“No?”
“I’m having dinner tonight with my, um, former fiancé.”
“James Morgan?”
“Uh, yes.”
She seemed surprised he knew her ex’s name. He didn’t tell her that he’d come home after their first meeting and looked up everything he could find on Olivia Taylor-Jones. Prep work. Like being interested in a business and learning everything you could before initiating a takeover. Which was an analogy no woman would appreciate, and he’d never make it. But he wanted to get to know her better, and when Ricky went after something, he used every tool at his disposal. He’d learned that from Gabriel, a lesson taught by example from the moment Gabriel decided he wanted to be the Saints’ lawyer.
As for James Morgan, he hadn’t needed to research the man. Ricky was an MBA student who took his studies seriously. He knew exactly who Morgan was, and while he was damned sure he wouldn’t want to compete with him corporately, he suspected he had a decent shot here.
“So you’re having dinner with James tonight. Have lunch with me tomorrow.”
“I can’t. Dinner with James means—”
“You’re testing the waters for a reunion. Great. But as long as he’s still your former fiancé, you’re free to see me. Comparison shop.”
A sputtered laugh.
“One date, Olivia.”
“I really can’t. I’m sorry.”
He smiled in spite of the refusal. The honest regret in her voice told him he wasn’t out of the running yet. She just needed a softer sell.
“A drink, then,” he said. “Not a date.”
“I don’t think—”
“I’ll settle for coffee.”
“You really don’t give up.”
“Nope. I just downgrade the offer until I get buy-in. Have coffee with me. Absolutely no strings attached. I won’t even angle for a date.” When she hesitated, he smiled. “Coffee it is, then. Sunday afternoon—”
“I’m working.” A pause. “Can we make it Monday or Tuesday? Anytime before three?”
“Tuesday’s my heavy school day, so let’s go for Monday.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When I returned to my apartment after my Saturday shift, TC wasn’t there. Usually, he was in the towel-lined cardboard box I’d assigned him as a bed. The only time he hadn’t been was when I’d found him hiding under my bed, and I suspected someone had broken in.
I searched the apartment, which took about three minutes. Then I searched again. I even pulled out the can of cat treats. Yes, I’d bought him treats. Give it another month and I’d be collecting his shed whiskers and claws like a proud momma preserving her baby’s first haircut and lost teeth.
I shook the treats. I called his name—well, his acronym. Then I conducted a calm and measured search of the apartment. Oh hell, who am I kidding? I tore about, checking every cat-sized space frantically, certain he’d suffered some horrible ailment that prevented him from answering my calls, even for fake-tuna treats.
There were a very limited number of places he could hide in those few hundred square feet, and I checked them all three times. I even looked in the fridge and stove. Hey, I’d been distracted lately; he could have hopped in while I wasn’t paying attention.
Once I was sure he wasn’t in the apartment, I hurried out to the front stoop, where Grace was on troll duty.
“Have you seen my cat?” I asked.
“You mean that stray that you insist isn’t actually yours but you keep feeding—”
“He’s not in my apartment.”
“Did you leave the window open?”
“No.” I’d kept my windows locked since I’d discovered Ciara Conway’s body.
“Well, I haven’t been in there, and I’m the only one with a key.” She peered up at me. “Didn’t I see you carting trash down to the bin this morning?”
“Right.” I’d taken two bags because I’d forgotten last week.
“Then he snuck out while you were doing that.”
“Maybe. If you see him—”
“Don’t ask me to put him in your room. Still got the claw marks from the last time I touched the damned beast. Stray cats are like two-timing men. He got tired of you and took off. He doesn’t find anyone new? He’ll come slinking back. By then, if you’re smart, you’ll have decided you’re better without him.”
I headed down the steps, scouring the yard for signs of TC. Behind me, Grace snorted and muttered. I checked my watch. I was meeting James in ninety minutes, but . . .
I crossed the street to Rose’s house. When she answered the door, she looked down at me like I was a five-year-old caught ringing the bell, about to dash away. I tried not to quail under that stare. Rose may be in her late fifties, but she’s a brown belt in karate, a few inches taller than me, and as sturdy as an oak.
“Miss Olivia.”
“Hey, um, Gabriel said you wanted to speak to me.”
“I did. But you keep sneaking out your back door.”
“I didn’t sneak—”
Her look stopped the excuse in my throat.
“Okay,” I said. “I snuck. Gabriel and I have . . . parted ways, and I figured you were checking to be sure he’s getting his due. I wasn’t in the mood for that conversation. I will pay his bill.”
“I know you will. What I wanted to discuss has nothing to do with Gabriel. Come in, and I’ll make tea.”
“I can’t. I have a . . . an engagement.”
“A date with James Morgan.” When I looked surprised, she said, “I have the sight, remember?”
“Or Gabriel told you James hired him to get me back.”
“Either way, a date with James seems—”
“I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Because I’ll tell you it’s a terrible idea? That you know it’s a terrible idea and that you’re only doing it because you feel guilty?”
“Um, no. I—”
“The cards tell me that if you pursue this reconciliation, you will regret it.”
“Uh-huh.” I shook my head. “If you want to help me, use your cards to find my damned cat.”
I expected her to shoot back some variation on what Grace had said, that I hadn’t wanted TC in the first place. But she frowned. “He’s gone?”
