Page 25 of Hooked

Cinnamon swirl. An excellent surprise.

“Vinny,” Danny asks as I polish off the muffins. “Could you help me with something while you wait on your roof parts?”

I toss the muffin wrappers in the bin and sweep the crumbs off my hands into the garbage as well.

“Yeah, no problem.”

“We have a bunch of old cocktail tables and some high back chairs in the basement that Sia will need for her party. I can’t carry them myself.”

He has to be in his seventies at least.

“Of course. Happy to.”

There’s something else. He looks guilty.

“I know the holidays aren’t your thing, but I told Sia I’d help her pick out some Christmas trees and…” His shoulders deflate. “I can’t. I never did that with Drew because I was always too busy with work. I can’t pick out trees and then decorate them with my dead sister’s ornaments so her soon-to-be dead husband can enjoy one last Christmas. It’s too much.”

Kieran’s father, Murphy Doyle. His cancer is terminal. Kieran told me. We don’t talk about feelings, he and I. We’d never had to.

“I feel like a goddamn coward, Vinny. I don’t want to let her down again, but I don’t want her to see me bawling like a doddering old fool.”

I wouldn’t want to look weak in front of her either.

“Sure,” I say. “I’m guessing the trees will be heavy?” I want to offer him an out. “It’d make more sense for me to go and help carry them.”

“You’re a saint, Vinny.” Danny sags with relief. “I’m so lucky Kieran brought you here.”

If he’d known how I’d been fantasizing about his niece just now he might feel differently.

“Nah,” I say, going for a third muffin. Going to need the calories for all the manual labor. Banana nut. “I’m in it for the free muffins.”

He chuckles at my joke but pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll let her know when she gets back from her errands. Thank you.”

I have some errands of my own to do. Get her stuff to the cleaners, take her portfolios to the historical society. One of the archivists must know how to either restore or reproduce them.

After a quick shower, I’m out the door, sneaking Sia’s suitcases into my truck. I don’t want anyone to get any ideas—I’m doing this for Oscar. Mostly. I hand off her clothes and the suitcases to Mrs. Swenson. She waves off any concerns I have—she’s well versed in saltwater damage, thank you very much. She can take care of the clothes and the suitcases. They’ll be done by Christmas Eve. Next, I drop off her shoes with Aristos. He’s an old-world cobbler, but he’s used to the fancy shoes of the rich residents by now.

“Not your size, Mr. Esposito,” he says, looking at the pile.

“I try to avoid heels even though they make my ass look great,” I say. “Bad for my knees.”

Aristos guffaws. Teasing only gets worse if you don’t lean into it. More skills learned from my very special childhood.

“Okay, well, I don’t have a lot here right now, so I can probably have them cleaned up for you just in time for Christmas. You can show off those calves at the dinner table.”

“Thanks, Aristos.” I pay him in advance. It’s a smart business move to require payment up front when your rich clientele will often have you do work and then forget the shoes entirely. Aristos sells anything that gets left behind but getting the money up front and also being able to sell the forgotten shoes is far more profitable.

I won’t be forgetting them.

Sia would look incredible in the black ones with the red soles. Those and nothing else.

Shit. I have to stop this train of thought.

Especially since I’m finding that she’s not as bad as I originally thought. I still think she’s wasting her talent, and she’s fooling herself if she thinks her parties are going to solve any of her family’s issues.

But she’ll be gone soon, and my roof will be repaired even sooner. I just need those supplies to come in.

Then I can retreat to the solitude of my fish shack, away from all the drama. I’ve spent the entirety of my adult life so far keeping clear of other people’s bullshit, and I don’t intend to get in it now. Even if it means missing out on incredible sex with Sia.

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