Speakeasy (True North #5)(71)

She looks up at me, and her eyes widen with interest. And then she raises a finger in the universal sign for “just a minute.” So I put my folder down on May’s desk and run back outside to the truck. I grab the damaged sweater off the backseat and carry it inside with me.

“Well, hello, there!” the woman says as I reenter the office. “I’m Rita Kaplan.”

“Hi.” I walk over to shake her hand. “I’m Alec Rossi.”

“Yes you are,” she says with a giant smile. “This is so exciting.”

I’m not really sure why she thinks so, but maybe she’s just super friendly. “I have two questions for you, and only one of them is a legal question.”

Her eyes go to the sweater I’m holding. “Is one of them a knitting question? What happened here?” She reaches for it, and I hand it over. I almost can’t stand to look at the frayed bit at the neck.

Bukowski is lucky he’s still alive.

“Holy macaroni,” Rita breathes. “May knitted this. For you?”

I nod sadly. If I were worthy of such a gift, there wouldn’t be a hole in the neck right now.

“What a stupid girl.”

“Wait, what?”

“She made you a sweater. That girl should know better by now than to tempt the sweater curse.”

It takes me a minute to remember what that means. If you knit a sweater for a man, you’ll break up. Or something. “May doesn’t care about that,” I point out. “She wasn’t planning on keeping me. But I’d really like to keep the sweater, so could you put me out of my misery and tell me whether this case is terminal or not?”

Rita gives me another crazy smile. “I should unravel the whole danged thing. That will teach May to knit a sweater for a hunk like you.”

“Don’t you dare!” I take the sweater out of her hands in a big fat hurry.

“Easy. I wouldn’t really. Sit down, okay?”

I take a seat in the visitor’s chair.

“The sweater can be fixed, but only by May. She’ll have some leftover yarn from the same dye lot she used to knit it.”

“Oh. And here I thought this was a problem I could fix without admitting I was culpable.”

Rita laughs. “That never works, does it?”

“No.”

“Never stops us from trying, though. I wouldn’t have a legal practice if mankind was good at owning his own bullshit.”

And here I thought a lawyer’s office might be dull. “Can I ask you my legal question, now?”

“Does it have anything to do with May?”

“No way. It’s a real estate thing.”

“Oh, good.” She picks up her knitting again. “Go ask May your question, then. She gets all our real estate work.”

“She’s recovering,” I point out. Every time I think of those bruises on her face I want to rage at the world.

“She’s fine,” Rita insists. “She’s bored out of her mind. When I talked to her earlier she was reading an article about how to give yourself a butt facial.”

I make a mental note to pick up a few more magazines.

“And anyway, she’s really tired of being helpless. Whatever real estate problem you’ve got for yourself, she’d love to hear about it.”

“See, it’s probably a waste of time, though.”

Rita pulls a face. “Then don’t waste mine, hot stuff. Go see your girl. I know she’s having a rough time, but it’s going to be okay. Give her some more of that hot loving. It always cheers her up.”

She gives me a cheesy wink, and I feel my face start to heat. Although it’s nice to have one’s skills acknowledged. I stand up. “Rita, you have been…”

“No help whatsoever!” she says gaily. “And to think I’m someone’s mentor. Have a good day, hot stuff. Tell our girl I said hello.”

She’s back to her knitting before I even close the door behind me.





Chapter Twenty-Eight





May


I’m watching daytime TV again. But I just made an appointment with the doctor who decides whether I need surgery on my hand, so at least that’s a little progress in my life.

Someone walks into the TV room to check on me, and I don’t even turn my head. My family’s love is extra stifling today.

Also, I’m out of Twizzlers.

The couch depresses under someone’s weight. And then a big hand reaches over and squeezes my knee.

I do a violent double take when I realize it’s Alec beside me. “Hi,” I manage, even though I can’t stop drinking in the sight of him. He’s wearing jeans and a tight henley T-shirt that shows off his lean, strong frame. And I get a whiff of his woodsy scent. I just want to crawl into his lap and hold on tightly.

But I resist. Because I’m stubborn.

“Hi,” he says, settling in. “Whatcha watching?”

“A soap opera, if you must know.”

He gives me a curious glance. “Big fan of soap operas?”

“Nope. In fact I hate myself a little for needing to know who kidnapped the baby, and whether the mom is faking her amnesia.”

“Do you think she knows who stole the baby?” He moves a little closer to me on the couch.