Ringer: A New Year's Romance: The Doyles, a Boston Irish Mafia Romance Read online

There’s nothing left here than to just get on with the reason why I came.

  Owen looks at Jack, then me.

  “So, you need self-defense lessons, I take it?” he asks.

  Jack scowls and glares at me.

  I can feel butterflies in the pit of my stomach.

  They aren’t all from Jack Mulvaney.

  It’s a simple enough story.

  Read any headline and you’ll find something like it. My dream – inheriting a stretch of wooded farmland and some money to go with it – led me to quit my job in the medical field and open the pet shelter instead.

  I was finally getting to follow my dream of working with animals.

  Around the same time, I’d met a guy; it was shortly after my grandmother died and left me the land.

  We’d dated casually for a couple of months. He learned about my property and started pressuring me about my plans for what I intended to do with it. He asked me to meet with a friend of his, to consider selling the property. He wanted to put up condos and I could make a killing.

  I rolled my eyes. Just what Massachusetts needs, I said. More development.

  I already had plans. I was going to open up an animal shelter and save as many dogs, cats, and barnyard animals as I could.

  I may not be good with feelings or people, but I’m fantastic with animals.

  My ex had been unrelenting.

  We broke up, him citing my lousy business sense and me citing the fact that he was an asshole.

  You know, agreeing to disagree.

  I threw myself into caring for the animals at the shelter. It gave me a purpose, and even though I couldn’t have anticipated the amount of work it would take to keep a shelter running, I loved every minute of it. The animals took away all the pain and returned it with unconditional love.

  Then things took a turn for the worse. It turned into a nightmare.

  It started with threatening phone calls. One morning, I went out and discovered a broken car window. There were other things, too creepy to think about. Technically I couldn’t prove it was my ex, but my gut said that he was the problem.

  Then, I found a letter left in my mailbox: Just sell the land and all this can stop.

  I took it to the cops, but it wasn’t much to go on.

  Or so they said.

  Chad, my ex, was from an important family.

  And I couldn’t actually prove he’d done anything.

  I’d hesitated to go to my parents. They’d been very unhappy when I gave up my job – they’d paid for school – and had made it very clear that I was on my own with the pet shelter.

  “You can’t just change your mind and run away every time things get hard, Alix,” my mother said.

  So I’d vowed to figure this out on my own: to be tough and independent.

  But things just keep getting worse.

  Now, when I am at the farm, I feel like I’m being watched.

  Twice I’d been followed home by strangers in cars.

  Once a man followed me on a run through the woods.

  Most recently was the horrible thing I came home to, roadkill nailed to the front door.

  Even I know this is bad.

  When I told Molly, she told Owen. He offered me self-defense lessons, while the police worked the case.

  “I figured it couldn’t hurt with what has been going on,” I say neutrally.

  Jack’s looking at me hard.

  There’s so much intensity there it gives me chills.

  “Why do you need self-defense lessons, Alexandra?” he asks.

  It’s a hard question to answer.

  On the surface, it just seems like a good idea.

  Now, around the holidays, there’s more to do at the shelter than ever, and we’re light on volunteers.

  Just knowing that I could defend myself, even a little, would restore my confidence.

  I hate feeling vulnerable, afraid, at risk.

  A brutally bright Christmas carol about loving you forever, sung by a pop star with one name who’s hardly old enough to even had a crush, blares from the speakers.

  Jack’s eyes assess my face.

  “Alix is having a bit of an issue with her property,” Owen says.

  He looks over at me, asking permission.

  I shrug.

  I’m too emotionally invested, and exhausted, to revisit it for Jack.

  “She inherited some family farmland and turned it into the pet shelter. This asshole she was dating wanted her to sell it for condos. They broke up, and he’s been doing some shitty things. That about the size of it, Alix?” Owen summarizes.

  “I can’t prove it’s him, Owen. You know that.” I say.

  “Alexandra, you’ve spoken to the police?” Jack cuts in.

  His voice is gentle, but I can tell he’s taking the edge off a barked order.

  I nod.

  “Do you have an alarm?”

  “Yes, of course. A state-of-the-art security system, and the police and someone from the security company patrol by at random times,” I reply.

  I’m coming back to my senses enough to realize the effect that voice is having on me, again.

  Jack gives me a curt nod; a look of approval.

  I clear my throat.

  “It’s just that yesterday there was something nailed to the door. I think it was roadkill. The police are looking into it, but there’s nothing specifically to tie Chad…” I begin.

  I don’t get to finish.

  “Chad,” Jack says. The flat tone of his voice feels like he’s saying, ‘You dated a guy named Chad, of course he’s an asshole.’

  At least, that’s what my brain tells me.

  But what he says instead is simple.

  “Last name.”

  I bristle a bit at that.

  I don’t need to be rescued.

  “Last name.” This time, there’s a harder edge to his voice.

  I raise my chin.

  “Jack, you don’t have to get involved,” I say.

