Page 13 of Hale Yes (Highway to Hale #1)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Hello, Texas

Nicolette

I’m almost shocked out of my fuzzy bunny slippers—don’t judge me, they’re comfy—the next Monday when my father shows up at my brownstone in Brooklyn Heights.

“I brought dinner,” he says simply, holding up a recyclable grocery bag that smells like Louisiana goodness.

I gape at him for a long moment before finally stepping back. “Come on in. It smells fantastic.”

As I’m closing the door, I hear footsteps outside, and for a second, I’m worried he might have brought Ma with him. Until I hear Lehra’s voice.

“Hold the door, please!”

I swing it back open to see a pile of boxes moving toward me. Well, it’s actually Lehra carrying the boxes, but they’re stacked so high I can’t see her head.

“You look like a box monster,” I laugh, grabbing the top three as they begin to topple.

“Pshhht, more like a superhero. I want a cape with a big double B for Box Bitch.”

Her husband, who’s right behind her, lets out a soft growl. “Fuck yeah. And one of those skintight outfits to go along with it.” She giggles, and I’m pretty sure superhero sex has just been added to their rotating list of role-playing antics.

Cruz is also carrying a huge load of boxes, but he seems to be handling his stack better than his wife. The man is built like a brick shithouse.

“Just set them down over here,” I say, leading them to the already packed boxes I’ve been working on in the living room. “My dad just arrived to surprise me with dinner.”

“Oh, gosh. We can leave,” Lehra frets, setting down her load and brushing away a damp blonde curl that’s stuck to her cheek. “We don’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense,” my father’s voice comes from behind me. “If you like Cajun food, there’s plenty for everyone. I’m happy to meet some of Nicci’s friends.”

Ten minutes later, we’re seated around my oak dining table in the breakfast nook. Pop is scooping the beans and andouille sausage on top of beds of white rice in my pretty cobalt-blue bowls.

“You weren’t kidding about having plenty,” Cruz comments, and Pop adds another scoop to his bowl before handing it over.

“Here ya go, big guy. You look like you can put away some groceries.”

“No lie,” Lehra comments, shooting a playful look at her husband. “Thank goodness both of us work so we can pay our dang grocery bill.”

Pop spoons crawfish in a savory sauce over thick chunks of garlic bread on small plates and passes them out too. “Where do you work now?” he asks my friends.

“We both work in the Bouvier building,” Lehra tells him. “I’m Auburn Bouvier’s personal assistant, and Cruz is head of security.” She smiles proudly at her husband. “He worked personal security and was on the Emergency Service Unit before that.”

“Like an EMT or paramedic?” Pop asks.

Cruz swallows the big bite in his mouth before explaining. “It’s like the SWAT detail for the city.”

He and my father chatter about interesting assignments Cruz has taken part in—the ones he can talk about anyway.

I notice he leaves out the story about taking down the Cappitani crime family.

I’m one of very few people who are privy to that particular tale that had unimaginable consequences for the Bouvier family.

After dinner, Cruz and Pop carry my already packed boxes out to the moving pod on my tiny front lawn while Lehra and I load my non-essentials into the boxes she and Cruz brought.

“What about the furniture?” Pop asks, wiping a layer of sweat from the side of his neck.

“I’m selling and donating it. The townhome I’m renting in Houston comes furnished, so that’s less I need to move.”

“Are you staying in a safe area?” my father asks, his eyebrows lowering over his green eyes.

I smile at his concern. “It’s in a nice area. The HR department at Hale sent me some listings and set me up with their realtor. Cruz helped me pick out a good neighborhood, and the realtor and property manager gave me a virtual tour.”

Pop sighs his relief. “Okay, good.” He reaches out a hand to shake Cruz’s. “Thank you for helping Nicci.”

“No problem,” he says, ringing an arm around my neck and rubbing his knuckles across my head. “She’s like the little sister I never wanted.”

“Stop it, you big ass,” I tell him, wrangling my way out of his hold with a laugh.

My dad chuckles. “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

I shake my head. “I think that’s about it. Thanks for the dinner and for the use of your muscles, Pop. You didn’t have to do all that.”

His eyes meet mine, and his smile fades. “Yes, baby, I did.”

My stomach clenches with affection and sadness. We gather the food containers and place them back in the bag before walking out to Pop’s old truck parked at the curb.

“This was nice. I’m glad you came,” I tell him, and he turns to face me, his eyes filling with tears.

“I’m glad I came too. I left you a gift card on top of your purse. A little extra spending money for your trip.”

I hate that he did that because I know money’s tight for him. At the same time, I’m incredibly touched. To hide the wobble of my lips, I step forward and do something I haven’t done in over twenty years.

I wrap my arms around my father’s neck.

He hesitates for only a split second before banding his thick arms around my waist. It’s tentative at first, as if he’s testing me out, but the embrace gradually grows tighter, and I feel his chest hitch against mine.

This should feel bizarre, hugging Pop after so long, but it doesn’t. It feels like memories and goodness. Along with a slice of rancor toward my mother for purposely depriving a child— her own child —of this comfort.

My dad’s wheezing breath is soft against my shoulder, and I feel warm droplets dampen my shirt. “I’m going to miss you, Nicci.”

Resting my nose against his neck, I inhale his cologne and the slight tang of sweat, but I don’t allow myself to cry.

“I’ll miss you too, Pop.”

And surprisingly, I mean it.

