Page 65 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

It’s the weekend. Let it go for now.

At the base of the steps, she saw Coco, lying in her little bed near the couch in the living room, her scruffy white head propped on the bed’s edge. Dark button eyes blinked. At the sight of Cissy, her little tail wagged, and she yawned, stretching, then shot to her feet, trotting over to be picked up.

“I’m sorry,” Cissy said as she scratched Coco behind her ears. The little dog grunted in pleasure. “I should have let you out last night.”

Thank God for Jack.

Wait. No. Strike that! She didn’t like the turn of her thoughts. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” Carrying the little white scruff and her cup into the kitchen, she set the dog down, then opened the refrigerator. She found a few scraps of chicken left over from the gathering and, tearing off a couple of small bites, hand-fed them to the dog. She then took Coco outside, where dawn was streaking the sky in shades of magenta and gold. The air was cold and brisk but, for once this winter, there were no clouds scudding across the sky, no fog wisping through the spires of the skyscrapers visible above the trees.

She rubbed her arms and told herself she’d been six kinds of a fool for letting Jack spend the night.

You didn’t let him stay; he crawled into bed with you while you were sleeping.

But she could have stopped him from making love to her. This morning, when she discovered him all warm and hard-bodied beside her, she could have pushed him away. Sleep hadn’t clouded her mind. Grief hadn’t devastated her willpower. Too much wine the night before hadn’t clouded her judgment. Oh, no. She’d wanted to make love to Jack as much as he apparently had wanted to make love to her.

Idiot!

Damned fool woman!

Now they were back to square one.

What was wrong with her? She knew he was bad for her, and yet she was like some of those stupid women always attracted to the wrong kind of guy, the guy with an edge, the bad boy they wanted to tame.

What a load of garbage!

“Hey,” she said to the dog. “Let’s go inside. It’s not exactly red hot out here, and I’ll get you some real breakfast.” Coco lifted her head. Finished with “her business,” as Gran used to call it, she shot across the grass and through the opened French door. Cissy followed, shut the door, then really took a look around. The place needed work, no doubt about it. Though the house was tidied up from the gathering after the funeral, there were recycling and garbage to deal with, the floors needed mopping, and…and what are you going to do about Jack? You can’t just bury yourself in menial jobs and avoid the issue.

“Damn it all,” she muttered, taking another bag of garbage and depositing it into the already overstuffed can.

You know you love him. No matter what you say. You’ve never stopped.

After feeding Coco and refreshing the dog’s water bowl, she filled a bucket of water and added some lemon juice, then set to work with the mop.

You have to make him leave. Now. You can’t let yourself be lulled into this feeling of security. You know better.

Working like a demon on the floors, washing them vigorously while Coco barked and played, pretending to attack the mop as it slid in front of her, Cissy worked out her aggression and tried not to think about Jack as she heard him moving around upstairs. He was such a big part of her life, and when he finally walked down the stairs carrying a rosy-cheeked and groggy B.J., her heart melted. “Did someone wake up?” she asked, smiling at her son.

“Dad-dee got me.”

“He was just beginning to stir,” Jack said, and Cissy caught a whiff of his aftershave, the one bottle she’d forgotten to toss out, the bottle that at least twice she’d opened and smelled, secretively drinking in the scent of him in the long days over this past month.

“Don’t let him down. The floor’s still wet. How about breakfast, hmm?” she asked her son, who was still in his pajamas. “I’m sure your daddy changed you.”

“Last night and this morning, yeah,” Jack said. “I do know how to take care of him, y’know.” He handed Beej to her, and she kissed his curly head.

“You sleep well, baby boy?”

“I not a baby!”

“Always to me.”

“No, Mom-mee!”

“Okay, you’re my big guy, is that better?”

“Big guy,” B.J. said seriously.

“He’s got ‘no’ down pat, doesn’t he?” Jack remarked, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

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