Steal Me (2 page)

“Well she damn well should remember,” he muttered. “Is anyone else remembering that she spilled iced tea all over me at my coronation party?”

“She spilled it on your
shoes
,” Elena said. “Which were black.”

“Still,” Anth said, glancing around the room this time to make sure she wasn’t within earshot. “I don’t know why we have to act like she’s a new member of the family when she can’t seem to go a single Sunday without spilling somebody’s breakfast on me. It can’t be an accident
every
time.”

“Maybe she wants to get your attention. Your humble, pleasant personality is
so
charming,” Ava said quietly into her coffee mug.

Anth looked at Luc’s girlfriend. “
Et tu, Brute
?”

Ava winked.

And then his dad leaned back in the booth, folded his arms, and glared at his oldest son. “So tell me again what you’re doing to close in on this Smiley character.”

“Oh my God, he’s like a dog with a bone!” Elena said, throwing her arms up in exasperation before turning her attention back to her cell phone. “Also, is Nonna texting anyone else? I’ve been getting mucus every five minutes.”

“Yes,” everyone replied at once.

“She just sent me a Wikipedia link on phlegm,” Vincent grumbled.

To say that his grandmother had been upset to miss brunch because of a lingering head cold was an understatement. She’d been punishing them all with updates on her illness.

Anthony glanced at his watch and mentally counted the minutes until he could relax with a beer and watch the Yankees game.

Of the three sacred things in his life, the New York Yankees had always been a
very
distant third to family and the department.

Now he was seriously rethinking his priorities.

A
little-known fact about life in New York City: the subway gods rarely had your back.

In fact, it was a pretty sure bet that there
were
no subway gods, much as one might pray to them when running late or
really
wanting a seat, or just plain hoping for a BO-free subway experience.

But when Maggie stepped onto the Q train after the
mother
of all horrific shifts at the Darby Diner, the subway gods, or maybe just
The God
, smiled down on her.

There were only a handful of other people on her car, so she got not only a seat, but an entire
row
to herself. Having a spot to set her enormous handbag, and another to set the box of day-old lemon meringue pie that her manager had kindly bestowed on her, was a small luxury she wasn’t going to take for granted.

Not after yet another day when she’d managed to spill all over Anthony Moretti. No, wait…

“
Captain
Moretti,” she muttered out loud to herself. “It’s
Captain
Moretti.”

Maggie fell silent, because the city didn’t need any more weirdos talking to themselves on public transportation, but it didn’t stop her from
thinking
about him.

For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out how two people as warm and friendly as Tony and Maria Moretti had produced someone as uptight and conceited as the
captain
.

Their oldest son was a rotten seed in a family full of charmers.

Maggie
adored
the rest of the Morettis. She had ever since they’d been ridiculously kind to her on her first day, despite the fact that she’d dropped iced tea on the guest of honor. Yes.
Him
.

She and Elena had clicked almost immediately. Probably because Elena always seemed slightly desperate for female company in the midst of all her brothers, and Maggie very desperate to make a friend.

But the brothers were sweet too, Anthony excluded, of course.

Maggie thought she could
almost
have a crush on Luc if it weren’t for the fact that he was dating the gorgeous, super-smart Ava. Still, a girl could look. And admire. It was impossible
not
to. Luc Moretti looked like a freaking movie star, with his perfectly styled dark hair, laughing blue eyes, and the way he filled out his uniform
just
right.

And yet, despite the fact that the man was every woman’s fantasy, Luc was also refreshingly down to earth, even after his whole brush-with-media fame a few months back.

Vincent wasn’t nearly as friendly as Luc. In fact, he wasn’t friendly at all. But there was a blunt honesty about the detective that Maggie found comforting.

One always knew where they stood with Vincent Moretti. And luckily, he seemed to like her.

There was another brother…Matt or Marc or something, whom she’d never met since he lived in California.

But of the East Coast Morettis, Maggie could say without hesitation that they were lovely.

They were the kind of family that she used to think only existed in after-school TV specials. Lord knew she hadn’t seen a whole lot of that growing up in her hometown of Torrence, New Jersey.

She
certainly
hadn’t seen much in the way of family togetherness in her own home.

Still, even with all their perfection, the Morettis had a blight. A big pockmark on an otherwise flawless visage:

The oldest sibling had
such
a stick up the butt.

What made Anthony Moretti’s personality disorder even
more
of a bummer was the fact that the man was really, truly gorgeous.

At least to her.

