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MORGAN SAT WITH BAILEY until her heart stopped using her ribcage to play a Chopin concerto. What had she done, kissing Cole like that? Who had taken over her body? Morgan Tate didn’t make advances on men.
You’ve never met someone like Cole.
Instead of the expected embarrassment she should have felt after throwing herself at him, she wanted more. A lot more. Her breasts throbbed, her lips tingled from the kiss, and her female parts longed for more intimate contact.
Ridiculous.
She jumped up from the couch. “C’mon Bailey. Let’s set up your things.”
The clerk at the pet store had recommended a crate as Bailey’s safe place, so Morgan assembled it and spread a layer of the towels she’d set aside from the basement boxes on the base. She put his food and water dishes in the kitchen, then got out the toys she’d bought.
“Do you like this one?” She let him sniff a fuzzy squirrel, gave a squeeze so it squeaked—G-sharp—and tossed it in the direction of the crate. Tail wagging, he chased after it, chomped on it, tossed it into the air, and chased it again. He caught on to how to make it squeak in no time.
While Bailey entertained himself, Morgan went upstairs and set up the hall bathroom to use until work on the master bedroom was finished.
Who was going to finish it? From the way Tom had talked, he knew his stuff, and Cole had vouched for him. Had Tom figured out she wasn’t interested in his flirting? Would it make a difference either way? Not to her.
Downstairs, Bailey had curled up in his crate with his squirrel and was sleeping peacefully. Morgan set up her laptop and found two more construction companies with good reviews. She made appointments, then did the same with fence companies.
“Looks like you and I will be hanging around home tomorrow, Bailey.”
He didn’t stir.
She watched him sleep for a few minutes, then went for the ledgers. She’d look at every page while she waited for Cole.
Numbers. Numbers, numbers, and more numbers. Didn’t whoever wrote these know there was an alphabet with twenty-six perfectly good letters?
Painstakingly, she worked her way through the first book. No key. No secret messages. Nothing in the margins. No notes tucked between the pages. Not even a date telling when it had been written, or what days, weeks, or years it covered. The only potential clue was that many of the number sequences repeated.
For all she knew, Uncle Bob had been going off the deep end when he’d filled these ledgers, and it was all nonsense. Numerical gibberish. Transcribing messages dictated by space aliens.
Morgan moved onto the next book. More numbers. Could this be some sort of language only financial people understood?
On impulse, she took a picture of the first page and emailed it to her advisor, then continued turning pages. Anything to keep her mind off Austin.
Her stomach rumbled. She couldn’t remember eating lunch. At least she had food in the house now. She made a sandwich and went back to the ledgers.
If Uncle Bob had kept these ledgers as part of his job, would somebody at the company he’d worked for understand them? She made a note to call them on Monday, see if anyone there knew what they were.
Bailey’s head jerked up, and he moved toward the door, hackles raised. A low growl rumbled from his throat.
Morgan jerked.
At the sound of an engine approaching, she stepped to the window, the glare of headlights effectively blinding her. The lights went dark, the car door opened and slammed shut. She couldn’t make out the identity of the silhouetted figure striding toward the porch, but the gait said it was Cole. She went to the door, grabbed the dog’s collar.
“Good boy, Bailey.” Remembering Cole’s admonition when she’d let Tom in without making sure who it was, she looked through the peephole and waited for a knock.
Three sharp raps.
She asked who was there, although she’d recognized Cole, illuminated by the porch light.
“Cole.”
Bailey’s hackles lowered and his tail worked like a windshield wiper on high speed.
She stepped aside to let Cole in, thinking about the way they’d kissed. He seemed to have put it past him as he gave her a quick hello, then crouched to chat with Bailey.
Greetings taken care of, he stood. “I want to get the drywall done before it gets too late, and I have things to tell you. You can keep me company while I work.”
Upstairs, Cole sanded the seams he’d put up yesterday.
Bailey sneezed and decided he’d rather wait somewhere else.
“What did you find out?” Morgan asked. “Did you talk to the police in Dublin?”
“Scott Whelan did.” Cole put down his sanding block. “Not the best news, I’m afraid.”
Morgan’s sandwich sat like a lump of lead. “Tell me.”
“The cops didn’t give Austin the details. His mom was intoxicated, hit the other vehicle. The driver died. Austin’s mom didn’t make it, either. I’m sorry.”
Morgan sank to the floor. What was going to happen to Austin now? “Is there a way I can bring Austin here?”
Cole spread white goop over the patch and smoothed it like he was frosting a cake. “It won’t be easy. The state will try to place him with a relative first.”
