too cheerfully.

She wanted to smile, but the image of him peeling apart her sisters was still a little too vivid for comfort. "Good morning."

"Coffee?"

"Absolutely." She walked to the coffee-maker and poured a cup, then rummaged around the counter clutter. "Did you happen to see any creamer?" To heck with her resolution to do without—at the moment she needed all the solace she could get.

"You haven't even tasted it yet."

She looked up. "Hm?"

"My coffee—taste it. It doesn't need dressing up."

She took a dubious sip, then pursed her mouth. "I'm impressed."

He smiled. "I'm glad." He lifted the lid on a box of doughnuts. "Jelly or cream-filled?"

"Jelly."

"Ah, thought so."

She frowned but took the proffered doughnut and leaned against the counter. She chewed, thinking he probably expected an explanation for the scene last night, but considering her father was sleeping off a hangover upstairs, she wasn't inclined to volunteer yet more information about her dysfunctional family.

"Looks like it's going to be a nice day," he said.

She sighed noisily. "All right—if you
must
know, twelve years ago, Mica ran off with Justine's fiancé on the day of their wedding."

He stopped chewing, cheeks full, then swallowed. "Oh."

"You were wondering, weren't you, what would cause two grown women who are blood-related to roll around on the ground and call each other names?"

He shrugged. "I figured there was a man involved."

She set down her coffee. "You
figured
a man was involved. Why?"

Another shrug. "Female nature."

She gaped at his conceit... and accuracy.

"Let me guess," he said. "The guy is a loser?"

Reluctantly, she nodded.

"Where is he?"

"Thank goodness he stayed in LA."

"I don't suppose he ever married your younger sister?"

"No."

"Typical. Women can't get enough of that kind of guy."

She glared. "That's a sexist thing to say."

He splayed a hand. "But it's true. Women want the bad boy, but once they get him, they want him to settle down, and he won't. Vicious cycle. Take it from a former bad boy."

"A
former
bad boy?"

"Yeah, now I just have bad knees." He rubbed his shin through his faded jeans. "By the way, your sisters kick like mules."

She winced. "I apologize for dragging you into the middle of it."

He dismissed her concern with a wave. "Glad to help—I'm a full-service appraiser-slash-bouncer."

She indicated his laptop on the desk. "I'm still not clear on what I'm supposed to be helping you with."

"Other than making sure I don't rob your parents blind?"

Her cheeks warmed. "Justine spoke out of turn."

"Well, no offense, but your parents would be an easy target if I were the unsavory sort. This place is a wreck."

"I know. John and Cissy love antiques and they're good with customers, but they're not much when it comes to the nuts and bolts of running a business."

"I see a lot of that in my line of work."

"What exactly
is
your line of work?"

"Appraisals, mostly. Managing estate sales, consulting for insurance companies, that kind of thing. The bank officer handling your parents' business loan contacted me about this job. I'm going to put a reserve price on everything here so the bank will have a ballpark idea of what the auction will gross. I could use your help with the paperwork, and maybe some other things. Your father told me you have a good eye."

"I only plan to be here through next weekend."

He nodded. "I work fast and I've never had a helper before, so this should go quickly."

"Will the store be open for business while all this is going on?"

"Sure, move what inventory we can. After everything is appraised, it would be best to close for a couple of weeks to get ready for the auction."

She pressed her lips together, wishing the world would slow down until she could adjust.

"Hey, don't be depressed—there's a lot of good stuff here. I plan to get the word out to collector friends. With a little luck, your folks will be able to keep that great house of theirs."

"My parents are splitting up." She covered her mouth with her hand. Oh, God, more proof that her family was a mess.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said quietly, then removed his legs from the desk. "Ready to get started?"

She nodded gratefully and carried her coffee to join him at the desk. Between doughnuts, he explained his simple inventory and appraisal software, although she didn't absorb much of what he was saying. He was sitting too close, and his bigness got in her way—too much knee-bumping and elbow-brushing. While he watched the screen, she watched him. She guessed the self-proclaimed former bad boy to be approaching forty, even though his T-shirts and tennis shoes gave him a more youthful appearance. His thick dark blond hair lay close to his head, and his face was all mature planes and angles—high, wide cheekbones, a broad nose, strong chin. His short sideburns were dark, like his eyebrows and lashes. From his fit physique and tanned extremities, she surmised he enjoyed outdoor sports. Indeed, he was wearing a faded "Kayaking Rules" T-shirt, and it didn't take a stretch of imagination to visualize him naked from the waist up, battling the current.

"We can start with furniture if you want," he offered, picking up the laptop.

"Where are you from?"

He seemed surprised at her question.

"I... can't place your accent."

"I'm from all over the South, really. My folks were wheeler-dealers, always dabbling in antiques in some form—flea markets, auction houses. We moved around."

"Where do you live now?"

"I have a post office box in Charlotte."

A former-bad-boy drifter. She helped him load the laptop and other supplies onto a rolling cart.

"So, what do you do in Boston?" he asked.

She pushed up her glasses. "I edit books."

"What kind of books?"

"Non-fiction. Reference books, health books, self-help."

"Those Mars-Venus books?"

"Some."

"Sounds dull."

She blinked. "It's not. Are we going to get started or what?" She pushed the cart ahead of him, over the uneven wood flooring into the main showroom. His footsteps sounded behind her, as well as the rhythmic clicking of Sam's toenails.

"All I meant was that I'd rather
do
things than read about them."

She kept walking. "Sorry my job isn't glamorous enough for you. I'm not as comfortable in the spotlight as my sisters are."

He snagged her arm and came around to face her. "Hey, relax. I didn't mean to offend you. And who said anything about your sisters?"

She stared up at him with defiance.

"Do I detect a little sibling rivalry here?" His mouth curved into a teasing smile. "Oh, wait—don't tell me you had a thing for the loser bad boy, too?"

His audacity floored her. She itched to slap him, but she didn't want him to think he could so easily provoke her. Instead she matched his smile. "I keep my distance from bad boys." She pulled her arm away from his grasp. "Including former ones."

"Ouch." He looked down at Sam. "That, my friend, is what's called a brush-off. Luckily, I'm thick-skinned."

"Could we please get started?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Much to her relief, when they got down to business Mitchell was serious and efficient. They quickly worked out a system—she fed him info for the program from the massive file of index cards that her parents still used to maintain inventory records and, when no card could be located, from inspecting the piece of furniture. At first her tongue was rusty, but soon the vocabulary came back to her: Empire, Federal, Art Nouveau, Arts and Crafts, Rococo, Regency, Shaker. Once he had fixed a reserve price, she tagged the piece and they moved on. She did stop occasionally to admire a particularly nice piece.