“One of her patients?”
“No, a friend of one of her patients. The girl, not yet sixteen, took her own life. Rochelle went to the service with her patient. Crack knew the girl and her family, as well as Rochelle’s patient and his family. This was Christmas week.”
“Suicide Central,” Eve murmured.
“Sadly enough. Rochelle saw how the boy related to Crack, and asked if he’d consider training as a mentor for disadvantaged and/or troubled youths.”
“Huh. He’d be good at it.”
“So she thought. He thought not, then later reconsidered, and they met to talk about it. They clicked on several levels. She was very open about her middle brother, and believes that while Crack isn’t his mentor, he’s been another steadying influence. So?”
“Send the contract. She’s probably pacing the floor waiting for it. Send it, and let’s go eat spaghetti and drink more wine.”
He kissed the back of her neck, sent the contract. “As it happens, pasta’s just what I’d planned for tonight. Summerset made fresh.”
“Meatballs?”
“The pasta—the actual noodles.”
“You can do that? Why do that?”
“I can’t tell you, but it apparently pleases him. It’s capellini—spicy.”
“Does it have meatballs?”
“We’ll find out.”
* * *
While Eve discovered zucchini—again?—instead of meatballs, Rochelle let out a wild scream in the tiny corner of her bedroom she’d used for office space since Lyle moved in.
She followed it with a whoop, then a dance.
She whirled around when Lyle rushed in.
“What the hell, Ro?”
“Oh! I didn’t know you were home.”
“Just walked in. I thought you were fighting off a rapist or some shit.”
“No. Nothing.” She laughed, waved a hand. “You’ve got the night off. I forgot.”
“First night off in eight straight.” Frowning at her, he leaned on her doorjamb.
He’d put back on the weight he’d lost to illegals and prison, and had a fit, healthy look that warmed her heart. And though she liked him clean shaven—he was handsome!—she didn’t mind the strip of scruff around his jawline. He wore his hair in short dreads.
Best of all, his eyes, nearly the same shade as hers, remained clear. A little tired, maybe, but clear.
“I’ll fix you something to eat.”
He pointed at her. “You’re dressed fancy again.”
“Not really fancy.” She did have on her second-best dress—the blue one with the banded cuffs—but she didn’t think it rated fancy. “I’m taking Wilson to dinner, but I’ve got time to fix you something.”
“I’m a cook, remember?”
Yes, he was, she thought—and it thrilled her.