Marriage of Inconvenience(Knitting in the City Book #7)(88)

Work was work, but to Betty’s astonishment, I was mostly caught up, having managed a good deal of backlog while on the flight back from Down Under. So, around 11:00 AM, I took a nap on the couch in my office, unbearable exhaustion hitting me like a bat upside the head.

Refreshed, I stopped by Kat’s floor around 4:30 PM and we left the Fairbanks building together, making small talk about our days while I tried to get over the fact that this—being with her, talking over her day, telling her about mine, holding her hand and stealing kisses when no one was looking—was my life.

We were taking things slow, but still. I felt like the luckiest fucking bastard in the world, and a part of me thought about sending Tiny Satan a thank you note for being such a dickweasel. Not to worry, most of me still wanted to kick him in the nuts.

Later—much later—as we left Greg and Fiona’s, it finally sunk in: we would be going home together. It seemed to hit her at approximately the same time because the interior of the car grew quiet, and I could almost hear her thinking.

I was debating whether or not to raise the privacy window when I heard Stan say, “Uh oh.” His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. They looked alert and concerned. “I think we got trouble, boss.”

I craned my neck, peering out the window. Three police cars were parked in the circle outside the East Randolph Street property and a cop was waving us down as we pulled closer to the building.

Stan glanced at me, I gave him a short nod, and he continued forward slowly.

“You want to do the talking?” I asked Kat, “Or should I?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, her hand squeezed mine and I felt her tense, like she was preparing to flee, or she was fighting the instinct.

Pulling to a stop, Stan rolled down his window. “Can I help you officer?”

The cop examined Stan, then glanced at us. “I need to see some identification from everyone in the car.”

“Sure.” I squeezed her hand back, hoping to reassure her. “Sure thing.” I reached in my back pocket, lifting my chin towards Kat’s purse, encouraging her to take out her ID.

She did, but I could see her hands were shaking. I didn’t blame her. I had uncles and aunts who were cops. My grandpa on my mom’s side was a cop. Even so, even now, after being in jail, police offers who weren’t my family made me jumpy.

The officer came to my window and I rolled it down, passing over our driver’s licenses. He barely glanced at mine, instead peering at Kat’s like it held this week’s Powerball numbers. His stare shot to hers, held, and then he opened the door.

“Miss, I’m going to need you to come with me.”

She didn’t move. And she still hadn’t answered me. So I took the lead.

“Excuse me, sir.” I shifted in front of her, instinctively protecting her body with mine. “What do you want with my wife?”

The officer blinked, flinching and frowning. Clearly, the question had taken him by surprise.

“Your wife?”

“Yes, officer. Wife.”

He gave me a look, like he thought I was lying, and lifted his chin. “You have proof of marriage?”

“I just so happen to have our marriage certificate in my pocket.” I made no move to reach for it, I knew better than that. Waiting a beat, I asked, “Do you mind if I reach for it? Or you can remove it. It’s in my left breast interior pocket.”

He opened my jacket, his attention snagging on the ink at my neck for a half second, bouncing to my eyes, then back to my coat. He withdrew the folded copy of the postnup I’d printed at work, which happened to have—thank God—the marriage certificate at the back.

“It’s the last page.” I kept my hands on my legs where he could see them.

Frowning at me, he flipped to the end of the document, peered at it in the same way he’d peered at Kat’s ID. His expression clearing, he lifted his eyes back to mine and gave me a little smile.

“Mrs. O’Malley, huh?”

“That’s right.”

Reaching for the radio on his shoulder, and not taking his eyes from mine, he clicked the call button. “This is Officer Denver, from location BETA. I have eyes on the target, over.”

Not two seconds later, an answering call sounded from the radio. “Secure target and hold position. We’ll be right out, over.”

“There’s a bit of a problem with that. Seems Miss Caravel-Tyson is married. I don’t think that guardianship order is still valid if she’s married, over.”

A bit of static, then a voice I thought I recognized sounded over the radio, “She’s not married, she’s crazy. You can’t believe a word she says.”