Maybe It's Real Page 5

  Twenty. Three. Times.

  Eventually Owen had called him at one in the morning when he’d gotten home after his shift, instructed his brother-in-law to roll over right now, Tyler, dammit, wake Greg up and freaking do it before he could psych himself out again.

  Tyler had forgotten to hang up, and Owen had heard a panicked and shaky, “Um, baby?” before he’d disconnected.

  “The wedding’s in August,” Janet said.

  Owen frowned. “That’s quick.”

  “Those boys have been living together forever. I’d say it’s slooooow. If I was stupid enough to say anything to my son or his lovely husband-to-be about it. Which I am not. Because I do not interfere in such matters.”

  Owen threw back his head and laughed.

  “Fine,” Janet said. “Sometimes I interfere. But only when strictly necessary. And I’m a mom. It’s my job. Which brings me to…”

  Owen didn’t like the determined way she was looking at him. “What?”

  “You’ll come to the wedding.”

  “What? Of course I’ll come to the wedding.”

  “And you’ll bring a date.”

  “Of course I’ll— Wait. A date?”

  “Yes.”

  Owen scratched his jaw. “You don’t think it’s too soon?”

  “Too soon for what? Dating?”

  He dipped his chin in a small nod.

  “Honey. It’s been almost three years. No, it’s not too soon. You’re a man. You have needs.”

  “Mom.”

  “Okay, forget your manly needs. I don’t care about that.” Janet surprised him, lunging across the table to grab his hands. “I care about you. I consider you my son, Owen. I want you to be happy.”

  “I’m happy,” he forced out.

  Janet gave him big eyes. “Boy, don’t even.”

  “I’m happy.” It sounded more convincing this time. Slightly.

  “Then I want you happier. And I think you’ll be happier if you start dating. If you open yourself up to love again.”

  Owen studied her face. It was lined and lived-in, familiar and beautiful. Sincere.

  He started to smile.

  “And if you can’t find a date,” Janet said, “no problem. I’ll find one for you. I already made a list.”

  Owen stopped smiling. “You are not setting me up.” He withdrew his hands.

  “Why not? I know plenty of wonderful women who’d adore to meet—”

  “No.” He poked the table with a stiff forefinger. “My mother-in-law is not setting me up with a woman. That is weird.”

  “It’s my job—”

  “It’s not your job. My love life is not your job. You’re a paralegal. That’s your job.”

  “You’re being very prudish, Owen, and I think if you give it a chance, you’ll be pleasantly surprised—”

  “I’m being very serious. I don’t want you pimping me out to strange women.”

  “Strange women? It’s not like I signed up to a dating site and have been pretending to be you to get the ball rolling.”

  Owen’s jaw dropped. “You’ve been catfishing?”

  “I said I didn’t do it. Bruce wouldn’t let me. Moving on. These aren’t strange women, I know them all, and if you’ll take a moment out of your overreacting, you’ll see that it makes perfect sense. With the hours you work, how are you going to find a woman on your own?”

  “I already found someone. I’m already… I’m dating someone.”

  What are you saying?

  It wasn’t a complete lie. He hadn’t heard from Chloe since he’d deliberated over whether or not to send her flowers as an apology/explanation—was it creepy? Was it charming? Would she like them?—so, technically, it was still possible that another date was on the horizon, and therefore he was, technically, in a theoretical state of dating.

  “You are?” Janet was delighted. “What’s her name?”

  Crap. “Chloe. Uh…Abbott. Chloe Abbott.”

  Janet propped her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. Her silver and black hair swung over her shoulder. “Mm-hmm,” she said. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Not long.”

  She waited.

  “About a, um, week? First date was last Monday.”

  “Monday?” She pulled a face.

  “What’s wrong with Monday?”

  What was wrong with Monday? Chloe had seemed surprised when he’d suggested it. Was there something about dating on Mondays that he wasn’t aware of?

  “Of all the days in the week, Owen, Monday has to be the least romantic.”

