Speakeasy (True North #5)(82)

“You overachiever.” She grins up at me.

“It’s going to be great. I also made them agree that you’d be our company lawyer. I put legal fees in the budget, of course.”

“You know I’ll give you a good rate.”

“Sure, but I just really want to work with you. I trust you to look after my best interests.”

Her face softens. “I trust you, too. Took me way too long to say that.”

“Maybe.” I give her a quick kiss. “Better late than never, though.”

“Lark took me to see an apartment yesterday,” she says, reaching up to run a hand through my hair.

“Yeah? Where?”

“Norwich. A friend of hers from Dartmouth owns it.”

“Hmm. Norwich,” I say, trying to summon up some enthusiasm for this idea. “That’s, like, forty-five minutes from here.”

“I’m not going to take it,” she says. “I don’t need that commute. And Norwich is pricy because it’s close to the college. But it was good to look around and think about the future. I’m glad she kick-started me.”

“Me too,” I say slowly. “Although…”

“Although…what?”

“I hope you know that I’d be happy if you moved in here.”

She blinks. “Just…like that?”

“Just like that,” I agree. “I know it’s fast. But I don’t want you to sign a year lease somewhere without even knowing that it’s an option. I’m not going to push you on it, but it would make me really happy.”

“Hmm…” She drags a fingertip down my nose. I’m glad she can easily do that now, and that she didn’t need surgery on her hand after all. “I told you once that I have a roommate kink. So the idea isn’t unappealing.”

I laugh.

“But we’re back to our bad joke again. Did you hear the one about the alcoholic who considered living over a bar?”

“Nah,” I say. “The girl lived over Benito. It’s Benito who lives over the bar.” I laugh, but she doesn’t. “Swear to god I’ll move out of this place if that’s what it takes. This doesn’t need to be decided today. I won’t rush you. But I also won’t let the location of my apartment get in the way of us.”

“It won’t,” she says softly. “I don’t really think the bar downstairs is a consideration. I was just kidding about that. You do, however, have a cat who behaves like Satan.”

“Not for long.”

May looks startled. “What are you doing to Bukowski?”

“Nothing bad. I’ve been doing some reading. Even though Satan and I are getting along better now, he’s used to going outside. And I live on the third floor, right?”

“That would make anyone cranky, yeah.”

“So yesterday I presented this theory to my sister in the coffee shop. I asked her to take him, but she turned me down because Dave is allergic to cats.” I roll my eyes. “That fucking guy. First he gets my sister pregnant, and now this.”

May giggles.

“But Kieran was working. He overheard me and said he wouldn’t mind taking Bukowski. That house he rents from Zara has a cat door.”

“Yay, Kieran!”

“Exactly. Now when I get up in the middle of the night, my ankles won’t fear attack.”

“But Kieran’s will.”

We both laugh like crazy people.

“It’s late. We should go to bed,” I say eventually. And by go to bed I mean strip each other naked.

“No way!” May yelps. “I have to start drafting legal documents giving you ongoing rights to the intellectual property in the non-alcoholic beer business, even if it says Giltmaker on the label.”

“Unngh,” I grunt. “Say that again. I love it when you talk legal to me.”

“Trademark protection,” she whispers.

“Oh, baby.”

“Ongoing royalties.”

“I’ll show you some ongoing royalties.” I thrust my hips and she laughs.

Then I kiss her, and there’s no laughing for a nice long while.





Chapter Thirty-Two





Alec


It’s March, and the snow is melting fast. The nights are still freezing but the days are warm.

In other words, it’s “mud season,” which is much like the awkward teenage phase of the Vermont year. The dirt roads are rutted from meltwaters, and the ski resorts are down to limited open runs.

The one thing we’ve got going for us is that it’s also sugaring time. As I look out the window of the Shipley farmhouse, I see Griffin outside checking his taps. Tomorrow he’ll pour the sap into big vats over an outdoor fire and boil it down.

Good quality maple syrup fetches upwards of forty dollars a gallon. But the Shipleys won’t sell theirs off. They’ll pour it on those fabulous waffles that Ruth cooks.

“Okay, I think this bag is the last of it,” May says.

I turn my attention back to her and to the giant duffel bag on her bed. “Shall we do a room-by-room check? Got the toiletries?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Don’t forget your…” I step closer to her. “Vibrator,” I whisper in her ear. “Might need to play with that later.”