“I’m having dinner tonight with my, um, former fiancé.”
“James Morgan?”
“Uh, yes.”
She seemed surprised he knew her ex’s name. He didn’t tell her that he’d come home after their first meeting and looked up everything he could find on Olivia Taylor-Jones. Prep work. Like being interested in a business and learning everything you could before initiating a takeover. Which was an analogy no woman would appreciate, and he’d never make it. But he wanted to get to know her better, and when Ricky went after something, he used every tool at his disposal. He’d learned that from Gabriel, a lesson taught by example from the moment Gabriel decided he wanted to be the Saints’ lawyer.
As for James Morgan, he hadn’t needed to research the man. Ricky was an MBA student who took his studies seriously. He knew exactly who Morgan was, and while he was damned sure he wouldn’t want to compete with him corporately, he suspected he had a decent shot here.
“So you’re having dinner with James tonight. Have lunch with me tomorrow.”
“I can’t. Dinner with James means—”
“You’re testing the waters for a reunion. Great. But as long as he’s still your former fiancé, you’re free to see me. Comparison shop.”
A sputtered laugh.
“One date, Olivia.”
“I really can’t. I’m sorry.”
He smiled in spite of the refusal. The honest regret in her voice told him he wasn’t out of the running yet. She just needed a softer sell.
“A drink, then,” he said. “Not a date.”
“I don’t think—”
“I’ll settle for coffee.”
“You really don’t give up.”
“Nope. I just downgrade the offer until I get buy-in. Have coffee with me. Absolutely no strings attached. I won’t even angle for a date.” When she hesitated, he smiled. “Coffee it is, then. Sunday afternoon—”
“I’m working.” A pause. “Can we make it Monday or Tuesday? Anytime before three?”
“Tuesday’s my heavy school day, so let’s go for Monday.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When I returned to my apartment after my Saturday shift, TC wasn’t there. Usually, he was in the towel-lined cardboard box I’d assigned him as a bed. The only time he hadn’t been was when I’d found him hiding under my bed, and I suspected someone had broken in.
I searched the apartment, which took about three minutes. Then I searched again. I even pulled out the can of cat treats. Yes, I’d bought him treats. Give it another month and I’d be collecting his shed whiskers and claws like a proud momma preserving her baby’s first haircut and lost teeth.
I shook the treats. I called his name—well, his acronym. Then I conducted a calm and measured search of the apartment. Oh hell, who am I kidding? I tore about, checking every cat-sized space frantically, certain he’d suffered some horrible ailment that prevented him from answering my calls, even for fake-tuna treats.
There were a very limited number of places he could hide in those few hundred square feet, and I checked them all three times. I even looked in the fridge and stove. Hey, I’d been distracted lately; he could have hopped in while I wasn’t paying attention.
Once I was sure he wasn’t in the apartment, I hurried out to the front stoop, where Grace was on troll duty.
“Have you seen my cat?” I asked.
“You mean that stray that you insist isn’t actually yours but you keep feeding—”
“He’s not in my apartment.”
“Did you leave the window open?”
“No.” I’d kept my windows locked since I’d discovered Ciara Conway’s body.
“Well, I haven’t been in there, and I’m the only one with a key.” She peered up at me. “Didn’t I see you carting trash down to the bin this morning?”
“Right.” I’d taken two bags because I’d forgotten last week.
“Then he snuck out while you were doing that.”
“Maybe. If you see him—”
“Don’t ask me to put him in your room. Still got the claw marks from the last time I touched the damned beast. Stray cats are like two-timing men. He got tired of you and took off. He doesn’t find anyone new? He’ll come slinking back. By then, if you’re smart, you’ll have decided you’re better without him.”
I headed down the steps, scouring the yard for signs of TC. Behind me, Grace snorted and muttered. I checked my watch. I was meeting James in ninety minutes, but . . .
I crossed the street to Rose’s house. When she answered the door, she looked down at me like I was a five-year-old caught ringing the bell, about to dash away. I tried not to quail under that stare. Rose may be in her late fifties, but she’s a brown belt in karate, a few inches taller than me, and as sturdy as an oak.
“Miss Olivia.”
“Hey, um, Gabriel said you wanted to speak to me.”
“I did. But you keep sneaking out your back door.”
“I didn’t sneak—”
Her look stopped the excuse in my throat.
“Okay,” I said. “I snuck. Gabriel and I have . . . parted ways, and I figured you were checking to be sure he’s getting his due. I wasn’t in the mood for that conversation. I will pay his bill.”
“I know you will. What I wanted to discuss has nothing to do with Gabriel. Come in, and I’ll make tea.”
“I can’t. I have a . . . an engagement.”
“A date with James Morgan.” When I looked surprised, she said, “I have the sight, remember?”
“Or Gabriel told you James hired him to get me back.”
“Either way, a date with James seems—”
“I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Because I’ll tell you it’s a terrible idea? That you know it’s a terrible idea and that you’re only doing it because you feel guilty?”
“Um, no. I—”
“The cards tell me that if you pursue this reconciliation, you will regret it.”
“Uh-huh.” I shook my head. “If you want to help me, use your cards to find my damned cat.”
I expected her to shoot back some variation on what Grace had said, that I hadn’t wanted TC in the first place. But she frowned. “He’s gone?”