All of the Moretti men were good looking, from Tony with his sage, silver fox appeal down to Luc with all of that blue-eyed charm.

But it was Anthony who appealed to Maggie the most. He was pure fantasy material.

All of the Moretti men were tall, but Anthony was
tall
. Like, six-four, at least. And then there were the ridiculously broad shoulders that tapered into a narrow waist, giving his upper body that beguiling inverted triangle look that all but begged a woman to cuddle up close and be held.

His dark hair was shorter than his brothers’, not quite a crew cut, but it was definitely a no-nonsense style that perfectly framed his harsh jawline, serious brown eyes, and olive skin.

And if she were to
really
get into it, it would have to be said that Anthony’s features were too broad to be classically handsome, and yet too symmetrical to be completely rugged. The resulting in-between was almost unbearably
him
.

Not that she’d been studying him.

Well, okay, maybe just a little. And only out of the corner of her eye. And
only
when he wasn’t paying attention. Which was pretty much always since the man
never
paid attention to her.

The only time he even seemed to know she existed was when she dropped a buttered biscuit on his sleeve or scalding hot coffee on his crotch…

Maggie’s eyes went wide. Oh
God
.

What if he thought she was doing it on purpose to get his attention? Women had done crazier things to get a man to look at them. And a man that looked like him had probably had all sorts of crazy admirers.

Or worse…what if subconsciously, she really
was
doing it to get his attention?

She discarded that last thought almost immediately. Maggie Walker had never been the type to want to get noticed. Blending into the background was easier. Safer. Plus, flying under the radar had the added benefit of turning her into a top-notch observer over the years. A handy skill for an aspiring author.

Maggie winced as she realized she was almost to her subway stop and instead of spending the commute thinking about the upcoming scene she was writing tonight, she’d spent the whole time thinking about
him
.

She’d read somewhere that J.K. Rowling had come up with the main premise of Harry Potter while sitting on a train. Most days she tried to duplicate this, and some days she was semi-successful.

But Sundays were harder. Sundays were Moretti days.

Maggie sighed at the wasted time daydreaming when she should have been plotting her story, and gathered her bags, waiting for the train to pull up to the Seventh Avenue station in Park Slope, Brooklyn, where she lived in a cozy (translation:
tiny
) studio.

Maggie knew that for most women moving to “the city,” it was all about Manhattan, but although she loved Manhattan in all its high-rise glamour, she’d been drawn almost immediately to Brooklyn.

Not only for the (slightly) more affordable rental rates, but also for the neighborhood feel that was harder to come by in Manhattan.

Maggie mentally cataloged through the contents of her fridge and pantry and decided that between eggs, dried pasta, and a
probably
-still-good loaf of bread, she could get by without a stop at the store. Plus there was the pie. Surely having pie for dinner once a week (or twice, maybe twice) wasn’t the worst thing in the world. There were worse vices, right?

One of these days, Maggie thought, she’d be one of those super
together
women who threw together a healthy dinner for one with all the food groups. But for now, she was pretty dang content with eating whatever the heck she felt like.

Sometimes that was a nice salad with chicken breast and veggies, and other days it was, well…lemon meringue pie. Either way, it was the
freedom
that was wonderful.

There was nobody to sneer that she’d overcooked the meat. Nobody to wrinkle their nose at the pasta sauce because they “didn’t feel like it.” Nobody to remind her “again” that they didn’t like spinach in any form.

For a woman who’d spent her teens and early twenties hearing those comments from her father and brother, and her late twenties hearing them from her husband, the ability to have whatever the heck she wanted for dinner was the ultimate luxury.

Sure, she was a thirty-two-year-old divorcée living in an itty-bitty studio and contemplating scrambled eggs and pie for dinner again, but it was
her
apartment. Her eggs. Her pie.

Her
choice
.

It wasn’t until she’d finally gotten the courage to divorce Eddie that she’d realized the sheer power in making a decision and acting on it. Any decision.

Maggie rummaged around in her purse until her fingers found the Tiffany key chain her best friend had gotten her for Christmas a couple years earlier.

It was easily the nicest thing she owned. And it made missing Gabby a
little
easier, although not much. Her best friend had moved to Denver, and though they still talked on the phone occasionally, it wasn’t the same as when they’d been twelve and Maggie could be at Gabby’s house in two minutes for the homemade chocolate chip cookies that she’d never get at home.

Nor were their long phone chats the same as when they’d gotten married within six months of each other at twenty-four and had set up their respective newlywed homes just minutes away from the other.

