The Grifter
Chapter 15

Frankie was unequivocally not a morning person. So there was some serious-as*s irony in the fact that she was wide awake at—she looked at her cell phone and g*****d—six forty-two on a Sunday when the sun hadn’t quite considered rising or shining. But her brain had been spinning ever since she and Shawn had k!ssed last night. The life-altering news that he had a child he’d known nothing about until seven hours ago?

That had sent her brain into the stratosphere, and her heart—not to mention her very high “holy sh!t” tolerance—right along with it.

Shawn had a daughter. A little girl who would depend on him for the next fifteen years, likely longer. Likely forever, in some way or another. Hell, she was thirty-four and she still called her father for comfort or advice from time to time.

The gravity of that sort of responsibility took her breath away.

Rolling over in bed, Frankie closed her eyes and mentally replayed everything that had happened once she and Shawn had arrived at Remington Memorial. It hadn’t stunned her that he’d had a one-night stand—or, more likely, a bunch of them. In truth, her own relationships (and she used the term loosely) tended to be pretty fleeting and largely physical, too. As a recovering addict, it was all she had on most days to keep her own shi!t together. Trying to navigate something as permanent as a serious relationship? So not in the cards for her. That Shawn’s one-nighter with Lori had resulted in pregnancy, though? And that he’d just been thrown into the deep end of raising his daughter alone, with absolutely no experience?

Holy sh!t didn’t even begin to cover it.

Like anyone in his situation who wasn’t an android, of course Shawn had freaked out. Hell, Frankie had been shaken and it wasn’t even her news to bear. She’d be willing to bet her bank account that he didn’t lose his composure much—he had the whole iceberg thing down to a science. Their k!ss had been an exception to his no-emotions rule, an anomalous blip they could chalk up to the heat of the moment mixed in with blurred identities from this undercover op.

Frankie’s heartbeat escalated beneath the thin cotton of her tank top, and okay, yeah, she really needed to not think of that really impulsive, really hot k!ss, or the toe-curling 0rgasm that had accompanied it. It might be short-term, but Shawn was her partner. They were working a case—a big one—plus, he had just been catapulted into some highly emotional head space.

No. That wasn’t quite accurate. Shawn had been rattled all the way down to his breath and bones, shaken in a way she hadn’t seen before or since the day she’d been stabbed. That show of raw, ragged emotions had kick-started something deep within her, and before she’d known it, she’d been right up in his dance space, bossing him around and telling him to take a breath.

Which, much to Frankie’s surprise, he’d done—at least, enough of one to fight off the panic she’d seen churning in his eyes. Shawn had seemed as calm as he was going to get when she’d promised him she’d take care of work and left him with Dr. Riley. Yeah, he’d freaked out for a few minutes there, and—okay, fine—she’d been worried he wouldn’t bounce back. But surely, he had things under control, now. He’d met his daughter and begun to figure out his next steps. Formulated a plan. Called on his support network of friends and fellow detectives, all of whom would be there for him and help him get through the coming weeks. Really, Frankie should mind her own damn business and leave him to it. If he wanted her help, he’d call.

Except.

She knew better. Shawn was way out of his depth. She may have gotten him to snap out of his panic in the moment, but she’d bet her last nickel he’d stuffed down that tidal wave of emotions he’d felt at the news he had a daughter, just as he had when she’d been stabbed. He hadn’t let her get so much as six syllables into asking if she should call Hale or Sinclair before he’d shut her down, so asking them for help now? Ha. He’d probably rather be roasted on a spit than let them see him lose his cool. Nope, Shawn was probably sitting in his apartment, silently and thoroughly still freaking out, jamming his feelings into a hidey hole while trying to figure out how to single-handedly parent a child who had just lost her mother.

He didn’t need help. He needed a f*****g miracle. And he wasn’t going to call Frankie, or anyone else, to ask for one.

“God damn it,” Frankie muttered. Throwing the blanket off her legs, she padded into her bathroom to liberate her toothbrush from its spot by the sink. Her shoulder ached, but what else was new, really, and she rolled it a few times before giving it a gentle stretch. The hot spray of the shower loosened things up well enough, and by the time she’d dried off and gotten dressed, she felt pretty good.

Now for the hard part.

Scooping up her cell phone, she shot off a text, and please, please, please, let her sister text back instead of calling…

The phone rang in Frankie’s hand. Sh!t.

“You could’ve just texted me, you know,” Frankie said by way of greeting, but her sister simply laughed.

“That’s cute, cucciola. But when you text me at seven thirty on a Sunday morning with a question like that? Let’s just say, I’m gonna need some context.”

“That’s…a long story,” Frankie tried, but Jo wasn’t having it.

“My kid is occupied with toaster waffles and an iPad, and I just brewed up a fresh pot of coffee. I’m here for it. Spill.”