  “I’d say Sunday’s the least romantic. Work is a matter of hours away and—”

  “—and you don’t care because you’re busy snuggling in bed with the papers, eating croissants and drinking coffee.”

  “Wednesday. Middle of the week. That’s a dull—”

  Janet shook her head. “Hump day.” She winked.

  Owen shuddered.

  “I assume the date went well,” Janet said, “despite being on an unromantic Monday, if you’re thinking about bringing her to the wedding?”

  “Oh, yeah. Went great. It went great.”

  Janet rolled her wrist. “Details, please.”

  “How about no?”

  Janet sat back with a disappointed sigh. “Fine. Don’t share.”

  “I don’t intend to. Talking about this with you is as weird as letting you set me up.”

  “I am aware you’re a man.”

  He scowled. “That’s not the weird bit. You’re May’s mom.”

  Janet’s expression froze.

  Silence hung in the kitchen.

  “Sorry,” Owen muttered, not sure what he’d said that was wrong, but feeling as if he should apologize anyway.

  She waved it away. “I’m not angry, I… Just because my daughter…” She fixed him with her fierce dark gaze, so like May’s it raised the hair at the back of his neck. “Would I rather have seen you and May grow old together, give me grandbabies? Yes. Yes, I would. But that didn’t happen, Owen, and just because you’re not going to have it with May, it doesn’t change the fact that I still want that for you. I still want happiness and fatherhood and a strong marriage for you. I will always, always be sad that it won’t be with May. But I will always, always be happy for you to find it with another woman. May made you my son. That won’t ever change.”

  Owen’s chair scraped over the kitchen floor as he pushed to his feet and scooped Janet up into his arms. “Thank you.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

  “You’re a jackass sometimes, Owen, I swear.”

  “Yep.”

  She meant it. Not the jackass comment—well, she wasn’t wrong, so maybe the jackass comment—but that she’d always consider him her son. She truly meant it.

  It was the reason he couldn’t ever tell them how things had ended with May. He refused to expose May to censure when she wasn’t around to speak for herself, and he refused to take another child from Janet and Bruce.

  Because, surely, things would change if they knew. Or perhaps they wouldn’t.

  Owen would rather live with the doubt than find out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “And?” Anna said. “When’s Fraser getting out?”

  Chloe wrinkled her nose. “Don’t say it like that. It’s a rehabilitation center, not a federal prison.”

  They were at Roscoe’s, and even though it was crowded and loud on a hot and busy Friday night, Chloe glanced around as if they could be overheard. As if anyone was paying attention.

  “Sorry,” Anna said. “When’s he…leaving?”

  “Couple of weeks.”

  Anna sipped her drink. “You’re nervous.”

  Chloe slumped. “I am. How ridiculous is that? I’m nervous.”

  “Why? You two are close, aren’t you?”

  They were. At least, they had been growing up, despite the four years between them. But then Fraser had moved to SoCal, and Chloe hadn’t even
known anything was wrong with him until the day he’d shown up on her doorstep, pale and shaking, and told her that it was a little bit possible that he had a problem. How close could they be?

  “I’m not nervous about Fraser,” she said. “It’s my parents I’m worrying about.”

  “Ah.”

  Yes. Ah.

  Chloe’s parents had been great about the whole addicted-to-his-pain-meds thing so far. Okay, great was pushing it. They’d been supportive. Nope, not that. They’d been…there.

  To be fair, they hadn’t even blinked when Chloe had asked them to help pay for rehab.

  That had been a fun conversation.

  The cost of the center was beyond Chloe’s means, hobbled as she was by her insane mortgage, and Fraser’s savings had been wiped out by his medical bills.

  In the end, they hadn’t let her pay for any of it. They’d let Fraser know in no uncertain terms that they were deeply disappointed in his life choices, paid for the ninety-day stay in the rehab center Chloe had arranged, and agreed to let Fraser stay in his childhood bedroom when he got out.

  Left.

  When he left.

  They’d done a lot.

  What made Chloe nervous was the strong likelihood that they’d think this was enough.

