A Heart Revealed (17 page)

Me too!
Emma started hacking again and immediately upended the glass, draining it dry.

Dipping the clean sleeve of Mitch’s shirt under the faucet, Sean squeezed out the excess water and eased the tap off. He turned and gave Charity a patient smile. “Oh, there’s no doubt about that, sis, which is the only reason I’d consider it in the first place. Emma is clearly tired and needs the help.” He angled a brow. “Although the dark circles are definitely overkill.”

Emma wanted to die. Her fingers flew to the shadow Charity had smudged beneath her eyes. “You know?” she whispered, her voice a mere croak.

He chuckled. “Oh, yeah, I know—my sister, that is. The woman who hates to cook. I mean, come on—ribs, peach cobbler, and deviled eggs? You forget I lived with her for almost twenty years.” He nodded at Emma. “Although I have to admit—I haven’t seen this trick since the eighth grade.”

Emma bit her lip, desperate to rub the dark circles away
. Oh, Charity!

“What do you mean, ‘trick’?” Charity demanded, hands propped on her hips.

“I mean,” he said with a gentle stroke of Mitch’s wet sleeve beneath Emma’s eyes, “the ploy you used on Mother when you didn’t want to go to school
before
you perfected the routine of throwing up.” He looked at the sleeve, now stained black, then gave it a quick sniff. “Although I’m guessing this is eye makeup rather than ashes from the wood-burning stove, right? There you go, Emma.”

“Thank you,” Emma whispered, appropriately humiliated.

“Oh, bother.” Charity snatched Mitch’s shirt. “I forgot it was you who ratted on me.”

He patted her cheek. “For your own good, sis. Just like now.” He pulled the plug and squatted in front of the sink, squinting at the pipes beneath. “Well, that should do it. As dry as Mitch’s shirt used to be.”

“So, you’ll do it, then?” Charity asked, her voice hushed with hope as she pulled a bowl of the neighbors beets from the icebox.

Sean rose, the affection in his gaze warming Emma’s cheeks. “For Emma? You bet.
And
for you too—with or without plotting. Although the ribs and cobbler sure didn’t hurt.”

Charity beamed. “I knew it!” She thumped the bowl of beets on the table.

“On one condition.”

Emma’s eyelids fluttered close.
Lord, help me, please . . .

“Uh-oh.” Charity paused, her gaze thinning. “What?”

Eyelids edging up, Emma chanced a peek.

Sean folded brawny arms across his chest. The press of his jaw tightened the smile on his face. “All volunteer, no salary. And mornings free to look for work and help out at church.”

Emma’s eyelids popped all the way open. “Absolutely not.”

The sharp clip of her tone dropped several jaws in the room, but she didn’t care. She may allow Charity to mastermind the plot to employ Sean at the store, but when it came to running it, it was Emma who called the shots, and it was best that Mr. Sean O’Connor learned that right out the gate. Surprise flickered in his eyes, but Emma forged on before he could lodge a protest.

“I am not a charity case, Sean O’Connor, and if you work for me, you will do so under my conditions.”

He blinked, the lift of his brows tempered by a measured response that held both humor and respect. “Yes, ma’am. And those conditions would be . . .”

Emma ignored Charity’s open-mouthed stare with a heft of her chin, well aware that neither Sean nor his sister had ever seen her in extreme “management” mode. “You will draw a salary or you won’t work. Mornings off are fine. However, there will be evenings you will be expected to work as late as I do, unless, of course, you have a scheduled game. Understood?”

Sean nodded, the humor in his eyes fading into approval. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” she said with a square of her shoulders, steeling herself for a fight—a fight she
would
win, no argument. “Your title will be assistant manager—”

“No—I can work on the dock—”

Her brows arched high. “Are you challenging my authority already, Mr. O’Connor?”

Sean stared, the shock on his lips easing into a grin. “No, ma’am.” He swallowed and buried his hands in the pockets of his dusty trousers. “Being your assistant would be an honor.”

“Good. When can you start?”

“When do you need me?”

Emma’s mouth quirked. “Last month.”

He grinned and swept a calloused hand across tousled hair. “Earliest I can do is Monday afternoon. I’ll have to bump Father Mac’s risers to Saturdays after our basketball game, but I can do it.” A gleam lit his blue eyes. “Might cost you some penance.”

