His grin, damn, that expression of his, sent a shiver through her. “Later. Save it all for me. I’ll collect. I promise.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“WE’RE GOING OUT for a drink. Come along?” Cora asked, approaching Rachel as she was finishing up for the day.
“Yes, please. And tacos.” Now that she’d finished up her last tattoo, she realized how hungry she was. If she was going to drink, she definitely needed food.
Cora’s eyes widened and then she beamed. “Oh my god, yes, yes! Maybe is on her way over from Whiskey Sharp. I know she’ll be up for tacos. Are you single tonight?”
“Vic is off doing something churchy with his mother. I probably won’t see him at all, but if I do, it won’t be until nine or after. Most likely he’ll just go home and I’ll see him tomorrow.”
He never seemed annoyed that she liked plenty of time to herself. Even though she liked being with him and with her friends, she needed solitude. Needed to draw and think and lose herself to the process.
She sprayed things down, put her tools away and locked up right as Maybe glided in. Her hair was currently what Cora liked to call peacock feathers. All shades of brilliant blue and teals with small glimpses of yellow.
And her sister made it work. On her it was sassy and sexy and fun. If Rachel had tried such a thing it would have made her look like she was playacting. Maybe had worn a crisp white button-down shirt with suspenders holding up gray pin-striped trousers.
By contrast, Rachel wore jeans, Vans high-tops and a black sweater. She had allowed Maybe, who was amazing with hair color, to add some blue at the tips of her dark brown hair.
At first glance they didn’t even look like they could be related but once you saw the way they smiled, the shape of the eyes and all the shared mannerisms, it was obvious.
“Tacos,” was all Cora said as she linked arms with both Dolans and they headed to the tiny hole-in-the-wall Mexican place right around the corner that had happy hour tacos and well drinks. It sounded perfect after the day she’d had.
Once they’d secured a rickety table and ordered a round of margaritas and some food, they turned to gossip and basic catch-up.
“I was thinking of texting Wren to see if she wanted to join us,” Rachel said. “I spoke to her earlier about some ink she wants and mentioned that we should hang out.”
Maybe and Cora gave her a thumbs-up so she dashed off a quick invite and within a few minutes, Wren showed up.
“Hey, kids! What’s up?” she asked as she joined them. “Thanks for the invite. I’ve been working all day and just realized how hungry I am.”
A platter of tacos arrived and they all dived in, going quiet as they ate awhile.
“I was thinking you might be interested in a project I’m working on,” Wren said to Rachel.
“Oh yeah?”
“It’s a multiartist thing I’m doing with the art collective I’m part of. I’ve seen your drawings. Have you ever considered doing more than tattoos?”
“You mean like pen and ink drawings? Painting?”
“Definitely pen and ink drawings. I’m looking for someone interested in doing art for a calendar. There’s a wall calendar and a desk design. It can be whatever you want. Whatever floats your boat. Submit a few pieces, see where it takes you. What do you think?”
Maybe watched her with careful—but hopeful—eyes while Cora nodded.
“I don’t know. I mean, how much time would you need? What’s the deadline?” With a full-time job could she do something like that? It sounded exciting and interesting and something she might want to do. The thought of failing though...
“You’ve got right about a month until the March 15 deadline. I can show you what the other groups are doing if you want. Our collective has meetings every few weeks to talk about the project so if you’re free it’d be a fun way for you to see what we’re doing and for you to get to know the others. I hope you will. Because I like you and I think you’re talented and what we need.”
“You can’t have her. But you can borrow her,” Cora said with a grin.
Wren laughed, reaching out to squeeze Cora’s arm. “Okay.”
Of course, Cora already knew Wren and Gregori and a lot of high-profile people in the art world because she’d been handling her mother’s career for some time.
Rachel truly liked her job and had no plans to stop tattooing anytime soon. But stretching her artistic wings in other directions would be fun. And part of continuing to put down roots in Seattle.
“I’d like that. Thanks.” She looked up the website Wren directed her to and would check out all the information when she got home.
* * *
IN HER BED, as she listened to music and worked, her phone buzzed with an incoming text. She was smiling before she even noted that it was Vic.
Just delivered my mother back home and now I’m headed straight to bed but I wanted to ask you to go skiing.
Skiing? She hadn’t been in ages, but she bet he was good at it and looked super sexy too.
Did you have a good time with your mom? And when for skiing?
Eight babushkas in my business, poking at my ribs while telling me I was scrawny and asking when I’d be marrying you so I could start having babies.
Scrawny? He was over six feet tall with big wide shoulders. Not her definition of scrawny by any means. Though the image of a bunch of little old Russian women backing him into a corner and demanding to know when he was going to have babies made her laugh.
I had tacos with my friends and no one called me scrawny or asked when I was going to drop a baby. I win.
She could imagine his scoff of amusement.
As for skiing-we can go whenever your next day off is. We’ll head up the day before and stay over. One of my friends has a cabin up at Mt. Baker so we’ve got a nice place to sleep and it has a hot tub.
