Unbearable (5 page)

Chapter 5

Booker stood at my door, his arm cocked as if he were about to knock. Startled, I flinched back out of reflex. Booker’s eyes narrowed slightly. I straightened, embarrassed at my reaction.

“Morning, Tess,” he said as he slowly lowered his arm.

He looked as sexy as ever in dress pants and a blue button-down shirt. That meant he wouldn’t be in court today. He always wore a white shirt on those days. He hated the tie. He’d tug and loosen it constantly, mumbling that people should just conduct business in jeans and a t-shirt. As an MET agent he worked undercover most of the time, which meant no tie then either. He let me wear what I wanted, insisting pantsuits were for funerals when I asked if he preferred I wear one. I couldn’t agree more.

“I was going to check my mail.”

“I’m not stalking you, I promise,” he chuckled, his face still tight. “Since you don’t have a phone I couldn’t call to see what time I should pick you up so I just guessed. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” I ran a hand over my yellow pencil skirt, smoothing it down. I’d worn the outfit many times before, but I’d take the compliment.

We walked down the pathway to the bank of mailboxes. Empty. I shouldn’t bother. If anything were inside it’d be a bill. It’s not as if my family could send me anything since no one knew my location. The temptation to send them a note just to let them know I was safe pulled hard on me some days. But memories of Garen’s conversations with his boss, Senator Graft, about email and phone hacking reminded me of the risks. I didn’t dare.

“Let me grab my purse.” I ran back inside, double checking to make sure I’d locked everything before heading outside and over to Booker’s car. I glanced around for anything out of the usual as he reached for the door.

“Tess, I’m okay with you not having a phone, but there are times I need to reach you.” He tugged twice on the car door before it opened.

“Thanks.” I settled in and buckled my seatbelt. “Are you saying I have to get a phone?” The thought made me sick. While at the women’s shelter mapping out where I was going to go, one of the other ladies showed me how Garen had known where I was all the time. He’d installed a “Stalk My Buddies” app that tracked me wherever I went, and had buried the app deep within my phone so I wouldn’t find it. Her boyfriend had done the same thing to her. Together, we took a hammer and obliterated our phones, a gesture that would’ve infuriated Garen if he knew. The memory made me smile.

Booker looked at me before starting the car. “No. I’m sure you have a good reason for not wanting a phone, but we need to come up with a way for me to contact you.”

I relaxed into the seat. “I’ve been thinking about that, too, in fact, and have an idea that may work.”

He pulled away from the curb after checking over his shoulder. “Let’s hear it.”

“You know how I take the laptop home to do work sometimes?” He nodded. “What if I took it home every night and left it turned on. That way if you need to talk to me you could send me an email. I’ll turn up the volume so I’d hear the chime signaling me when I have mail.”

“Sort of a
You’ve Got Mail
thingy. Brilliant idea.”

“I guess I was bound to have one sooner or later,” I said, chuckling.

“Tess, you have great ideas all the time.” He glanced at me with an expression of genuine bewilderment.

“I do?”

“Whose idea was it to cross-file the bank reports? Who created a separate calendar of my court dates so they wouldn’t get lost in our day-to-day appointments? That’s saved my neck twice already. And aren’t you the one—”

“Okay, okay. I’m incredibly brilliant.”

“And modest,” he added, a playful twinkle in his eye.

“Did you find out anything with my car?” I asked.

“Seth and I towed it last night. My buddy Dewey’s going to look at it today,” he explained, turning up the heat. It sputtered a little before the blower started. “Not to change the subject, but you look pretty today. Well, you always like pretty. I just like that color on you.” He paused. “Did I already say that?”

I fingered the buttons on my turquoise shirt. “Yes, but it’s nice to hear again. Thanks.” I smiled down at the floor mats, unsure where else to look because I wasn’t about to look at him.

“You’re welcome.” He turned right onto High Street. “I talked to Maggie yesterday. The trailer’s all yours. When do you want to move in?” He parked the POC in front of a snow bank next to the office.

“That’s great. I guess as soon as I get my car back.” Booker opened his door and reached for mine, but I’d already bailed and made a beeline for the door. Going from a hot car to the cold outside killed me every time.

“I can help you,” he offered, catching up at the menacing elevator. The building was an old structure he’d remodeled, but the elevator was still a bit sketchy. I tried to avoid it. Occasionally it’d stop between floors, and other times the doors would stick, not opening all the way. I pressed the number seven and hoped for the best. With a rattle and a groan, we ever so slowly ascended.

“I’ll bring the truck to work tomorrow and we can move you after work, if that’s good for you.” Booker leaned against the silver handrail that circled the large elevator, looking relaxed as our tomb made its slow, rickety climb to the seventh floor.

“Booker, I don’t have much. I can do it when I get my car back, but I do appreciate the offer.”

The doors creaked open and we walked down the hall to the office. Lilah and Maggie had decorated the space nicely, giving the cozy room a warm, comfortable feeling, without sacrificing
a professional touch.

A leather couch and matching chairs occupied the reception area, with an oversized coffee table anchoring everything together. Huge, wraparound windows filled the room with warm, natural light. A beautiful antique walnut desk stood to the right of the reception area. A brass planter with ivy tumbling over the edges sat on the top corner. My laptop was positioned in the center, along with a stack of files I needed to work on today. Both Booker’s and my computer fed into a server that backed up all our information.

Booker’s office was smaller than mine. It suited his personality perfectly: warm and friendly, with its antique cherry desk and leather chair. Various pictures hung on the wall and filled the top of his filing cabinet with numerous trips he and his friends made over the years. Some were of fishing trips, others were of vacations. All were of Seth, Cole, or both. To me it showed how important they were to him.

We spent the morning preparing a contract for a couple of elderly gentlemen, two old friends of Booker’s grandfather, Samuel Gatto.

