Page 61 of Man Cuffed
“Oh. I see.”
We both lapse into silence. Even the radio is quiet while I drive back toward the police garage. I’m too far inside my head, wondering how it all ends. Do I ignore my brother’s family forever? That seemed perfectly rational until a few minutes ago.
I experience another quick flash of hatred for Morris. For putting me in this situation. For making me feel guilty for something he did.
“So how do you spend the holidays?” Meg asks suddenly.
“I work. Nobody wants those shifts. You can make a lot of friends volunteering for those.”
“Friends, but not family,” she says under her breath.
“Trouble! Don’t feel sorry for me. It’s my choice.”
“Really? It was your choice to have your brother move in on your fiancée? And then marry her?”
“Let’s just forget about it,” I grumble. “That’s what I do most of the time.” I pull into the cruiser lot and park the car.
“That explains a lot about you,” she says, climbing out of the passenger’s seat.
I want to argue the point. But she’s right. It totally does. And anyway, I have to go inside and sign off on a few things.
Meg waits for me in her car. She’s my ride home. I took my car in for a service because I knew she’d be around to drive me home tonight.
When I come out, she’s sitting in the driver’s seat, listening to some music. I open the passenger’s door, and there’s something on the seat. “What’s this?”
“The treat I brought you. But you have to wait until we get home.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like crumbs in my car, Copper. Sit down already.”
Her car smells like chocolate and heaven, though. It’s a long fifteen minutes until we’ve pulled up in our lot. I get out of her car, and I’m just about to pull the lid off when Meg grabs the box out of my hands.
“Upstairs,” she demands. “These would go better with a drink.”
“Like milk?” I’m hungry all of a sudden.
“Like rum,” she says. Then she turns on her heel and sashays into the building. All I can do is follow.
17Hard-boiled
Meg
I feel absolutely entirely too aware of Mac as he follows me into my apartment. I wonder where his eyes land as I flip on my mood lighting, which consists of strings of fairy lights and a single beaded lamp on the kitchen counter. It throws multicolored light around my kitchen.
What does he see when he looks at my apartment, with its kitschy fabrics and bright colors? I’ve been dressing the space up and it’s starting to feel, dare I say it, like my artistic home. But I wonder what he thinks of the pillows and paintings. The large tapestry hanging by the bathroom. The blooming flowers in every feng shui corner there is. He makes me feel self-conscious, because his opinion matters to me. But I have no idea if he feels the same way about me.
“Sit,” I tell Mac, pointing at a counter stool.
He obeys me. A man will do anything for chocolate.
But I make him wait.
I tap my phone a couple of times until my new favorite playlist comes over the speakers. Then I grab my favorite cocktail shaker and fill it with ice cubes.
“You don’t have to go all out,” he says.
“I told you I don’t cook. But I love mixed drinks. And this one makes me think of you.”