A quick check of her upcoming work schedule gave her a few options so she texted back and they settled on a Thursday and Friday two weeks from then.
She wanted to tell him she missed him but didn’t because it made her vulnerable and she didn’t want him to think she was clingy or weak or needy. Even if she’d slept the best she had in months when he’d stayed over a few nights before.
We’re still on for dinner tomorrow. I’m meeting Alexsei in your kitchen at three.
He and Alexsei were cooking Valentine’s Day dinner for Rachel and Maybe. The thought of it still made her a little shivery. He’d also made her bed. Even if they were going to get in it shortly for sex. She liked it that way. A freshly made bed comforted her for some reason and he’d noticed. He never mentioned it. Never made a deal of it. He just did it. Because it made her feel better.
Warm with affection, she nearly wrote back that he should plan to stay over. Thumb paused above the keypad.
Three? Dude, what sort of fancy dinner are you two making?
The kind of fancy dinner it takes to keep women like you and Maybe.
So charming.
Boy, the stuff you say is so going to get you laid. I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some rest so you can court me extra hard.
Good night, tigryonak. Sweet dreams.
She did something ridiculous then, placing her phone on the pillow on the side of the bed he’d slept on and didn’t curse herself a fool, even if she was still a little embarrassed.
* * *
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, Maybe and Rachel walked up the street from the bus stop when Irena came out to her front porch and beckoned them over.
“Friday after work you come over and I will teach you how to make golubtsi.”
After a moment where she had to place the word for cabbage rolls, Rachel pulled out her phone and said she’d stop by after six.
Maybe had a gig that night so she’d have to get her lesson another time, but Irena seemed pleased the two
wanted her to teach them things.
As they headed up their own front walk, Irena called out to say hello to her boys.
“I want to keep her in my pocket,” Rachel said. Irena had become a fairly important female figure in her life since they’d moved in next door. And most certainly more maternal as she’d been over there more often once Maybe and Alexsei started a relationship and Rachel had begun dating Vic.
“She’s scary but I really do love her.”
They paused once they got inside and the smell hit them. Instantly Rachel’s stomach growled.
Two gorgeous men in her kitchen, making by what all indications thus far was a delicious dinner for them. Her life was pretty damned good right then. And that was before Vic turned with a freshly poured glass of champagne for her.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said, bending to kiss her before handing over the glass.
“If I’m dreaming I’m going to punch anyone who wakes me up,” she told him after taking a sip.
He filled her with a foolish sort of happiness. Something she wasn’t really used to dealing with. It was novel, a little scary and she liked it a lot.
“Go change. We have appetizers ready for you both when you’re ready.”
She took his hand. “You could come too.” She added a brow waggle to underline the offer.
He grinned. “Don’t tempt me. I have things to watch on the stove.”
“Fine, fine. You can collect later,” she murmured.
“Naturally. I’m very good at making you come,” he said quietly.
Truer words and all that.
“Stop being so perfect.”
“I can’t. It’s part of the package.”
“You’re trouble,” she said, still pressed against him, holding the glass of champagne.
“So I’ve been told.”
He kissed her once more and let go so she reluctantly peeled herself away and headed to drop off all her things and change into something pretty.
And when she got to her room she noted the prettily wrapped packages on the bed with a note that said, OPEN ME.
So while she was wearing little more than her underwear, she tore into the first package to find a pair of gloves with a flannel lining.
Now you have gloves to alternate with your mittens to keep your hands warm, the card inside said.
The next box had a bluebird pendant inside on a silver chain. It looked vintage, possibly Victorian and she loved it, putting it on quickly. It’d go perfectly with the red sweater she had to put on with her skirt.
The last box had two books of poetry in them. A Neruda collection and some Mary Oliver. She smiled because he knew her so well.
After she brushed her hair and reapplied lipstick, she grabbed her gift for Vic, an old black-and-white photograph of historic Seattle back in the days when the block the bakery sat on had first been built. You could see the storefront at the far corner.
She hoped he liked it. It seemed a celebration of all the things he liked: Seattle, baking and the bakery itself.
“Where did you find this?” he asked after he’d opened it some time later, clearly touched and pleased by her gift.
“Used bookstore up on Capitol Hill had a bunch of stuff like this in a bin at the back. I was trying not to sneeze as I sifted through all the postcards and pictures and I found this and thought you might like to have it hanging either at the bakery or your place. Just a happy coincidence.”
“It’s fantastic. I’m going to hang it at my house. My dad will steal it if I put it up at the bakery and I’d have to visit their house to see it.” He kissed her cheek and then over to her ear. “Thank you. I love it.”
“I love the necklace, gloves and the poetry too.” Both editions had been signed, which only made them more special.
“And the chocolate cake, which I am going to eat off your breasts in your bed in about twenty minutes,” he murmured.
She excused herself and hoped no one noticed how quickly she finished cleaning up and scampering off to her room.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“VIC, COME UPSTAIRS right now,” his aunt called down in Russian.
The urgency in her voice had him moving quickly only to find Richie Dolan standing in the bakery, speaking to his mother.