“Harry and John are my grandfather’s oldest friends,” Booker explained as we printed the document. “I’ve known them since I was a kid. I remember—”

A loud scuffling sound cut Booker off. I spun around to the door, my heart racing, my fingers wrapped tightly around the edge of the printer.

“It’s okay, Tess.” Booker placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed gently. “It’s just Harry. I saw him enter the building.”

Heat flooded my face. I hurried to my desk in silence. I had to stop overreacting to unexpected sounds and people.

Booker opened the office door and a small balding man wearing plaid pants and carrying a bamboo cane shuffled into the office.

“Sammy, my boy.” He embraced Booker, patting him on the head as he spoke. “Still can’t believe how tall you are. Your grandfather was a little runt like me.”

I chuckled to myself. I knew Samuel was Booker’s given name because it was printed on the letterhead of our stationary, and he used Samuel when signing any legal documents. But Sammy was a new one.

“I ate all my vegetables like a good boy while I was growing up, Harry,” Booker said as he turned to look down the hall. A few seconds later a second elderly man with white hair and almost identical plaid pants entered, gripping a walker with tennis balls anchored to the feet.

“Little Sammy Gatto, look at you,” the man exclaimed, tapping Booker’s cheek.

“Come on in, John. Good to see you. We have the contract ready. All you’ll have to do is sign it.” Booker led both men, slowly, to the couch. He laid out the contracts on the coffee table for the men to see.

“It’s exactly as we talked about. Harry, you’re selling John your barn and five acres for this amount of money.” Booker pointed to a line in the contract.

“In my day a handshake would
’ve been enough. Now we have to have lawyers and filing fees and whatnot. It drives the price sky high,” Harry complained as he signed.

“Yes, but with you and me both having one foot in the grave, it’s better for the grandkids to have a legally binding document,” John said as he took his turn signing.

“And why do we care what the grandkids have to say? I say let ’em fight it out after we’re dead,” Harry said, red faced.

John laughed. “I like your thinkin’.” He handed the pen to Booker.

“Tess, would you sign as a witness, please?” Booker passed the pen to me.

“Sure.” When Booker hired me, he said I’d have to sign legal documents occasionally. I panicked at first since I used the fake name of Bennett when I was legally Selleck. I worried that it could cause legal problems if the truth were revealed. Then I realized if I wrote my name illegibly, I could use my real last name. I took the pen and signed the document, adding a curvy L for my middle initial.

“What’s the L stand for?” John asked. “Lovely lady, maybe?” He added a wink with his question.

Booker chuckled while his eyes scanned the documents, making sure everything was in order.

“Layla. My dad’s a huge Eric Clapton fan.” I couldn’t count the number of times he’d hoist me up on his shoulders or have me step on his feet, as he’d sing “Layla” while parading around the yard. Memories like that gave me the strength to keep going on during difficult days.

John’s scratchy voice cut off my daydream. “Your grandfather would be proud of you, son. You’ve turned out well.” He clasped the back of Booker’s neck with his shaky hand.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.” Booker slipped the pen back into a brass cup on my desk as Harry gave the contract a onceover.

“Tell me, Sammy. How smart are you?” Harry asked, still looking at me.

“I graduated top of my class. Why?” Booker’s tone was careful.

“I’m just wondering if you’re smart enough to be dating this pretty young thing, because if you’re not, I just may ask her out myself.” Harry bounced his bushy gray eyebrows at me. I dipped my head and grinned.

“He’s married, you old fool,” John snapped the back feet of his walker on the ground and shook his head.

“I’m divorced,” Booker corrected.

“Sorry to hear that, son. Too many people think marriage is disposable nowadays. ” Harry shook his head. “It’s a shame.”

“Old man, you need to stop your yammering. His ex is in jail, remember?” John said through tight lips.

“Oh yeah. I forgot. ’Pologize,” Harry said with a curt nod as John shooed him to the door. “Thank you for all your help, Sammy,” he added, exiting the door behind John.

Booker tucked his hands in his pockets and smiled. “Those two are something else.”

“They certainly are, Sammy.” I placed the documents in a folder with the men’s names on it. I gathered a small stack of files and walked over to the filing cabinet. Booker settled on the corner of my desk as I filed everything.

“You know all about my middle name now, so tell me where the name Booker comes from?” I sat in my chair after I finished and Booker turned to face me.

“Long story,” he said sheepishly.

“And judging from your reluctance to share it, I’d guess it’s a tad embarrassing, little Sammy?” I teased. I felt fairly confident I could tease him, but after Garen, I took nothing for granted anymore.

Booker leaned back and laughed. “I love it when you joke.” He tugged playfully on a strand of my hair. “When I first joined the military, Seth’s dad was my commanding officer.”

“Were you a cop?” I asked.

He nodded. “Military police. And very green. I’d never made an arrest on my own. I always had a partner and they’d take the collar . . . the credit. Seniority,” he explained. “When I made my first arrest on my own, a shoplifting senior citizen, I was pretty excited. I kept asking my supervisor if I could book her into custody.”

“A senior citizen?” I arched my brow.

“Yes, and don’t judge me.” He chuckled. “At first the department was unsure about pressing charges on the elderly woman. After three hours in the interrogation room with her, and me continually asking if I could book her yet, I was finally granted permission.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “So I booked her and placed her in the women’s holding cell. I was so proud.” He stood and walked to the front of my desk.

“And?” I pressed.

He buried his hands in his pockets as he chuckled low. It twisted my tummy . . . in a good way.

“Half an hour later screams bellowed from the holding tank. Several of us ran in to find my senior citizen standing in front of the toilet . . . well, peeing.” He shook his head. “Turns out my perpetrator
was male, not female.”

“How did you miss that?”