Frankie sighed, but honestly, she’d known better. “Look, I don’t have a lot of time, and there are things I can’t tell you because it’s work,” she said.

“You asking me what kinds of food a three-year-old eats is work related?” Jo asked, and okay, Frankie had to give her something.

“Not exactly.” She blew out a breath and sorted through the truth she could give. “I’m sort of in Remington, working a case. With, ah, Shawn.”

Jo went quiet for a beat. “Are you okay with that?”

Soooooo many avenues she could take there. “The case is important, and we’re working well together. Yes,” Frankie added, because Jo wasn’t going to let her off the hook until she did. “It was a little hard to see him, at first. But we’re figuring it out, and I’m okay.”

“You know you can call me any time,” Jo said, and Frankie had to smile.

“Clearly, since we’re on the phone at this ungodly hour. And thank you.”

Placated—at least for the moment—Jo asked, “So, how are we getting from working a case with your ex to you asking me about three-year-olds? Because I’m going to go ahead and admit it, I’m intrigued.”

Here, Frankie hitched. She might be willing to go barging over to Shawn’s apartment with help he likely needed but wouldn’t ask for, but airing out his personal life, even to her sister, didn’t feel quite right. “He, ah, needs a little help with his daughter, and since I’m not exactly maternal, I figured I’d ask the expert.”

“Oh, now you’re just buttering me up,” Jo said wryly.

“It’s working, isn’t it?” Frankie popped back. “What do you say? Can you send me a list of things Mikayla liked when she was three, or what?”

Thirty minutes and one mild interrogation (which Frankie mostly dodged, because she could not, under any circumstances, tell her sister about that k!ss) later, Frankie went into Target armed with a detailed list. Twenty minutes and one phone call after that, she stood on the threshold of Shawn’s apartment building.

“Well, here goes nothing,” she whispered, pressing the buzzer for his unit.

He answered less than twenty seconds later. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” she said automatically, then slapped on, “Frankie, I mean. It’s me, Frankie.” Smooth. So smooth. “Can you buzz me up?”

The heavy click of the door lock disengaging served as his reply, and Frankie didn’t waste any time psychoanalyzing it. Balancing the four reusable grocery bags between her hands, she made her way through the lobby and to Shawn’s door. He stood on the threshold, wearing the same clothes as last night and a five o’clock shadow that had long-since missed its deadline. Shadows ringed the space beneath his eyes, but his stare was still alert as he fixed it on her, brow creased.

“Hi. I know I’m intruding,” she blurted, and go Team Honesty. “I don’t normally make a habit out of just showing up on my partner’s doorstep with a bunch of juice boxes and Goldfish crackers, but last night was pretty intense, so…”

Shawn threw a look over one shoulder, keeping his voice low enough to tell Frankie that Isla was probably still sleeping. “How did you even replace out where I live?”

Oh, goodie. An easy question. “As it turns out, I don’t suck at my job.” Frankie shrugged. “Also, possibly related, the weekend desk sergeant likes Boston cream donuts, and Sweetie Pies bakery delivers.”

“You bribed Sergeant Riordan to get my address so you could come over here?” The slight lift of Shawn’s chin was his only sign of surprise, but Frankie met it dead to rights.

“Well, you weren’t going to ask for help, so yeah.”

Oh, his armor was made of some finely crafted stuff, because he didn’t let even the tiniest emotion flicker over his blank, beautiful face. “I don’t need any help.”

“Let me guess,” Frankie said, arching a brow. “You’re fine, right?”

“I’m…” Shawn closed his mouth with a curse. “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to do this.”

Frankie surprised them both by laughing, although not in the ha-ha, best joke ever kind of way. “Look, can we just cut the crap? I’m not here because I want to get all up in your business, and I’m definitely not here to go all mushy gushy on you. You’re my partner and we’re working a case,” she murmured, loud enough for him to get the message but not enough for her voice to carry, just as a precaution. “I’m just here to help you straighten out your current situation.”

He didn’t say anything, so Frankie took the opportunity to keep going. “I don’t exactly have a maternal gene. I’m honestly lucky I can take care of myself, let alone another human. But I do have a niece and nephews. I can help you with Isla, at least a little. So, are you going to let me, or what? Because, no offense,” she said, her heart picking up the pace as she took a step toward him, close enough to touch, “you look like you could use a lifeline. Also, some dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.”

A beat stretched out between them, then another before Shawn stepped back. “Come in.” He waited until she was over the threshold with the door bolted behind her before taking two of the bags from her, then very quietly adding, “Thank you.”

Frankie’s heart impersonated a corkscrew, but she managed to say, “No sweat. So”—she cleared her throat and followed Shawn past his fairly tidy living room and into the small, open-concept kitchen beyond—“is Isla still sleeping?”

