LENA

It feels like morning but is actually almost one-twenty in the afternoon when I track Booker down in the kitchen. I am feeling a tad on the disgruntled side. I admit some of my testiness centers around a need for coffee. But my mood mostly has to do with the nice day dress I donned to wear into work. I may not have a wealth of clothing, but I take care of what I do have. Yet this dress, I had to hang in the bathroom while I bathed to steam out the wrinkles Mrs. Rodale caused by stuffing everything I own in my suitcase. Even then, not all the wrinkles came out.

Seeing Booker at the stove, however, I can’t help but smile. Except for his suit jacket hanging over the back of a kitchen chair, he is already dressed for work in one of his beautiful suits—this one topped with a jury-rigged apron.

I can’t help but smile at the white bath towel wrapped around his lean hips and secured by a clothes peg. It protects his slacks as he scrambles a pan full of eggs, while bacon sizzles and occasionally pops grease in another pan on a back burner.

“I didn’t know you cooked.” I give him a glance of approval.

“Probably because I didn’t when you knew me,” he responds easily without turning around. “I learned a lot of skills living without staff.”

“What a coincidence. The lack of staff had the exact same effect on my skill levels, too.” I make a beeline for the newfangled percolator to pour myself a cuppa joe. “I love this thing,” I murmur, smiling happily at the amazing gadget after my first sip of coffee. Then I inhale deeply and murmur on the exhale, “Sure smells divine in here.”

Booker shoots me a lopsided grin over his wide shoulder. “Coffee and bacon,” he agrees. “Perfume of the gods. How’d you sleep?”

“Like a baby.” It surprised the heck out of me, too. I expected to have a hard time turning off all the thoughts spinning through my head when I went to bed. But— “You rich guys sure know how to do it up right. That was the nicest mattress and—omigosh—the softest sheets I have ever slept on.”

Booker seems to hesitate for a moment. Well, that or I’m overly aware of every move he makes, because the next thing I know, he gives me a nod and says easily, “I’m glad you enjoyed them.” He turns his attention back to his cooking but then jerks his chin in the direction of the first tall cupboard in the cabinets above the counter. The one he indicates is to the right of the sink. “Set the table?”

We sit down a few minutes later and have a surprisingly uneventful breakfast, considering how revved up the two of us can get in each other’s company. “You look nice,” Booker says as I get up after the meal to carry the dishes to the sink. “You going somewhere with the Brasher sisters today?”

I try to push down my small surge of guilt over not having even rung them up yet to see if I can sleep on their couch until I hunt up new lodging. But I shrug it off, because what I do plan to do is more important. “Nope. I’m going with you to collect what’s owed me from Mrs. Rodale.”

His hands still mid-removal of the towel around his waist. “No. Leave that to me and Officer Miller.”

That is the ab-so-loot worst thing he could have said! “Like heck I will! Rodale kept my money, Booker, not yours. And not only did my newest toiletries disappear from my bath kit as well, but so did my brand-new cloche!” I’m livid all over again at the mere thought of my landlady pawing through my things and helping herself to my newest and best. The fact Mrs. Oh-so-self-righteous Rodale grabbed several of my smaller personal belongings was bad enough. But stealing my beautiful hat, to boot, after I had finally unclenched my purse strings to buy it? That’s firing the first shot in a war! It is my hat—how could she possibly think I wouldn’t notice it wasn’t included in the suitcases or the box she’d shoved out the door at me? Or had she simply assumed her respectability gave her the upper hand over a woman like me, on my own and working where I do?

I shoot him a fierce don’t-even-try-to-stop-me glare. As unfair as it might be, Booker reaps the brunt of my frustration over my ex-landlady’s shenanigans. “I’m coming with you and that is the end of the subject!”

He studies me for a moment, then nods. “Okay. But if you have things that need doing before we leave, now is the time to do them. “We’re meeting Officer Miller in front of the Women’s Residence at two-fifteen. In fact—” He looks at his watch then gives me a hard stare, which I’m embarrassed to admit makes me all kinda tingly. How dumb is that?

Luckily, Booker’s hard voice redirects my attention. “You have fifteen minutes. I do not intend to keep the officer waiting.”

That gives me enough time to do up the dishes, brush my teeth and apply my lipstick, even if I have to fall back on an old color for the last item. My teeth clench all over again at the reminder my new tube is yet another thing Sticky Fingers Rodale pinched.

Still, at least I have an itty bitty hope of getting it back. And at precisely two-fifteen, we pull up behind a black squad car marked Seattle PD parked in front of my former residence. A policeman gets out of the car and Booker introduces him to me as Officer Miller. We follow him up the path to the rooming house.

Booker glances up at the dwelling as we approach the front door and swears under his breath. “The bitch already has a Room to Let sign in the window.”

The look on Mrs. Rodale’s face is priceless when she opens the door to the policeman’s firm knock and sees Officer Miller standing there clad in his pristine uniform and a stern expression. She divides a quick glance between me and Booker, who is dressed in his usual elegant attire, before turning her full attention bck to Office Miller.

The policeman doffs his hat. “Mildred Rodale?” he says in a deep, commanding voice.

The older woman pales but recoups to say, “Yes, I am Mrs. Rodale. What can I do for you, officer?” As if she doesn’t know perfectly well why we’re here. I have to hand it to her, though. Mildred Rodale is one chilly broad.

From his chest pocket, Officer Miller fishes out the list Booker had me compile. “You are hereby ordered to return Miss Lena Bjornstad’s unused rent, her new black cloche with bronze ribbon detailing and a metal leaf pin, and assorted personal grooming products too numerous to read—but which have been itemized, so I suggest you don’t try your hand at keeping any. And I want you to explain why the aforementioned items failed to be included in the two suitcases and one box you packed, given that all Miss Bjornstad’s belongings were in the same room. The one she rented until you evicted her this morning.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mrs. Rodale declares indignantly. Both her eyes and her voice, however, show the strain it must be taking not to panic beneath the unyielding policeman’s authoritative demands and not at all sympathetic regard.

