Page 6 of Not Mine To Love

“Don’t get stressed out. We’ll take care of this. Okay?”

He gave me a wry smile. “Not we. Me. They’re my bills.”

“I want to help,” I protested, but there was no use. Like I said, he was stubborn. Dad had been hospitalized with pneumonia about two months ago, and because he didn’t have insurance the bill had been ridiculous.

We had negotiated the bill down, but we still owed quite a bit. I didn’t know what we were going to do. Even though Dad had always been a blue collar worker, he paid all his bills on time, so I knew it was tearing away at him that he couldn’t afford to pay his hospital bill.

He sighed and went to the small kitchen and started making lunch.

“What do you think? Mac and cheese?”

I smiled. Mac and cheese was my favorite meal. “Sounds great, Dad.”

He started cooking and I watched him, finally noticing that he had aged. His jet black hair now was gray in some places and his eyes had little crinkles around the edges. My dad was getting older, and I needed to step it up. I wasn’t going to wait for Claire Doogan to call me. Nope. I needed ten thousand dollars desperately. I was going to call her.

2

“Miss, umm ... your card was declined,” said the embarrassed barista as he looked at me.

“That’s not possible. I swear there’s money on here,” I argued even though I could see the message myself, “Transaction Denied.”

“Let me just try again,” I said, impatience entering my voice.

“I’ll handle it,” Mrs. Doogan said, and I wanted the ground to swallow me up.

“It’s okay. I don’t need the coffee,” I said to her, feeling beyond embarrassed.

I had called her number again and this time the person who answered had been able to connect me with her. Mrs. Doogan had agreed to meet me immediately the next day. To my surprise, she had been really pleasant. She was very likeable and nice. Her butler or whomever answered the phone had been the only jerk, so far.

We were at a posh coffee shop that had been converted from an old residential home. I didn’t particularly care for it. It was trendy and a lot of hipsters frequented it. It made me feel like a poser, an imposter. Kind of how I felt when I was married to my ex and he insisted that I go to parties on yachts with him. I had always found myself hiding in the bathroom while he and his friends did all sorts of unsavory things, gratefully, without me. I was a blue collar girl all the way. I wasn't sure why I married Tom. A lapse in judgement, for sure.

So when Mrs. Doogan suggested the place, I had readily agreed. When I arrived, I realized that it was one of “those” places and had instantly felt uncomfortable. To make up for it, I quickly acted like the imposter I was and tried to impress Mrs. Doogan by buying her coffee. That was what I got for not checking my bank account, I thought miserably as Mrs. Doogan bought both our coffees. I wanted to cry. I had wanted to make a good impression; instead, I was doing the exact opposite.

I plastered a determined smile on my face and thanked her as we returned to our small table. I studiously didn’t look at anyone else. I didn’t know if everyone had seen what had just happened, but I was so embarrassed by it. I felt like everyone was laughing at me.

“Thanks for taking care of the coffees,” I said with false cheer. “I guess it’s pretty clear, I really do need your money, huh?” I said with a forced chuckle, and then I wanted to kick myself. Why did I just say something THAT stupid?

To my surprise, she laughed. “I don’t know,” she said, looking down at her coffee. “Six bucks for a cup of joe is rather steep by anyone’s standards.”

Instantly, my tension melted from my shoulders. Gosh, a few seconds ago, I hadn’t even known that I was tense. Mrs. Doogan was a nice lady. Way better than Leona, who until that minute I had forgotten to check in with. Dammit. Leona was going to be pissed. She might even fire me, which was even more motivation to get this job.

“So, Mrs. Doogan—”

“Please, call me Claire.”

I smiled. “Claire, and um, please call me Becca,” I instantly felt like an idiot again. She had been calling me Becca the whole time. I was such a ditz sometimes. It was amazing that I made it through college.

“Sure, Becca,” she said, clearly amused.

“So who’s this guy you want me to follow?”

From her purse, she pulled out a phone, and on it were various pictures of the dude. He had a nice smile, was my first thought. He smiled like the world didn’t matter. Just really unguarded. The type of smile a girl could fall for. Obviously, he was trouble.

“So this is the rascal?”

She laughed at my word choice. “That’s one thing to call him.”

She sighed heavily and said, “But yes, this is Julius Romo.” She puckered her lips in distaste, sitting back and crossing her hands in her lap. She was wearing cotton shorts that accentuated her long, blemish-free legs. Her legs were even better than mine. She was wearing a salmon-colored blouse with large bell sleeves. She wore her hair up in a simple chignon with dangly earrings.