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

  One second I’m standing, and the next we’re flat on the ground, my body covering hers.

  Protect what’s precious.

  It only took mere seconds, but the curves of her body and how impossibly silky her skin feels against mine registers. It’s a different kind of danger I am finding myself in, suddenly.

  I leap to my feet.

  “Call 911.”

  Alix reaches for the phone and I launch myself out the door.

  5

  Alix

  It was just an outbuilding.

  Thank God it was just an outbuilding. Even wrapped in my heaviest coat, standing in the icy cold evening air, I shiver. All the animals are safe.

  Whoever had set the building on fire targeted an empty old shed at the back of the property. The fire chief said that even on a cursory inspection, it was clear that the fire had been set. He guessed that whoever set it didn't realize there was an ancient bag of fertilizer in the corner.

  When it got hot enough, it exploded.

  That wasn’t much to take comfort in, in my opinion.

  The explosion sounded far worse than it was. The damage was restricted to the wall of the building where the fertilizer was stored. The wood was scorched and splintered, but the blast actually put out most of the fire.

  Yet, if Jack and I hadn't been here, the barns, the animals, and even the house itself could have been burned to the ground.

  Everything I loved could have been lost.

  Well, almost everything.

  My eyes move to Jack’s broad shoulders as he speaks with two firefighters in low, serious tones.

  I guess Jack would still have been here.

  Even just the thought of it makes me lightheaded.

  I can’t think like that.

  Maybe I hit my head way on the way down to the floor.

  The police came and took statements.

  It turns out that the police chief went to school with Jack in Gloucester. There’s a trace of something like derision when he recognizes Jack, but after checking Jack’s ID and realizing that he’s a Lt. Colonel in the Marine Corps special forces, the guy changes his attitude completely. The chief treats him with respect.

  He makes a comment that perhaps Jack should consider spending the night.

  “Well, Sir, it's not like with all these animals she can just pick up and go stay with her folks or at a hotel,” he says.

  You can hear him capitalizing the word ‘Sir’ once he finds out Jack’s rank.

  Good. I hated the way he’d treated Jack at first. It pissed me off.

  The Chief seems mildly concerned, but I don’t like the way he’s talking to Jack about me like I'm not even there.

  I bristle.

  Jack's eyes cut in my direction. He shoots me a quick wink.

  It’s clear he noticed and disapproved of the guy’s tone, which just makes me like Jack even more.

  He might be pushy, but at least he’s acting with my best interests at heart.

  “What's your theory on who's doing this? Can you tell me anything about what the investigation has revealed?” Jack asks.

  The Chief gives half a shrug.

  “Up ‘til yesterday, I thought it could be a disgruntled ex. Now, Sir, that can be serious, but it’s not uncommon,” he tells Jack. “This though, this type of thing isn’t something I’d attribute to a Walker.”

  Of course, the fucker would think that.

  “I’m disappointed to hear that you think a man stalking his ex isn’t a serious cause for concern. Almost sounds like you think it’s a normal part of a break-up, and not the Code Red dangerous behaviors that should be driving a serious investigation,” says Jack.

  The Chief scrambles to make excuses, but neither Jack or I are interested.

  “We’ve been sending a unit around and talking to relevant parties but haven’t uncovered anything definitive. We’ve got other things we’re dealing with, too. This is only one situation,” the Chief says, crossing arms over his chest.

  He’s got a beer belly in contrast to Jack’s six pack abs.

  Jack eyes him grimly.

  “What about that display, yesterday?” he says.

  “Most likely, it’s a prank. Maybe one of Ms. Winthrops’ customers didn’t take to kindly to the way she treated their pet. Maybe it died? Maybe they felt they wanted to make a statement? It’s vandalism, I’ll give you that. But, nothing more,” he answers, satisfied with his clever deductive capabilities.

  It makes me want to punch him in the face.

  “Are you serious right now?” I say, getting angry.

  Roadkill nailed to the door isn’t a prank.

  Jack puts his hand on my forearm, and gently squeezes it.

  “What about after this, Chief?” he asks. “You think this is a prank?”

  The police chief hears the judgment in Jack's voice.

  He looks over to the burned-out shed.

  A little wave of vindication goes through me as the man shifts uncomfortably.

  He straightens himself up.

  Jack keeps looking at the man, and the Chief folds.

  “As of yesterday, we’re putting the full resources of the department behind the investigation. Still, this is a small town, and it isn't much to go on, so I caution you not to get your hopes up,” he says.

  Jack gives a brief nod.

  “Can you come down to the station, tomorrow? Need some statements, if you can?” the Chief asks.

  We agree and the Chief takes his leave.

  “I’m glad you stood down there, Alix,” Jack rumbles, as we walk towards the fire inspector.

  “I was about to punch that asshole,” I hiss into his ear.

  “If he said that things like this happen one more time, you’d be bailing me out of jail,” Jack grins.

  We speak to the fire inspector, who tells us that the fire department will be sending an someone out to comb through the area in daylight. They leave, and then Jack and I assess the damage.