Morgan pictured Austin’s future with his here-again, gone-again father and her sandwich threatened to make a return trip. She had to do something.
“Can I argue for custody?” she asked.
Cole continued smoothing the goop. “You have anything that says the parents would have allowed it? Preferably a written statement. I doubt the woman had a formal will, so the state’s going to control everything.”
“Wait.” Morgan stood, hope smoldering inside her.
~~~
COLE STOPPED PRETENDING that sanding and spreading joint compound required his total concentration. The despair in Morgan’s voice had turned to hope. He faced her, trying to ignore her full lips, forget their kiss.
One kiss. A first kiss. You’ve had those before.
Never with Morgan.
“You have something?” he asked.
“Maybe. Isn’t there a way cops can get phone companies to release transcripts of cell phone conversations? Austin’s mom just today told me she’d rather be rid of him, and I was welcome to have him. She’s said similar things in the past, too.” Morgan frowned. “Of course, she was drunk at the time, but nobody needs to know that.”
“Contrary to popular belief, what you say on your phone isn’t stored—unless you’re doing something the NSA or the FBI would be interested in. When calls were made, who they were to, where the phone was, yes, but actual transcripts, no. Unless you recorded the call.”
“I would have if I’d known I would need it. I never thought she’d die before I could try to work something out with her. What would happen if I bought Austin a plane ticket out here? Given how much red tape there is with everything, and that it’s a weekend, he could be here before anyone realizes he’s gone.”
“I don’t know. Kind of a gray area.”
“Once he’s here, I could prove he’s got a much better life than he had with his mother. Or would have with his father. That assumes someone can find the guy. Heck, I’ve been footing the bills for most of Austin’s clothes, his school supplies, and sometimes making sure he has food to eat.”
Morgan’s phone blared music.
“That’s Austin.” She swiped the screen. “Hello.”
Cole listened while he worked on his patch. Judging from Morgan’s end, Austin knew his mother had died, and was wondering what he should do.
“Stay with Mrs. Slauson. I’ll call you in the morning after I’ve put together a plan. Would you like to come stay with me for a while?”
From Morgan’s smile, the kid had said yes.
“Let me talk to Mrs. Slauson.”
Cole snapped the lid shut on the drywall compound and went downstairs to rinse his tools. Could Morgan be accused of kidnapping? If so, could she argue her way out of it? From what she’d said, she was already part of Austin’s life. Courts went with blood whenever possible, but there were exceptions. Could she be approved for temporary custody? There had to be emergency or extenuating circumstances clauses in the system.
Morgan came downstairs looking less worried and more hopeful than she had before.
“Do you have a plan?” he asked.
“I’ll cash in a slew of frequent flyer miles and get Austin out here tomorrow or Sunday. First thing tomorrow, I’m going to buy furniture. The renovations can wait, or the workers can work around furniture. After all, that’s what they do for homes with people living in them.”
A flash of panic crossed her face. “Dang it. I have appointments with construction and fence companies scheduled all day tomorrow.”
“Shop online?” he suggested.
“I wanted to see things in person first. Might need to change that, at least for some things. Like a bed for Austin. I might put the master bedroom on hold, too.”
Bailey whimpered by the front door.
“I guess he’s housebroken. I’ll take him out.” Morgan found his leash where Cole had draped it over the arm of the couch.
While Morgan was outside, Cole calculated how much headway he could make into the critical repairs on his own. The place had to be safe if she was going to convince anyone this would be a suitable home for a twelve-year-old boy. He snorted at the double standard. Biological parents could raise their kids in dumps, but if you wanted to foster or adopt, the bar was astronomically higher.
The front porch, for sure, would have to be fixed, and maybe the inside staircase, which didn’t need major repairs. Tightening fittings should do it. Glue it and screw it, his father used to say.
Morgan and Bailey came back, the dog sniffing Cole’s ankles as if to make sure he was the same human he’d left here before. Seemingly satisfied, he lapped from his water bowl, then went into his crate, chewing contentedly on a rubber bone.
“I’ll be going.” Cole washed his coffee mug. “I’ll call you tomorrow if I can find anything out.”
Morgan studied the floor. “Don’t go.”
“Morgan—”
“I ... I’d rather not be alone tonight. Things are so ... crazy.”
Did she mean tonight, as in all night, or just awhile longer, until she felt more in control?
He took her hands, gazed into her eyes, trying to read her intentions. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”
She wriggled from his grasp, then took one of his hands and led him upstairs.