  My voice sounds a little panicked.

  Maybe coming here was a bad idea.

  There’s so much going on at the pet shelter, with the holidays.

  I’ve been overwhelmed.

  Afraid.

  Not thinking clearly.

  I figured that asking for a little help might be okay. It goes against my instincts.

  Yet I trust Owen and Molly to put my request in the right context.

  Help, without doing something that’ll make me regret it.

  I hadn’t anticipated a complication like Jack.

  But this is starting to feel like it’s spiraling out of my control.

  Jack’s phone is out of his pocket, fingers dancing over the screen.

  “Last name,” he repeats.

  I start to say that I’m not one of his grunts, that he can’t just order me around.

  But Molly’s already talking.

  “Walker. He lives in Rockport, the same town where her family resides,” she answers.

  I shoot her a look.

  “What?” she says, with an innocent shrug that’s anything but.

  Jack finishes typing something, and then slides the phone in a back pocket.

  His nose is swelling, the edges of a bruise darkening under his eyes.

  “Give me three minutes.”

  “Jack, you’re hurt. I’m happy to show Alix a few moves,” Owen says.

  Jack turns and the look on his face is almost feral.

  “If he’s nailing roadkill to the door, Owen, you and I both know that a few moves aren’t going cut it,” he says. His voice is controlled and flat, but there is fierceness under the surface.

  It’s terrifying.

  “Let me get my bag,” he says shortly, turning to me. “You got a couch I can sleep on?”

  His eyes search my face, and the line of his jaw goes hard, but when he speaks, his voice is very gentle.

  “Alexandra, let me come check out the place. Please.”

  I bite my lip.
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  It’s five days until Christmas.

  The shelter’s overrun with pets. My volunteers are away until after New Year’s, and I can hardly keep up with the volume of work.

  I don’t want Jack’s help.

  Having him in my space is just going to tear open old wounds, all kinds of old wounds that I don’t want to think about during the holidays.

  But I’m scared.

  And having him take a look around isn’t the worst idea.

  “I don’t need a bodyguard,” I say, sounding firm but knowing it sounds like complete bullshit. As much as I want to be on top of this myself, it’s clear I’m not.

  Jack’s face echoes my thoughts as his eyes narrow, as he squares his shoulders.

  I don’t want a bodyguard.

  But help with all the animals while our volunteers are away?

  Now that my ego could take; and if he happens to have security recommendations, that’s a huge bonus.

  I begin convincing myself that this is a good idea.

  “If you can walk dogs, I’ve got a couch you can use,” I answer.

  He nods.

  “Good. Let me just pick up my things,” he says.

  He heads back from the locker room in record time, a duffle in his hand.

  “Let’s go,” he grins.

  I follow him out through the gym door, which he gallantly holds open for me.

  I can open my own doors, but there’s just something so perfect about him doing it for me.

  “Thank you, sir. You are an officer and a gentle…” I stop.

  There’s a look on his face. The one I saw the day he told me about Bryan.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” I whisper. I don’t know if he hears me.

  I walk outside, and it’s cold. Snow flurries swirl down out of a gray sky, to the icy ground below.

  “Which car is yours?” he asks.

  I point.

  “It’s that red one, over there,” I indicate.

  “Of course it is,” he says, with a grimace. “That’s not good for driving in the snow. You need something big, sturdy, four-wheel drive.”

  “Hey, I use it all the time. She handles just fine,” I reply.

  The car handles adequately.

  Not that I’ll admit it.

  “I’ll go get mine. Wait for me,” he says. It sounds kind of like an order.

  “Please,” he amends.

  “What color is it?” I ask.

  “Forest green,” he says.

  “Of course it is,” I reply, faking a grimace.

  He gives an easy laugh, and that’s when I know I made the right decision.

  Jack walks away, and I can’t help but look at that fine ass of his, and that of course leads me to thinking about what’s on the opposite side.

  I bite my lip, taking in the view until he reaches his SUV, before getting into my car.

  I’m pretty sure I can handle having Jack around for a bit. If nothing else, he’s easy on the eyes.

  Now if I can just make it through the next day or two without putting my heart in danger.

  Again.

  3

  Alix

  Eight Years Ago

  It’s an icy cold day, and I stand on the back deck of my parents’ house, staring out at the gray, moody ocean.

  My mother’s sobbing has died down to whimpers.

  At first, I’d tried to stay – but right now, she wants comfort only my father can offer.

  My brothers rage in their grief.

  And I just need to breathe.

  Oxygen seems like the only thing that will stave off the avalanche of feelings threatening to crash down on me at any second.

  Bryan.

  How many times had we played on this lawn as kids, our mother shrieking for us to be careful as we got too close to the rocks?

  I sat here just last week as we talked on the phone, catching up between his missions and between my semester finals.

  He sounded so happy, so healthy.

  So alive.

  Tanner’s home for his first Christmas after medical school, where he’s doing his residency on the west coast.

