Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,129

he was. They’d moved out of the little entryway and into an equally minuscule living/dining room where four people sat around a crowded table, all of them turned inquiringly to take in the new arrivals.

A very old guy, the kind who got stringier as he aged, like a piece of beef jerky, other than his shock of thick white hair and beetling white eyebrows, which looked like they’d been growing for about twenty years. Right now, the eyebrows were raised over a pair of not-amused brown eyes. That would be the grandpa. Blake Orbison, next, looking no more welcoming than he had the last time Harlan had seen him, like, What are you doing here, exactly? Or, possibly, About time, depending what Jennifer had told him. A young woman with mile-high cheekbones and long, dark hair, too, who looked more interesting than expensive. That must be Blake’s new wife, the artist.

And Jennifer. Who was clutching a cloth napkin in both hands and staring at him. Frozen, he’d call that.

He said, “What, you didn’t think I’d come?”

“I …” She seemed lost for words. After a second, she stood up and said, “Hi, Annabelle. Have you guys eaten? Want some lasagna? I made plenty.”

Annabelle said, “That’d be great. You’re a way better cook than me, and Harlan cooks extremely healthy.”

“Dyma,” Jennifer said, possibly recovering a little poise, “go set another two places, would you? And grab the desk chairs out of our rooms. Oh—Grandpa, this is Harlan Kristiansen and his sister, Annabelle. My grandpa, Oscar Gardner. I guess you know Blake and Dakota, except that Annabelle won’t. Know them. So, uh—Blake and Dakota. Savage.”

As a smooth introduction, it failed. Dyma said, “Unless everybody holds their plates in their lap, how does this work? Annabelle and I can eat in my room.”

“Uh, no,” Jennifer said. “Actually … no. I need to talk to you.”

“Actually,” Harlan said, “you’re right. You do have to talk. How come you didn’t call me?”

“Me?” Jennifer said. “Me? I’m not the one who got that five days ago, and didn’t say a thing!”

“Sorry,” Blake said. “What?”

Oscar said, “I have a feeling we’re about to find out. Dyma, go get that other bottle of wine. Can’t have an Italian dinner and a knock-down drag-out without another bottle of wine.”

“I don’t do knock-down drag-outs,” Jennifer said.

“Yet,” Oscar said.

“Right,” Harlan said. He couldn’t very well stand here and declaim like some kind of B actor, so instead, he said, “Show me where those chairs are, Dyma.”

“I’ll open the wine,” Blake said, and got up to do it. “I’ll set the places, too. I had no idea this dinner would be quite so interesting. I’m reserving judgment, but if you’ve messed with Jennifer, Kristiansen, I’m going to have something to say about it.”

“Get in line,” Oscar said, the eyebrows sticking out more than ever.

Dyma said, “Whatever. I guess we’re not going to that show, Annabelle. Right. Chairs.”

Jennifer couldn’t figure this out. Harlan looked mad, and not just because his hair was short again, which made him look tougher. Why would he be mad, though? There were no real surprises here.

A few minutes, then, crowding a couple more places onto a table that was a stretch for five, let alone seven, dishing up lasagna and salad in the kitchen, her grandpa pouring wine. But finally, she was looking across the table into Harlan’s twilight-sky eyes, focusing on him, on this, and saying, “I don’t get it. Why do you look mad? I should be the one who’s mad.” Clearly, her dangerously manipulative stage was going to happen sometime later than age thirty-four.

He said, “I don’t look mad. I look serious and determined.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Oscar muttered.

Dyma said, “Excuse me. What?”

Jennifer took a deep breath and said, “Well, as it happens, I’m pregnant. And I need to ask you for that job in Portland,” she told Blake. “With your company, I mean, if the offer’s still open. This is the part where I tell you that I’m going to need maternity leave in about six months, and also beg in an undignified way and tell you that I’ll take anything, and I’ll work harder than anybody else you could possibly hire, and whatever I have to learn, I’ll learn it, and you won’t be sorry.”

Blake had a hand up. “Hang on. Yeah, I can give you a job. I told you I would. You’re talent, and I want talent. But you’re pregnant? Wouldn’t have guessed that one. You know,” he told Harlan, “the NFL offers