I told her about my childhood in Ireland, my mam, the cancer, and even a little bit about my dad before he'd been ruled by the bottle, and I found that it felt good to talk about them, even if only a little. Apart from Fionn, and Eileen of course, I hadn't come across anyone who had lost both parents so young.
"I wanted this with you," she murmured. "When we were teenagers. I dreamed of this." I smiled softly at her. Funny, we'd both been dreaming of the same thing, yet we'd both been dreaming alone. I didn't want to dream alone anymore. I hoped to God she didn't either.
We'd slept together in the guest room in Greenwich, but having her in my bed brought an even deeper joy and satisfaction. I loved whispering with her in the near dark of my room, loved the look of her freshly scrubbed face right next to mine on the pillow, loved the soft sound of her voice, the way her words faded away as she started drifting off to sleep in the middle of a sentence.
I don't remember falling asleep, but at some point in the deep of the night, I came half awake, realizing Lydia and I were tangled together, her smooth thigh thrown over my leg and her breasts pressed against my chest, her breath warm on my throat. I pulled her closer, burrowing my nose into her sweetly fragrant hair, feeling a calm sense of happiness flow through me.
When I woke up next, it was morning and Lydia was gone, but when I got up and opened the door to my bedroom, I heard the water running across the hall in her bathroom and smiled. I brought my arm to my nose and inhaled. Lydia. Her scent lingered on my skin.
I brushed my teeth, shaved, and took a shower, and then dressed quickly in dress pants and a button-down shirt.
When I got downstairs and turned the corner into the kitchen, Lydia was sitting at the table dressed . . . as a man. "Em," I said, squinting my eyes at her.
She grinned. "Hi," she said, "I mean, hi," she said again, lowering her voice a few octaves.
"What exactly is . . .?" I used my finger to indicate her state of dress-a button-down shirt stolen from my closet it seemed, rolled up to her elbows, a pair of loose jeans-and her hair bundled into a baseball cap, and the small . . . I squinted again . . . drawn-in mustache?
"I'm coming to work with you today," she said. "I thought you'd feel safer about me accompanying you if I was in disguise."
"Disguise?" I walked closer, leaning my hands on a chair back. "Lydia, that's the worst disguise I've ever seen."
"Oh!" She held up her finger, grabbed a pair of sunglasses sitting next to the toast she was eating and put them on, smiling.
"Just as bad."
Her smile vanished. "Well, of course it's not meant to trick you." She removed the sunglasses. "But it should work just fine in general. Plus, you said you'd come to an agreement with the men holding my brother's loan. Surely the risk is decreased now, right?" I pressed my lips together and then sighed.
"Please, Brogan," she rushed on, standing and walking over to me. "It's so boring being locked in an apartment all day alone. And you told me you might have some work for me to do for your company. Wouldn't it be better if I was actually at your company so I could ask you questions if I need to?" She put her arms around my waist and gazed up at me, and my eyes wandered to the mustache.
"This is disturbing," I said. "Really disturbing."
"Please?" She blinked up at me, flirting in that shameless way I remembered. Only now . . . it made me smile. Even though I had no bloody idea how to flirt back. Fionn would know. But I had a feeling that sort of thing either came naturally or it didn't. And for me, well, it didn't.
I sighed again. "Fine. But you stay inside with me. I'm serious, Lydia. Let that small ache I'm sure you still feel on your side be a reminder of why what I say is very important." I didn't think she was in danger today, but I wasn't going to take any risks. And either way, she'd be with me. I'd make sure she was safe.
I ate a piece of toast and finished getting ready and then we went down to my car, pulling through a coffee drive-thru en route. Fifteen minutes later, I parked across the street from what was my former home, and now my offices in the Bronx.
We got out of my car and I grabbed Lydia's hand as we crossed. She grinned. "I'm glad to see you're confident enough in your masculinity to hold another man's hand in public."
"You're not a man."
"Yes, but other people don't know that."
We stepped onto the porch and I pulled her to me, wrapping one arm around her waist, and holding my coffee in the other hand.
I grinned. "I'm confident enough to do this, too." I pulled her closer and kissed her lips, running my tongue across the seam so she opened on a surprised inhale of breath. I heard the door open in front of us and cracked one eye open. Rory was standing there, a baffled look on his face as he watched me kiss the young . . . man in my arms.
I pulled back, clearing my throat. "Rory," I greeted as I took Lydia's hand, pulling her behind me and past Rory who was still standing in the doorway looking completely blindsided. I almost asked him why he wasn't at school, but remembered he'd told me it was a teacher in-service day.
I brought Lydia into my office and pulled a chair up next to mine. She stood there watching me, looking around. "Things were so different the last time I was here," she said softly.
A wave of guilt washed over me when I thought about how I'd treated her that day, the offer I'd made and my dark intentions toward her. "Yeah," I said. "You were a woman then." She laughed and I smiled, letting out a breath. I didn't want the easy rapport we'd developed last night to go away. And though things were far from perfect, and I still had several unpleasant tasks staring me down, in that moment, watching as she settled herself at my desk, the only thing I felt was happiness.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lydia
Brogan had set me up with a list of tasks, and I had gone to work right away. I went back and forth between Brogan's office and the file cabinets in a small room off the waiting area. Each time I did, Rory looked at me skeptically, but I just nodded, wanting to laugh at his confusion.
I also noticed the way he followed Brogan around, watching him closely and imitating his mannerisms. I didn't think Brogan noticed. I didn't even think Rory was aware, but he obviously hero-worshipped Brogan. This situation with Brogan's new man-friend must really be throwing him for a loop. Though I figured part of his confusion stemmed from the fact that he was unsure whether I was actually a man or not. I wanted to giggle, but I held it in and resolutely went about my tasks.
Going through a few of the files Brogan had me working on, confused me. What sort of business was this? "I do what I want now," he'd said. Only it seemed what he did was . . . help people. I bit my lip. What did he get out of this? How did you make a business out of helping people who were in bad situations? Did he charge them an exorbitant interest like one of those check cashing places that loaned you money before payday? I leafed through several more files, but if that were the case, there was no record of it here.
A little before noon, Fionn came striding in. Brogan and I were in his office and he paused in the doorway, one eyebrow cocked as he stared at me. "Em . . ."
I laughed. "Hi, Fionn. What's the craic?" I winked and Fionn let out a breath, walking into Brogan's office.
"I thought that was ya, Lydia. But I didn't want to be wrong and offend Brogan's new, wee lad secretary." He sprawled in the chair in front of Brogan's desk. "We gona go deal with that mug, Rudy Dudley?"
Brogan sighed and rubbed at his eye. "Yeah. Just give me a minute to take my anti-nausea medication." Fionn chuckled.
"Rudy Dudley?" I asked.
"Aye," Fionn said. "A real chancer, tight as a duck's arse. He owns some slums in South Bronx and our client has hired us to," he paused as if considering his words carefully, "use our powers of persuasion to convince him to make some repairs."
Hmm. "A chancer. A . . . dodgy character." I grinned, proud to have remembered a word from my Irish slang lesson. I turned to Brogan. "And your client is . . ."
"Sally Hodges. She has a three-year-old and a six-month-old living in a shithole where the rats are bigger than the cats."
I cringed. But if Sally Hodges lived in this rat-infested shithole, she must not have the money to move elsewhere. And if she didn't have the money to move elsewhere, how did she have the money to hire Brogan and Fionn? "I'm coming with you," I said.