  Colton’s been working fire and rescue in Wyoming.

  And me?

  Physician’s assistant school in Boston’s not far away, but some days I feel light-years from the peace of Cape Ann.

  There’s something remote and haunting here that speaks to me, even though it’s less than an hour's drive from the city most days. My lead foot doesn’t hurt.

  I’d been in the kitchen with my mother when the knock came.

  It hadn’t made sense.

  When I opened the door, there was a handsome man in full Marine Corps dress, a grim expression marring his face. His short hair was high and tight, but his dark eyes bore infinite sadness. The winter light reflected off his dark skin.

  I stood there helpless, while this terrible moment burned into my brain.

  I knew immediately who he was.

  A Casualty Assistance Calls Officer.

  Behind him waited the rest of the Grief Team, ready to offer support and details about what came next.

  His voice is even and measured. He recites the most devastating words a family can hear.

  “The commandant of the Marine Corps has entrusted me to express his deep regret that your son, Bryan, was killed in action during a training accident today. The commandant extends his deepest sympathy to you and your family in your loss,” he says.

  Then, he reaches out with a small envelope.

  My mother crumples, and I barely catch her as my brothers and father join us in the hallway.

  My chest compresses, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the sting away.

  One traitorous, salty tear threatens to unleash the flow.

  Any second now, the grief will break over me like waves over the gray rocks below, and I’ll be wracked with sobs.

  Not yet, though.

  It’s like a countdown to a rocket launch. I can feel the seconds ticking down until the dam breaks.

  I won’t be able to hold it at bay.

  I will need to deal with all of it.

  The fact my brother’s gone.

  The way reality will have to reconfigure itself to account for the loss of such a good man.

  The recognition that the brightest point of light in our family constellation blinked out.

  The guilt.

  Every time I yelled at him as kids.

  Every time I’d been too busy to pick up the phone.

  Every time I’d left anything unsaid.

  We’d been so good to each other, but at this moment, all I feel are the deficits, my mind running a systematic review to find every second I’ve been found wanting as a sister.

  Plenty of time to mull that over and over.

  The years to sit with those thoughts stretch out in front of me, unbroken to the horizon.

  But, for just a minute more, I want to hang onto the version of me that’s not forever marred by grief.

  She’s already slipping away.

  I can feel her tearing away from my body, her innocence burning like hellfire.

  I lean my head back and look at the sky.

  There’s a crunch in the ice and snow.

  Then I see him.

  Jack Mulvaney.

  Scratch that.

  Captain Jack Mulvaney, United States Marine Corps, Special Operations.

  Where has all the time gone?

  He’d arrived on the heels of the formal team, to pay his respects, to apologize, to offer what comfort he could.

  My brother’s unit was doing training exercises overseas, while Jack had been in the States attending mandatory meetings.

  My mother saw him and ran over to him in her grief, trying to hold onto him like a ship’s anchor in a storm. Again and again, she wailed, asking why, and demanding to know how he could have let this happen to her son.

  It was clear every word was a stab into his heart. But then, something told me it wasn
’t any worse than what he already thought of himself.

  Haunted. He looks haunted.

  He is bigger than I remember, with those intense blue eyes and a squared jaw and an even more serious demeanor than when we were kids.

  He clears his throat.

  “Alexandra.”

  Please don’t say you’re sorry, I beg silently.

  Bryan wanted to be a Marine more than anything.

  The day he graduated from basic training was the third-best day of his life.

  The day he’d gotten into the Special Forces school was the second.

  The day he’d found out he’d be serving under Jack was the first.

  What odds bring two men from the rough shores of Gloucester and Rockport together half a world away?

  At the time, I’d been so grateful.

  Jack and I hadn’t been able to make things work.

  We’d gone through awkward crushes in high school and missed opportunities. Our legacy is comprised of just one intoxicating kiss the night I graduated from high school, and he was home on leave. And, a few years later, a singular date that I’d never forget. Beyond that, moments of connection that seemed significant.

  But the universe had other plans for us and now here we are.

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  For a bewildering second, I wonder if he’s reading my thoughts. One big finger reaches out and tentatively traces the paper clutched in my hands.

  Blinking hard.

  “It’s a passport,” I reply.

  He doesn’t say anything, just raises an eyebrow.

  I can hear him thinking. ‘She just found out her brother’s dead. I’m not telling her that’s not a passport,’ his look says.

  One thing’s always been true about Jack.

  Tough guy, scary expressions, but you can read what he’s thinking on his face before he shuts it down.

  At least, I always could.

  Clearing my throat, I try again.

  “A lighthouse passport,” I say, neutrally.

  From the look on his face, that didn’t help.

  “It’s from the Lighthouse Society. There’s this thing you can do where you get a booklet, they call it a passport, and then you collect stamps from all the lighthouses you visit. It’s kind of a thing I do,” I explain.

  My parents got me started, me and Bryan both.

  My eyes start to swim.

  Energetic, inquisitive kids.