  I want to just go alone, but he insists on accompanying me on my rounds.

  I do a pass through the barn.

  It's a heated barn, as state-of-the-art as my limited funds allow. One half houses an orphaned llama named Beastie Boy and two horses, Bert and Ernie, whose owner went bankrupt and lost her farm.

  Typically, it's easy to adopt out horses, but these two are pushing twenty. That’s late in life for a horse. The former owner still comes to visit every week. I haven't completely lost hope of finding them a home. Maybe she can get back on her feet enough to get them back.

  But I know that the reality is that they’re probably here for the long-term.

  The other half of the barn has dog crates.

  Did I mention that we’re at max capacity?

  It's counterintuitive, but there are more homeless pets around the holidays than any other time of year.

  Cape Ann is the kind of place that has a tough economy. It relies so much on seasonal industries, like tourism and fishing, that winters can be hard.

  When people lose jobs or get displaced from their homes, unfortunately, pets are among the first family members that suffer. Even more heartbreaking, the holidays themselves can cause more homeless pets. People often give their older pets away to make room for younger ones gifted at Christmas.

  It’s horrifying.

  But that’s why I’m here – to try and make sure each one of them is safe and finds a new home.

  “Tell me what I can do to help,” Jack says.

  I'm out of my head and back in my body at the sound of Jack's deep, rumbling voice.

  There's something about him that's so patient, that feels so natural, that I almost forget he's there.

  Considering that he's a six-foot-six brick wall with more intensity than any other human I've ever met, that seems like an unlikely reaction.

  Yet here we are.

  “I'd like to take each of the dogs for a short walk,” I say. “Let them take care of business and stretch off any nervou
s energy. Then I’ll take care of the cats.”

  The cat room is in a section at the back of the house.

  It’s not ideal, but until I have enough funds or labor on hand to finishing getting the second building outfitted, it’s the way things are.

  I point toward the wall of leashes, and Jack gives a terse nod.

  “I’ll take care of the dogs. You go look in on the cats.”

  I start to argue.

  There are sixteen dogs here. Even doubled up and on short walks, he's going to be out for at least an hour. But I can tell from the way his eyes sweep the room and how he squared his shoulders that he's already done that math.

  The truth is that I'm so exhausted and desperate for the help, that for tonight, I decide to take it.

  I'm leaving the barn when I brush past him. For some reason, I reach out and touch his arm. The muscles ripple beneath my fingers, and I'm taken back again all those years to that date. The feel of his arms around me.

  God, there's something about him that just draws me in.

  Even after all this time.

  Jack's not anything like the men I’ve dated.

  I've always gone for the kind of man that isn't too much of a challenge. Who doesn’t take too much time.

  You know the type.

  The one with a steady job and a decent sense of humor that gets overlooked by other women.

  They're usually happy with whatever time I can give them, and don't get frustrated when my interests take me away.

  It’s not that I don’t feel the pull of a man like Jack.

  It’s the opposite.

  It’s just that every time I’ve gotten distracted in my life, I’ve failed.

  Too many feelings, too much attraction - it just gets too messy. And I’ve got a lot on my hands right now that I can’t afford to mess up.

  A man like Jack seems like he’d be all-consuming. It would be hard to contain his influence on your life. His very presence consumes every single one of my senses right now.

  And, I don’t like losing control.

  An electric shiver starts where my hand rests on his, and he looks like he’s been shocked.

  “Alexandra,” he says, his voice suddenly an octave lower.

  Lower and tighter.

  Deeper.

  Sexier.

  “Thank you for your help,” I stammer.

  It sounds lame, but I want to say something.

  Anything.

  His eyes stay locked on mine and I break the moment, with some effort.

  “Right. Of course. You take care of the dogs and take a look around. I’ll go into the house and set the alarm,” I say.

  I give him the code and then rush into the house, desperate for space to catch my breath.

  Heading straight for the cats, I greet two of my favorites: Akira, an evil but gorgeous Himalayan that someone is going to fall in love with, and a big orange Maine Coon cat that looks like he’d seen some things.

  Food, water, and litter are situated in good order, and the ones that want to play have been entertained.

  It’s a little over an hour or so later when Jack walks through the back door. He punches the code, knocks lightly, then steps in, shaking off the cold.

  I keep my eyes on the stir fry that I’m making.

  I didn’t have much food in the freezer. The truth is that between a tight budget and a bad schedule, I eat way more junk food than I should.

  But I have steak, veggies, and cauliflower rice. A little teriyaki sauce and a side-salad will make a decent enough dinner.

  Molly said that Jack has a fight coming up. Even on a fighter’s training diet, Jack should be able to eat that. I don’t know much about fighting, but I’ve gleaned that much from Molly over the months she’s been dating Owen.

  “That smells like heaven,” he says.

  He sounds so shocked that I look up.

  “Have a seat at the island. It’ll be ready in a minute,” I say, trying to sound natural.

  Plates, silverware, and glasses of ice water are already laid out.

  A beer stands next to one.