Emma pursed her lips, a tad peeved at Charity for masterminding this charade. “You mean over and above working for your sister?”

“Emma!” Charity flicked her with the tail of Mitch’s shirt.

He laughed. “Oh, yeah. You may have to feed me part of your dinner on nights we work late, but I’ll do it.”

“Do what? Tackle the ribs? Because they’re ready.” Mitch hefted a mountain of ribs on the kitchen table with a thud, infusing the kitchen with the mouthwatering aroma of smoked meat. A telltale blotch of barbecue sauce edged the side of his mouth. His gaze honed in on the shirt in Charity’s hand, which promptly disappeared behind her back. He squinted at his wife. “Is that my favorite shirt? The one I’ve been looking everywhere for?”

“Yes!” Emma and Sean’s confirmation rang in unison, and Emma’s stomach fluttered when Sean gave her a wink.

“Mitch, guess what?” Charity asked, ignoring his question with a little-girl glow.

His mouth skewed into a thin smile as he snatched the shirt from behind her back, holding it in the air where it dangled with all the dignity of a scrubwoman’s mop. “What? You’re going to wash and iron my lucky shirt?”

“No! And you mean your ‘lucky you’re not in a breadline’ shirt,” Charity said, lifting on her toes to distract him with a kiss. Her tongue swiped the remains of the sauce from the side of his mouth while tugging the shirt from his grip. “Mmm . . . your best so far, which is more than I can say for this shirt.” She lifted her chin with an air of pride. “No, I meant Sean has agreed to help Emma out at the store.”

“I know,” Mitch said, casually strolling to the icebox to retrieve a pitcher of lemonade. He pulled several glasses from the cabinet and glanced over his shoulder. “Anybody care for lemonade? Emma, Sean . . . Mata Hari?”

He knows??
Emma blinked, another haze of heat crawling up her neck . . . for the
umpteenth
time.

“You
know
?” Charity stared, hands propped on her hips. “How can you know? He just agreed to it a few minutes ago.”

“No, I agreed to it two days ago when Mitch asked me.” Sean winked at Emma, and her cheeks went head-to-head with the neighbor’s beets. “Thanks, Mitch, lemonade sounds good.”

“Same here, Mitch,” Emma said, her throat as dry as Sean’s tone.

Charity gawked at her husband. “
You
asked him? Without telling me? So Emma and I debased ourselves for nothing . . . and I had to cook in the process?”

“Not for nothing, sis,” Sean said in a hurt tone. “Feeding your poor, unemployed brother has to count for something.”

Emma shook her head, hand to her mouth to hide a seed of a smile.
Goodness,
I don’t know who’s worse—Charity or her brother.

“Mitch Dennehy!” Charity stamped her foot.

He handed glasses of lemonade to Sean and Emma, then poured two more. He paused to take a drink, eyes smiling over the rim of his glass. “I did it for Emma. You’re not the only one who worries about her, you know.” He set Charity’s lemonade on the table and bussed her cheek with a quick kiss. “I would have told you, little girl, but you’re so darn cute when you’re plotting up a storm that I just couldn’t resist.”

“I think ‘cute’ may depend on one’s perspective,” Emma said with a dry grin, her cheeks still warm from Charity’s ploy.

Charity whirled to confront Sean. “And you agreed? Just like that? After turning Father, Collin, and Brady down flat?”

Sean shrugged, a grin tipping the corners of his mouth. He winked at Emma, effectively flaming her cheeks once again. “I’d do anything for Emma, you know that, sis. Besides, she’s a whole lot cuter than they are.”

“Come on, Sean, we’ll catch the tail end of the game while the ladies put the food on the table.” Mitch cupped a hand to Charity’s waist and drew her close for a kiss, then headed toward the door. He turned to shoot her a sultry grin, wagging his shirt in the air. “And this, Mrs. Dennehy,” he said with a superior lift of his brow, “will find its way to Mr. Chu, someone who knows how to give a man’s shirt the respect that is due.”

With a jaunty salute of his glass in the air, Sean followed Mitch into the parlor, leaving both Charity and Emma agape.