“Then I have no choice but to search the premises,” Miller says, stepping forward in a manner that forces the matron to step back. The officer gives her a hard look. “The entire premises. And be warned, ma’am, should I go to this effort and find so much as one of the items on my list, I will arrest you for petty theft and unlawfully breaking Miss Bjornstad’s contract.”

“Now wait one damn minute.” The older woman straightens her spine. “I had every right to eject her. I gave Miss Bjornstad a key and allowed her to come home past the regular curfew from the goodness of my heart, strictly due to the hours she keeps at that place she works at.” Mrs. Rodale’s upper lip curls in clear disapproval of said place. “But this morning it was a good two hours later than her usual arrival when this man—” She waves a hand at Booker, but for the first time she falters when she really takes in his impeccably tailored suit. I can actually see the impact of his breeding and air of authority sinking in as she realizes Booker is precisely who I told her he was: my employer.

She gathers herself once again, however, her shoulders squared and head held high. “When this man brought her home.” The look of distaste Rodale then transfers to me would likely have made me want to crawl into a hole and pull it closed behind me, were it not for Booker’s hand landing lightly against the small of my back. I know I should probably step away from his touch. I am hardly some wilting Daisy who needs tending, after all.

But I don’t move.

His touch is warm, warm, warm, heating my skin against the brisk fall air even through my layers of day clothing and outerwear. Plus, the weight of his palm and long fingers resting against the base of my spine gives me a very real sense of security. That is not exactly something I’m accustomed to. But I sure can’t deny I could get used to it in a mad rush.

Rodale turns to Officer Miller again. “Why don’t you arrest him for selling liquor instead of harassing a hardworking citizen?”

Miller raises his eyebrows. “Have you ever been to his establishment, Mrs. Rodale?

“Of course not,” she says huffily. “I am a law-abiding woman.”

“Then what makes you think illegal liquor is being sold there?”

“It’s a speakeasy!” she snaps, as if it ought to be self-evident.

“It’s the Twilight Room,” Booker refutes coolly. “A club where elegant people come to relax and enjoy in comfort the best blues by the best singer on the West Coast.” His voice drops as he says that last part, and he gives me a nod and a warm smile. When he turns back to Mrs. Rodale, however, his voice is colder than a lamppost after an ice storm. “Mayor Bertha Landes, herself, has been to hear Miss Bjornstad sing. And if you know anything, you know Mayor Landes has continued the city-wide cleanup she began as acting mayor. I don’t know if you realize Seattle was considered one of the most corrupt cities on the West Coast before her terms in office, but under her guidance it is now much more lawful. Which is more than I can say for you.” He glances at his watch, then at Officer Miller. “Do your duty. We don’t have all day.”

“No, we don’t.” Miller pulls out a pair of handcuffs and levels a hard-eyed glance at the dragon of the Women’s Residence. “Mildred Rodale, you have five minutes to comply with the return of the items I have already listed. If you do not comply within the given time frame, I will have no choice but to arrest you.” He looks her in the eye. “And I will drag you out of here in handcuffs for all your neighbors to see.”

The old biddy attempts a stare down with the man. It lasts for less than ten seconds before she looks away, sniffs indignantly, and ultimately says, “Fine.” She whirls away and disappears into the depths of the Residence.

Seconds before her allotted time is up, she appears with a box. She holds it out for the officer to take.

He drills her with a cold look. “Give it to Miss Bjornstad, so she can verify all her stolen belongings are accounted for.”

She thrusts it at me and I accept it, then carefully inspect its contents. The minute I come across my new cloche, I put it on. I finally look up and nod. “This appears to be all of my things.”

“And the unused rent?” Booker demands.

“The nine dollar bills in the envelope I handed over to her are in the box, as well.

Officer Miller pins Mrs. Rodale in his sights once more. “Be warned, ma’am, this is your one and only free pass. If I get so much as a whiff of a complaint against you, you will go to jail.”

Rodale slams the door in our faces.

I turn to the officer. “Thank you so much.” I touch fingertips to my newly donned cloche. “I know it’s probably silly to get all worked up over a hat, but this is the first brand new, not absolutely necessary thing I have bought myself in, well, forever.”

His eyes soften as he looks down at me. “You’re welcome. I have a sister who often has to struggle to make ends meet, so I know how I’d feel if someone treated her the way that woman did you.”

Before we all get in our respective vehicles I see Booker discreetly slip Officer Miller some money. “What do I owe you?” I ask as soon as Booker seats himself behind the steering wheel.

“What?” Booker’s expression looks genuinely baffled.

“I saw you give Officer Miller some money. You shouldn’t have to pay him for my stuff. How much do I owe you?”

“Fifty bucks.”

My mouth drops open. I jerk upright. “Are you crazy? I could have paid for everything we just recovered—including a month’s rent instead of just a week’s—and had money left over!”

“Yeah, but didn’t it feel good to watch that bitch squirm?”

It did. Oh, it really did. The tiny smile I can’t bite back must answer Booker’s question loud and clear, too, because he laughs.

Full throttle, exactly the way he used to laugh. It echoes in my heart, softening all the hard edges with happy memories.

No! I simply cannot go there. Sobering, I protest, “Why is it again I’m paying four times more than all my belongings put together are worth? Because I have to tell you, Booker, for people like me—who obviously don’t run in the highfaluting circles you do—” I shake my head to rid myself of the topic detour “—well, for me, anyhow, not paying more than something is worth tends to make a lot more sense than scoring points against the opponent. It feels less like being robbed twice.”