  “I wasn’t sure if you drink beer,” I say uncertainly.

  I don’t drink much, but I still have a few in my kitchen from the last time friends came over.

  He washes his hands in the sink and then looks at me hard.

  “Beer and steak.”

  It’s a statement, not a question.

  Something in me bristles.

  “You complaining?” I ask, my arms crossed, with a wooden spoon in one hand.

  I immediately feel bad when our eyes meet because that’s not the sentiment there at all.

  Honestly, it looks like gratitude, and I feel like a jerk.

  Still, someone tried to blow up my barn. I can afford to be a bit pissed off.

  Even if it’s misdirected.

  Plus, I ran into a man that’s haunted my dreams for years, and now he’s standing in my kitchen.

  And, he threw himself over my body, to protect me, and then spent almost two hours caring for my rescue animals.

  Is it any wonder I am a confused bundle of emotions right now?

  Jack just grins at me.

  “No, ma’am. I just can’t remember the last time anyone cooked for me, never mind my favorite meal,” he smiles.

  I try to be more friendly as I keep my eyes on the pan.

  “Don’t call it cooking until you’ve tried it. Usually, I live on take out,” I warn.

  “It smells amazing,” he says again, and my stomach does a little flip.

  “How do you like your steak?” I ask, nonchalantly.

  “Raw?” I say, teasing him a little.

  He smiles again.

  “However, you’re doing it up is just fine, Alix,” he says.

  I glance up.

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  ‘Well-done’ it is then.

  All I can think of is those memes that show steak from raw to black and engender such outrage on social media. Let’s hope we’re compatible in that area because the only way I cook is burnt.

  But, if he’s willing to give it a go, I will cheerfully burn both of our steaks.

  All my stir-fries have a signature ‘Cajun-blackened’ feel.

  I’m just about to throw some spice in, but I pause.

  “Do you like spice?”

  “I can handle the heat.”

  Something in the way he says it stops me, my hand freezing on the way to shake out the jalapeno.

  I swallow hard and then put the food on the plates.

  I’m sliding his plate in front of him when he puts a hand on mine.

  “I never got to say thank you.”

  My mind races, trying to figure out what he could be thanking me for. While I am trying to figure it out, my whole body comes alive at his touch. Quickly, I move away and take a seat across from him.

  He waits so long I finally ask, “Are you going to eat?”

  He grins.

  “The second you do.”

  Waiting.

  Being a gentleman.

  My heart beats harder in my chest and I try to think of something neutral to say.

  “Do you talk to Tanner often?” I ask, spearing some peppers.

  There’s a pause, and he gives his head a shake.

  “The last six or seven years, because of everything that’s been going on, I’ve sometimes been gone seven or eight months a year. When I’ve been home, it was a crazy balance of getting ready for the next mission and trying to orchestrate spending time with my son,” he explains.

  He looks up.

  “Usually, it’s an email here, a text there. But nothing too detailed.”

  “But you stayed in touch with Owen?” I ask.

  “Yeah, the Doyles are always reaching out. Murphy, Owen’s father, is always sending something for JJ or calling me to check-in. He’s good at keeping people connected, you know,” Jack says.

  Maybe I should have b
een better at staying in touch.

  “How long have you been back in Boston, Jack?” I ask, biting a pepper off my fork.

  Molly had said years, a thought I can’t wrap my head around.

  How could he have been here for years?

  He looks up at me, a bit guilty.

  “Awhile. Almost two years. It didn’t start well, what with the divorce and all, and trying to find a balance for JJ. And even though I’m based here, I still travel for two or three weeks at a time. I should have called, though. No excuse,” he apologizes.

  Divorce.

  Jack’s single. The thought runs through my mind, over and over.

  “My parents would love to see you,” I say, chewing my pepper.

  Then, I blurt it out before I can bite it back, “I would have loved to see you.”

  He lowers his fork into the dinner he’s been eating with fierce concentration and looks at me with that same hungry look.

  My stomach twists and my cheeks heat.

  “Is that so?”

  I fight back a sigh. Trying to deflect my true feelings.

  “Yes, Jack,” I say, smoothly. “You have been friends with my brothers forever.”

  That was slick, I think, patting myself on the back as I slip another bit of pepper into my mouth.

  Jack watches me patiently.

  “I was also the CO at the time their son died in the military, Alix. At the least, I can’t bring back good memories. At the worst, they have to hold me culpable to some level,” he says, sounding resolute yet dejected.

  “Jack, no. It’s not like that. Not at all.” I protest, setting down my utensils.

  He looks down.

  “Alexandra, your mother said some things that day.”

  I don’t let him finish. I stand up and walk over to him, then lean down on the island to see eye-to-eye.

  “Jack, she’d just been told that her son – who she expected to walk in through the door for Christmas in a couple of days – was dead,” I say, simply.

  “She said so many things. Awful things. Things to me, to Daddy, to my brothers. She grieved Bryan very hard. But she didn’t mean those things she said. In fact, she’d been torn up to think you didn’t put them into context,” I explain.