Still, much as she missed Gabby, leaving Torrence had been the best thing. For both of them.

Sure, only one of their marriages was still intact, but at least both women had managed to escape their childhood town, with all its toxic gossip and small-town thinking.

Maggie only wished her best friend hadn’t had to move
quite
so far. Gabby’s husband was a middle-school principal who’d gotten a job offer at a prestigious Denver prep school, and they’d moved two years earlier, along with their adorable twins.

Now Gabby had her own interior design company, the twins had finally gotten the dog they’d always wanted, and though Maggie hadn’t been able to afford a visit out there, their Christmas cards showed the perfect suburban home that Gabby had always longed for.

Maggie’s own retreat from their New Jersey hometown had been a lot less glorious.

When she’d filed for divorce, she hadn’t expected the process to be pretty, but she
definitely
hadn’t counted on the fight to keep the house (she lost) or the fact that all of her “friends” would listen to Eddie’s lies that she’d been unfaithful.

Still, silver lining? She’d gotten
out
.

Her Park Slope studio might be tiny, but there was no Eddie.

There was, however, Duchess.

“Hello, baby,” Maggie said, shoving the front door open with her hip and immediately collapsing to the ground to greet her dog.

It said a lot about Duchess’s loyalty to her owner that the poodle-mystery mix showed more interest in Maggie than she did the lemon meringue pie. Maggie happily accepted every last messy dog kiss on her chin before landing a kiss of her own on top of Duchess’s scratchy brown head.

On paper, it was Maggie who’d rescued Duchess a few months earlier from the animal shelter. But she and Duchess knew the truth: they’d rescued each other.

“Does Her Grace need to go out to the ladies’ room?” Maggie asked, giving the dog one last smooch before climbing to her feet and grabbing the dog leash off the hook by the door.

Duchess did three fast three-sixty spins before planting her little butt on the ground and all but vibrating in excitement while she waited for Maggie to clip on the leash.

“Okay, remember, ladies don’t poop in the middle of the sidewalk,” Maggie said as they stepped outside. Duchess wagged her tail rapidly to indicate she understood.

A long walk around a nearby grassy patch later, it was clear that Duchess had
not
understood, because she held her “business” until they got back to the sidewalk. Maggie smiled an apology at the grumpy-looking elderly couple as she tried to open one of the stupid pink doggie bags she’d bought online because they were cheaper than the ones in the pet store.

Three defective bags later, she found a bag without a hole in it and picked up Duchess’s mess.

Maggie frowned at the dog. “Why do I bother walking you to the park when you insist on poo-ing on the pavement, hmm?”

Duchess barked twice at a leaf.

“Good talk, baby. Okay, let’s go get some pie.”

Back at home, Maggie pulled a bag of carrots out of the fridge and munched on a handful while she changed out of her orange diner uniform into a pair of pj’s.

It was just barely getting dark, but since she worked the breakfast shift again tomorrow, her four a.m. wake-up call came around fast. Her frequent early mornings were just one of the
many
things Eddie had found to complain about, although back then it had been Denny’s in Torrence.

And her paltry waitress income had been supporting
two
people.

Eddie hadn’t “liked” to work.

Maggie bit a carrot with more force than necessary and gave the other half to Duchess, who nipped it out of her fingers and leaped onto the bed.

“I better not find that under my pillow later,” Maggie said with a warning finger.

Duchess wagged her tail. Maggie was
so
going to find the carrot under her pillow later.

Then Maggie cut herself a big ole slice of pie and settled down with her secondhand laptop at the tiny table that doubled as desk, kitchen table, and ironing board when needed.

Maggie opened her manuscript and settled her fingers on the keyboard. Then changed her mind and took a bite of pie instead.

It was a tricky scene she was working on. The
almost
first kiss between the teen hero and heroine. Mood and tension were everything. She had to make the readers want it as much as the characters wanted it.

Tricky indeed.

But scenes like this were part of the reason Maggie wrote books for teens, or “YA” as it was known in the publishing world. Because
nobody
knew how to long like a teenager. Sure, adults felt longing too, but it was different, because on some level, adults knew that the reality was never as great as the buildup. Which in turn made the buildup
less
somehow.

But fifteen-year-olds…man, their yearning was the real deal. They weren’t jaded by knowledge that sex was inevitably a letdown, or that Prince Charming didn’t exist, or that when people said
I love you
what they really meant was
I need you to do something for me.