  Because while thousands of dollars, rent-free accommodation and free meals seemed like enough on the surface, without emotional support, it was nothing more than a luxurious break between addiction phases.

  Actually caring for someone, giving them your time and attention, being there for them no matter how hard it got? That was worth more than any amount of money.

  It was also something her parents hadn’t managed to grasp when raising their kids. So, yeah. She worried.

  “It’s fine,” Chloe said. “It’ll all be fine. Fraser will come home, get his life back on track, and I will do my very best to not overcompensate for my parents and end up smothering him into a relapse.”

  “We’ve discussed this,” Anna said sharply. “You are a warm and loving woman. You will not be shamed from indulging your instinct to nurture by some jerkface neurosurgeon who wouldn’t recognize empathy if it saved him from painful death.”

  “My instinct to nurture?”

  “You’re a giver, Chloe. I admire that. Personally, I’m a taker, and—”

  Chloe burst out laughing.

  “I am a taker,” Anna hissed. “I see what I want and I take it, dammit.”

  Anna was one of the most generous women Chloe had met in her life, and the absolute most uncomfortable with showing any kind of vulnerability whatsoever.

  Which led to this kind of hilarious statement.

  She had just, ten minutes ago, offered to help find Fraser a job when he was ready.

  Some taker.

  “I love you,” Chloe told her with a big grin.

  “Ew. No.”

  “You’re the best.”

  “Cut it out.”

  “Never.”

  By mutual agreement, after only one drink they decided to call it a night. Anna had a spin class at eight the next morning. Chloe had big plans involving her disgracefully expensive memory-foam mattress, a sleep mask, and no alarm clocks.

  “I think that guy’s trying to get your attention,” Anna said as she stood, slipping the narrow strap of her purse over her shoulder with practiced grace.

  “Which guy?” Chloe asked.

  “Over by the bar.”

  “Eh,” Chloe said without looking. “I’m not interested.”

  “He’s familiar. And super keen to get your attention.”

  Chloe glanced over. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “He’s talking to the bartender right now.”

  “It’s Friday. Thirty people are talking to the bartender right now.”

  Anna laughed. “Okay. Brunch on Sunday?”

  “I’ll be there.” She gave Anna a quick hug.

  “He’s still trying to get your attention, by the way,” Anna said. “He’s waving.”

  Chloe looked over again. “Where?”

  Anna pointed at a stocky man by the bar, with almost no hair and a huge grin. He was all but bouncing on his toes. When their eyes met, he gave Chloe a double thumbs-up.

  Chloe returned the gesture as she said to Anna from the corner of her mouth, “Do I know him?” He was familiar.

  “Beats me,” Anna said. “I, for one, am intrigued. I prefer my guys to be taller than I am, and despite your horror stories, I wear flats for no man. For a man with that kind of enthusiasm, however? I could be persuaded.”

  “Uh-oh. He’s coming over.”

  He’d left his drinks on the bar and was working his way through the crowd in their direction.

  Anna sucked in a breath. “Double uh-oh. I think I know why I recognize him.”

  It had hit Chloe, too. “Owen’s friend.”

  Detective Owen Vance, the man she’d found herself thinking about at the most random and inconvenient of times for a full month, since the best/worst date in her history of dating.

  He’d been abrupt, humorless and irritating. He’d been hot, passionate, and overwhelming.

  He’d stirred her up, turned her on, pissed her off, and left her body humming with fifty percent outrage and fifty percent frustrated desire.

  Then he’d left flowers and an explanation on her doorstep, and she’d had no way of acknowledging the gesture, let alone thanking him, as she’d deleted him from her phone minutes after he’d left her apartment.

  And that, she’d told herself over and over again, was the reason she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

  The flowers.

  Not his hot kiss or the firm grip of his strong hands on her waist. Or the heat in his intense chestnut eyes when he’d set her on the kitchen table and leaned over her.

  “Chloe, you’re here!” Owen’s friend said as he reached them. Wow. He sounded happy about it.

  “Hi, uh…Jim?”