“I’m simply trying to make sure my child is taken care of. Surely you can understand that,” he said.
“Rachel is a grown woman, capable of taking care of herself. Which is what she has told you,” his mother replied.
“It’s not your business. Why are you interfering? What’s in it for you?” Dolan demanded, losing some of his softer delivery to reveal the scumbag beneath.
“Whose business it is is up to Rachel. Why are you here?” Vic stepped forward, putting an arm around his mother’s shoulders.
“Why are you interfering? This is not for you to be involved in. You foreigners need to back off.”
“Foreigners?” his mother asked, clearly astonished at the gall of the statement.
“You’re not Americans, that’s for sure. So what’s in it for you? You and your brother who has not so coincidentally moved in on my other daughter right around the time things got so bad. You think you can get your green card that way? That what’s going on here? You need your ticket to stay here so you bamboozle my children?”
“You have some nerve coming in here,” his mother said, low and sort of mean. “You made a mess of your family and you think you can blame that on everything else. Never taking responsibility for what you do. Typical. Foreigners?”
Vic attempted to keep his voice level, “You have no ability to see why both of your exceptional children would be prized by others? How could you miss that? In any case, they want nothing to do with you. So much so they asked a court to keep you away. And yet here you are. Because this isn’t about them. It’s about you. If you cared about your daughters you’d have protected them, not become someone they need protection from.” Vic was glad this was happening there in the bakery in the middle of the day or he’d be far more tempted to show Richie Dolan just how little he cared for the way he treated his children. With his fists.
Nothing in his life had ever made him feel like wanting to do violence more than this man and the damage he did to Rachel.
“Maybe ICE would like to know about you people.”
“Are you threatening to turn us in to immigration?” His mother’s voice had stayed mean and gotten even more quiet.
“To protect my daughters from your plans? Yes.”
Vic snorted. “Go on then.” He was born in a hospital on Seattle’s Capitol Hill. As was Evie. His parents were naturalized citizens. This bullshit was meant to cow them the way he tried to cow Rachel. It wouldn’t work any better.
This asshole needed to understand what he was taking on. It was more than just Rachel and Maybe. His entire family would protect them. Vic would call Seth after Dolan left just to be sure the police knew what was happening as well. His cousin’s soon-to-be husband would also have good advice.
“You assume that everyone who isn’t like you is some sort of foreigner out to steal from you? That explains so much,” his mother said and Vic had to fight not to laugh.
“I don’t need to take any shit from you people. Maybe might be a stupid whore, but Rachel is meant for better things than hanging out with losers in a tattoo shop.”
“You shut your mouth about Maybe. You’re a horrible father who has done some major damage to both his children. Speaking of that, why are you so invested in whatever Rachel does? What she wants to do? Why not be grateful she’s really good at something that makes her happy and provides her with a living?” Vic urged. Maybe if Richie Dolan answered on video there’d be some sort of peace for Rachel. “This will only end in them resenting you more. You’ll end any chance at all to ever be in their lives again.”
&
nbsp; “I don’t need parenting advice from the likes of you,” Richie sneered.
Irena squared her shoulders and leaned in closer, speaking before Vic could. “Then why are you here in my bakery speaking to me and my son? Eh?” Irena dismissed Richie before turning to Vic and saying in Russian, “Bullies. All the same, no matter where. Don’t let him goad you into anything. Rachel needs you to be levelheaded.”
“What kind of foreigner gibberish are you spouting about Rachel? You’re probably terrorists too.” Dolan stepped back, stabbing a finger in their direction. “I’m here to warn you and your family to stay out of this. This is private family business.”
Vic tipped his chin and stood every last bit of his height as he stepped between his mother and Dolan. Though he kept the counter between them. The other man lowered his hand, which was good for him as Vic had been about to break his pointer finger.
But no way was he going to let Richie think he could come into their bakery and threaten his family or his woman. “I don’t like threats to my family.”
“Stay away from my daughter and there’s no need for threats. Otherwise, I’ll be calling the authorities to report you.”
“I already told you to go ahead and do it. But stop claiming this is about your care for your children. This is about you. You’re a fucking bully. A selfish asshole who thinks he can roll up anywhere he likes, to crap all over people and order them around. This is my bakery. I’m in charge here and I’m telling you to get the hell out and don’t come back. If you do, I will call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”
Dolan’s face darkened and the bully he’d been trying to hide behind all that faux parental concern leaked out.
“You’ll be sorry. You messed with the wrong people, son. You have no idea who I am.”
Vic scoffed. “It’s you who don’t know who I am. Sure as hell not your son.” Vic pointed at the door. “I said, get out.”
With some half-under-the-breath garbage about foreigners and drug-dealing tattooists and the criminal element, Richie Dolan made his windy escape.
“Did you notice he said ‘daughter’? Not ‘daughters,’ just one. How can he be so terrible not to see the glory of Maybe and the beauty of Rachel’s independence? I do not like this man one bit.” His mother sighed and he hugged her. “Call Seth. See what we need to do so we can do everything right,” she said as she stepped back. “Thank god no customers were here.”