Page 20 of Sighs By the Sea

Tommy laughs in the living room and I crack a small grin. That's a victory. Tilly might try to act like she's a poisonous spider, but it's impossible when she's in love with a Labrador. She can fling her venom my way all she wants, but the moment her husband wags his tail, I can see what a true softy she really is.

Tilly scoffs. “Grayson…”

I smile at her and walk out of the bathroom. “Tilly, I’m a grown man. What could possibly be wrong with flirting?”

We're next to Tommy now and he's nodding along. “And she’s hot, babe. Like cute little firecracker kinda hot.”

Tilly glares over her shoulder at her boyfriend, and I'm very much enjoying it. My cousin isn’t used to being told what to do. Clearly, her boyfriend doesn’t care.

“Cute or not, George doesn’t need to be confused right now.”

All amusement leaves the room. My nostrils flare. Telling me what to do is one thing, but attacking my parenting is altogether unwarranted. “You should go.” It's difficult to ask her to leave; we went through that earlier. But I found my backbone the minute George was brought into this argument.

She rolls her eyes, but her shoulders slump. “I’m not trying to be harsh, but I want this. Us. A family. If bringing in some nosy detective threatens that, then I’m going to say something.”

Shit. She has me there. Here I thought she had control issues when really, she has protective issues. And her point isn't moot. I’ve been to jail, yes, but it doesn’t mean they know of every crime I’ve ever committed. One wrong word to the wrong person and I could be right back in prison. “I’m careful,” I say.

Tommy adjusts on the couch, making it do the ridiculous squeak. I almost let a grin slip at the memory of Maggie's adorable blush when it happened to her. The way her cheeks turned that rosy hue was unforgettable. “Til, he’s sowing his wild oats. Give him a break,” Tommy says, his voice light and teasing.

“Ew, Tommy,” Tilly replies, her tone tinged with exasperation as she rolls her eyes.

“I’m doing nothing of the sort anyway,” I interject, feeling the need to defend myself. “Now, I need to speak with the police, and George needs a bath.” My voice is firm, a quiet assertion of my priorities.

She eyes me, her gaze assessing, clearly still wary but not willing to push further. Finally, she gives a stiff nod, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Boys, let's go.” Her voice softens as she calls to her children, a tender note that I rarely hear from her.

As the pair gathers their twins, I stay out of the way, watching the organized chaos unfold. It’s still a bit jarring to see Tilly as a mother, but she’s doing a wonderful job. The way she juggles everything with determined grace is impressive, especially with her blind son, who navigates the world with a confidence that speaks volumes about Tilly’s nurturing. I can’t imagine how difficult it is, but Tilly never complains. Her boys are obviously the light of her world—all of them, including her boyfriend.

I wonder when the two will get married, then decide it’s none of my business. If she’s happy, who am I to push her towards a silly paper contract? Mine didn't do a lot of good anyway. Tommy helps one of the twins into his jacket with a gentle hand. The sight tugs at something in my chest, a mix of nostalgia and quiet longing for something I once had.

The four leave, and I go to my room to find a new shirt. The fabric is soft against my skin, a comfort I hadn't realized I needed. With it on, I pick up my son and head downstairs, silently hoping Maggie is still around.

The evening air is cool and crisp when I step outside, a gentle breeze wafting through the trees. It's oddly calming against the backdrop of flashing police lights and curious onlookers.

With George in my arms, his little hands clutching at my shirt, I look around for her. When I see her, my smile is involuntary, even if she is getting into an SDPD police car. Our eyes lock, but hers aren't staring at me like I had hoped. They're full of regret and possibly sadness. Not good. Not good at all.

Maggie

I'm at my desk, typing away at a report I’ve been avoiding. The fluorescent lights above cast a sterile glow over the room, making the office feel more like a hospital than a place of work. Phones ring incessantly, a constant chorus of voices blending into a chaotic hum. Officers are moving back and forth, the sound of boots tapping on the floor echoing through the station. The printer beside me chugs along noisily, spewing out documents while keyboards clatter rhythmically around me. The air smells faintly of coffee and paper, mingling with the scent of freshly printed reports.

It’s been a long week since my excitement at Grayson’s condo, and the memories of that day keep playing in my mind like a movie reel. I’m not just talking about being shot at. The way Grayson kissed me is still burning in my mind. The kiss was intense and filled with a passion I haven't felt in a long time, sending a shiver down my spine. I seriously need to see a therapist if I’m that turned on by bad boys. The guy is a member of the mob, for God’s sake. But even that gives me a small thrill. Definitely need a therapist.

Though, I have to admit, he certainly doesn’t seem like a hardened mob boss. Dangerous thoughts, Maggie. I curse under my breath at calling myself by the nickname he gave me and delete the string of typos before refocusing on the screen. The chatter of officers discussing cases mixes with the rustling of papers, a monotonous symphony that only adds to my frustration.

An hour later, with the report finished, Harry appears with a brown paper bag, the scent of freshly baked pastries wafting through the air. “What’s that?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.

His brows wiggle mischievously, a grin playing on his lips. “Chocolate donuts."

I swivel in my chair, eyeing the bag with suspicion. He needs something. “And?”

“I’ve got an idea on Lucas, but…”

I raise an eyebrow, and the old fucker grins like a supervillain. “You might not like it.”

My head rolls back with a scoff. Probably something undercover then. Harry only asks me to go undercover when it’s for something woman-related. I’ve been a waitress, a sex worker, a hairdresser, and a secretary. All woman jobs in Harry’s mind.

“I swear it’s not sexist.”

He’s obviously remembering my harsh words from last time. A twenty-minute lecture on the waste it is that women have been resigned to jobs servicing men for nearly one hundred years. Except when all the tough guys went to war and us women had to pick up their slack. Wait! That was supporting men too! Damn it all. At least I'm a cop and my cousin Jade is a business owner. My little sister is going to be a physicist. Take that, gender roles. “I’m listening, but gimme the donuts.”

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