Two weeks later, at about six in the evening, I pull into the driveway of my new home.

The concrete drive is located in the back of the townhouse and leads to a ground-level two-car garage.

I’m slightly disturbed to see the garage doors are blocked by a person…

until I recognize her from the virtual tour.

It’s the property manager, Bonnie Clyde.

And yes, her name is actually Bonnie Clyde.

She’s blonde, about my age, and dressed in a sunshine-yellow blazer and pencil skirt with a black silky top beneath. Her black heels and huge black hoop earrings lend to her resemblance to a bumblebee. Even the way she flits toward the driver’s side of my vehicle is remarkably insect-like.

“Nic-o-lette,” she coos as soon as I open the door to my Audi. “So nice to meet you in person.” Bonnie grabs my hand and pumps it enthusiastically before I can even push myself to a standing position. “I’m Bonnie.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I tell her, finally extricating my hand long enough to get out of the car.

“And your accent! Oh my god, it’s so cute! I just love you.”

I crack up because, to my ears, she’s the one with the accent, a distinctive Texas drawl that seems to elongate around each vowel. Then she holds up a set of keys and jingles them at me with a huge smile on her face.

“Oh. Is there a problem with the unit or something?” I ask. “I thought you were leaving the keys in the lockbox.” She’d sent me the code to unlock the box near the front door since I told her I would probably be arriving after hours.

“No, hon. Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to drop off a little something to welcome you to the neighborhood.” She holds up one finger. “Gimme a sec. Be back in a jiffy.”

Then she dashes over to a midnight-blue Mercedes sedan that’s idling in one of the parking spaces, her feet tapping a too-quick cadence given the height of her heels.

I would have busted my ass if I’d tried to move that quickly in stilettos.

She returns a minute later with a hot-pink plate piled with cookies.

“I didn’t know if you were allergic to nuts, so I went with chocolate chip. I do make a dang good praline cookie though, if you’re okay with pecans.” Her bright blue eyes blink inquisitively at me.

“I love pecans,” I tell her, taking the plate and keys from her. “Thank you, Bonnie. This is very kind of you, and to be honest, I’m starving, so this is a nice treat.”

She swats me on the butt, and I barely manage to restrain a squeak of surprise.

“Well then, get your cute little tail inside and enjoy your new home, missy. I live two doors down thataway, so holler if you need me.” Bonnie points to the right to indicate the direction of her house.

“Old Mrs. Watts lives between us. She’s pretty quiet and sticks to herself, but I check on her a couple times a week. ”

“And on the other side of me?”

“Oh girl, you have a darling couple that lives there, just absolutely darling . Their names are Stefan and Lukas. Couple characters, those two.” She bobbles her perfect eyebrows and jerks a thumb toward the townhome that’s a replica of mine on the left except it’s white where mine is blue.

“They’re out of town right now, but I think they’re coming back on Monday.

They’re super friendly, so they’ll probably drop by to say hello. ”

“Great. I look forward to meeting them.” I’ve been here for less than five minutes, and I already feel the sense of community here.

“I put ya a cute keychain on there to welcome you to Texas, and you have my number if you need anything. Twenty-four-seven,” Bonnie tells me as she walks backward toward her vehicle.

Glancing down at the keys, I see a sparkly red-and-blue Texas-shaped keychain with a white star in the center. I laugh at the text: I wasn’t born in Texas, but I got here as soon as I could. There’s also an attached fob that I assume opens the garage doors.

Bonnie departs with a wave, and I drive into the right side of the garage before grabbing my new keys and the cookies. I studied the floor plan before signing the lease, so I know there’s a guest bedroom and bath on this level.

Taking the stairs to the second floor, I find the living room, dining room, and kitchen exactly as they looked on my virtual tour.

Except now there’s furniture. Bonnie had told me they have a warehouse of furniture and sent me color palettes to choose from.

I’d selected one with lots of blues and yellows.

The couch is plush, a deep royal-blue—the same as the adjacent armchair—and butter-yellow throw pillows add a splash of brightness.

It’s homey and inviting, and I like it. The coffee table, two end tables, and six-seat dining set all appear to be made of rustic wood, but they are smooth to the touch.

There’s a small powder room tucked down a short hallway next to a laundry room.

I place the cookies in the kitchen and scoot up the stairs, where I find the master suite. The microbiologist in me is thrilled to see the queen-sized mattress still has tags on it. The furniture up here is also wooden, a couple shades darker than the honey-hued, wide-plank flooring.

The attached bathroom has a pretty goldenrod and cream pattern with an ivory lavatory and claw-foot tub. The shower is also tiled, and though it’s not fancy, it is bigger than the one I had in Brooklyn.

Satisfied that everything is in order, I head back downstairs to retrieve my two suitcases of essentials from the car.

I grab a cookie on the way out and groan.

They’re still slightly warm, and the chocolate melts against my tongue as I haul everything inside, including a small bucket of cleaning supplies.

Bonnie told me the place would be professionally cleaned before my arrival, but I’m going to clean my bathroom and kitchen anyway before using them.

Forty minutes and three cookies later, I’m sinking into the sparkling tub, surrounded by the scent of the lavender and eucalyptus bath salts I remembered to tuck into my suitcase. The movers will be here tomorrow, but for tonight, I’m going to enjoy my bath and my new bed.

I smile and recline as I close my eyes, letting the water and salts soothe my tired body.

“Hello, Texas. I’m here.”