A giggle bubbled from Emma’s throat, her embarrassment all but forgotten. Hand to her lips, she peeked at Charity with penitent eyes. “Are you mad?”

Charity snagged a piece of barbecue from the platter and popped it into her mouth. “Mad?” she asked, lips curved into a definite smile. “Nope. More like proud that I have a husband who knows how to get me what I want. Because that, my friend,” she said with a sparkle of tease in her eyes, “is the mark of a well-trained man.”

5

F
inally home!
Luke waved a bouquet at the board member who’d dropped him off and glanced at his watch. After ten—another late night with Carmichael and the Boston Children’s Aid Society board, hammering out a strategy to bolster dwindling funds. A tired groan rumbled in his chest as he mounted the steps to his four-story brownstone on Commonwealth Avenue. Tucking the roses for Katie under his arm, he reached for the tarnished brass handle of the etched glass door, almost oblivious to the thrumming of tree frogs and locusts crooning in the towering oaks overhead. Apparently philanthropy had taken a hike when prosperity had, disappearing faster than that weak, watered-down broth doled out at soup kitchens down the road. Unfortunately, like those haunted faces in breadlines that wound around the block, the BCAS needed far more sustenance to survive.

As do I
, Luke thought with a twist of his lips, missing Kit and Katie so much it hurt. He sighed.
Especially Katie.
His body suddenly grew warm, but not from the summer night. He took the stairs two at a time, and his pace quickened along with his pulse as he shed his suit jacket and loosened his tie. Tonight was their one-month anniversary. He’d seen precious little of his new wife this week, and he missed her.
A lot.
He honed in on their second-story apartment down the hall like a bullet bearing down on a bull’s-eye, craving the soft, solid feel of his wife in his arms. She hadn’t been able to work at the BCAS once this week because Kit had a cold, and the tension of her absence was evident in the edginess of his nerves. To make matters worse, he’d spent the last week getting home long after Katie was asleep, and now all he wanted to do was hold her, cherish her.
Love her.

He eased the key in the lock and quietly opened the door, eyes scanning past the darkened parlor to the kitchen light at the back of the flat. Exhaling his relief, he bolted the door and tossed the suit coat on a chair, then rolled his sleeves as he strode down the hall. He paused at the door, bouquet in hand, and a rush of love swelled at the sight of her. She stood on a chair, bare feet perched on tiptoe as she tucked a bag of Pillsbury flour on a top shelf. His eyes roved the length of her, drinking her in, still in awe that Katie O’Connor belonged to him.

She jumped down, and her blue floral-print dress breezed up as she did, belted at the waist before hugging the gentle curve of her hips. It flared midcalf to shapely legs bereft of silk stockings, and his mouth went dry at the thoughts filling his head. A petite five foot two to his six foot three, she was just a slip of a thing whose strong-willed nature towered as tall as his own. But, sweet chorus of angels, when she needed him, depended on him . . . this woman could make him feel over ten feet tall. His pulse kicked up a notch. And she was all his. His “Little Miss Sass”—a nickname she’d certainly earned . . . and then some.

She was singing to herself, strains of “Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue” filling the kitchen as she swayed to her own off-key beat. With a soft Charleston kick, she pulled a chicken from the refrigerator, and Luke couldn’t help but grin. In two pulse-pounding strides, he stood behind her, intoxicated by her scent of rosewater and Pears soap. He took her by surprise when he hooked hungry arms around her waist and nuzzled the nape of her neck. With a tiny squeal and a jolt, she dropped the chicken on the counter and twisted in his arms. Her blue eyes spanned wide. “Luke McGee—you scared the living daylights out of—”

He pressed her to the counter and effectively silenced her complaint, kissing her until his blood heated several degrees. With uneven breathing, he feathered her earlobe with his mouth. “How ’bout I kiss the daylights out of you instead?” he whispered, voice husky with intent.

A soft moan of consent left her lips and he kissed her again, tossing the bouquet aside to thread fingers into the soft, blond hair at the side of her head. He cupped her face in his hands, thumbs grazing her cheeks as he stared into her eyes, convinced he was the luckiest man alive. “Katie,” he said, voice thick with emotion, “you have no idea how I’ve missed you.”