  “Yep. Hi.” He turned to Anna. “Jim Cortez,” he said with a friendly nod. “Good to meet you. Are you joining us, too?”

  Us? Who was us?

  “Anna Holmes,” Anna said, “and sadly, no. I’ve got to run.”

  “Shame,” Jim said “Maybe another time? Chloe, we’ve got a table at the back. You coming?”

  “Uh—”

  “Owen will be thrilled.”

  “He will?”

  “Yeah. He said you were stuck at work and had to bail at the last minute. But this is great. You can meet the guys.” He leaned toward her and said in a fake whisper, as if it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard, “Some of them were starting to think he’d made you up.” He straightened. “Cops, am I right? We’re a suspicious lot. So, you coming?”

  “How can I pass up an opportunity to thrill Owen?” Smiling wide, Chloe turned to Anna. “I’ll see you at brunch.”

  “Catch me up tomorrow, okay?” Anna said.

  “Oh, yes. I will.”

  Shaking her head, Anna strode off through the crowd. Chloe, fascinated, followed Jim to the bar where he collected the drinks, and then to a table at the back of the room occupied by a large group of men and women.

  Including Owen.

  His chair was shoved back from the table, big arms crossed over his chest, and he wasn’t participating in the boisterous chat around him. His chin was tipped down and he stared at the empty bottle before him as if he had bad news for it and didn’t quite know how to bring it up.

  “Look who I found!” Jim set the drinks on the table in front of Owen.

  A few people looked up at Jim’s announcement, but not Owen. He continued to glare at his beer.

  Jim rolled his eyes at Chloe, then raised his voice. “Owen.”

  “Yeah.” Owen glanced at Jim. His eyes cut to Chloe and held.

  Chloe gave him a tiny wave.

  He stiffened.

  “Everyone, this is Chloe Abbott,” Jim said cheerfully. “Owen’s girlfriend.”

  “Hello, everyone,”
Chloe said to the table, getting smiles and exuberant greetings in return. They’d clearly all been here a while.

  Chloe turned to Owen. His face was a blank mask, and he seemed to brace.

  Before he said anything, Chloe bent down and planted a noisy kiss on his stubble-rough cheek. “Hi, sweetheart.” She made a show of wiping away non-existent lipstick with her thumb. “I finished work early and made it after all. Surprise!”

  One of Owen’s arms came around her hips and drew her against him. He stared up at her for a beat, then slowly tightened the arm and tugged her closer until she ended up perched on his lap. “Hi,” he said, eyes inches from hers. “This is unexpected.”

  “Isn’t it?” Chloe said.

  “Yeah.” Owen’s expression was wary. “Thanks. For…showing up. For making the effort. You didn’t have to.”

  “I know. I wanted to.”

  His head tilted and he examined her face.

  She studied him right back.

  He was wondering why she was going along with the charade. From the way he’d braced when he’d noticed her standing beside Jim, she guessed that he’d expected her to humiliate him in front of his coworkers.

  Chloe had no idea why he’d told these people that they were dating but, not being all that big on humiliation, she could control her curiosity until they didn’t have an audience.

  “You seem stressed,” she said. His dark brows were tight, and his lips pressed together in a firm line.

  “I can’t think why.” Owen’s deep voice was dry.

  “There’s no need.” She patted his solid chest. “Trust me. We’ll chat later. You can go ahead and drink your beer, enjoy yourself.”

  Some of the tension in his large frame dissipated as Chloe was drawn into easy conversation with the woman sitting beside them. He joined in every now and then, because Jim kept good-naturedly poking at him, and while he never actually loosened up, by the time he finished his beer, Owen’s arm around her waist had relaxed.

  As he shifted forward to put the empty bottle on the cluttered table, his breath moved the hair at her temple. He said in her ear, “Chloe. Let me take you to dinner?”

  “Hmm.” She pretended to think. “I’m free on Wednesday.”

  He gave a small huff of amusement. “I mean now.”

  “Now sounds good, too.”

  He stood, taking her with him and putting her on her feet before she had a chance to lose her balance.