“Yeah. I, ah, watched over her for most of the night, but she’s a pretty sound sleeper. She’s still out cold.”

Oh. Oh, her heart. “You stayed with her all night?”

Shawn lifted a bulky shoulder, then let it drop. “To be fair, we didn’t get back here until nearly two thirty. Isla fell asleep in the car, but I thought if she woke up in a weird place in the middle of the night, while it was still dark out, she’d be scared, so, yeah. I stayed with her. I came in here a couple hours ago to catch a little shuteye on the couch since the sun was starting to come up.”

Oooof. “That’s not a lot of sleep,” Frankie said, lifting her bags to the dark gray countertop.

“Pretty sure I wasn’t going to sleep much, regardless. At least this way, I made sure Isla was safe.”

“Fair enough,” Frankie said. She spent a minute handing over the things that needed to be refrigerated so Shawn could put them away before continuing. “So, funny thing. You know all that therapy I’ve done as part of my recovery? It involves a lot of group sharing, and as it turns out, I’m now an awesome listener.”

“Modest, too.” He shut the refrigerator door, turning to lean against it as he looked at her.

She looked right back. “Look, you just got hit with a lot. If you really don’t want to talk about it, I’ll help you get Isla settled and go. But, Shawn, this isn’t the kind of thing you can stuff down. She’s going to need you. You’re going to have to be there, which means you’re going to have to be honest with yourself about how you’re feeling.”

He ran a hand over his head, his fingers resting on the back of his neck for a second before he said, “I know.”

“Good.” She turned back toward the bag in front of her and continued to unpack it, giving Shawn room to get gabby without a whole bunch of prodding. After a minute, he bit.

“I’m taking a few days off work to figure things out.”

Frankie nodded. “Of course. It’ll probably take Alfie that long to talk to Beck and get a meet set up, anyway.” With how smashed the guy had been last night—God, had that really only been last night?—he’d probably nurse his hangover for a good couple of days.

“I’ll have to tell the unit, obviously, and they’re going to want to help. That’s not a bad thing,” he tacked on, shaking his head. “They’ll mean well, and I’m grateful they’ve got my back. It’s just…”

“Overwhelming as f**k?” Frankie supplied, and the tiniest hint of a smile kicked at the edge of Shawn’s mouth.

“How’d you know?”

“I’m part of a ginormous Italian family whose sole purpose is to nurture their own. Let’s just say, I had a lot of ‘help’ in rehab. Most of it was good, but sometimes it got a little…”

“Overwhelming as f**k?” Shawn finished, making Frankie smile.

“Bingo.” She measured her next words carefully, but screw it. Skirting around the truth was just as bad as stuffing it down, and she’d promised to help. Even if it hurt.

“I know you like to be in control of things, Shawn, and that what Lori did by not telling you about Isla is really messing with your head. But here it is. No matter how much you want to, you can’t control what Lori did, or the fact that she’s gone and now it’s just you and Isla. But you can control whether or not Isla gets a good home.”

“I don’t know the first thing about being a parent,” he countered, but at that, she simply shrugged.

“You didn’t know the first thing about being a cop on your first day at the academy, either. But you figured it out.”

He shook his head. “This feels bigger than that. Plus, the academy was a controlled environment, and we had room to screw things up as we learned without anyone getting hurt.”

Okay, so he was probably right about it being a bigger deal than the academy (or anything else, really). Still… “You’re human, Shawn. I hope you don’t think for a second that you won’t screw some of this up. But there isn’t a parent in the history of procreation who hasn’t made mistakes along the way. You’re a good man. You’ll figure it out.”

“That’s pretty deep,” he said, and she laughed softly, aiming right at more truth.

“I did a truckload of therapy, remember? Sometimes the wisdom sticks.”

He took a step toward her, then another. “Thank you, Frankie. Really. For…everything.”

Her pulse fluttered. Traitor. “You’re welcome.”

A soft noise from the doorway startled them both out of the moment. Frankie’s heart caught in her throat at the sight of the little girl standing there, her dark blue eyes wide and alert even as her curls were still wild from sleep. Her features were so familiar, so like Shawn’s that it was uncanny, and oh, God, there was absolutely no doubt she was his child.

“You’re up,” Shawn said, taking a few steps toward her before seeming to think better of it. Isla shifted her stare in Frankie’s direction, not speaking or budging, and suddenly, Frankie’s rib cage felt two sizes too tight.

“Right. Okay.” Shawn exhaled. “Isla, this is my, ah, friend. Her name is Frankie. She brought some things you might like.”

Curiosity spent a brief second in Isla’s gaze, and Frankie took full advantage. “Do you want to come help unpack? Then, you can show your dad the things you like, to give him a good idea of what to get more of.”

Isla hesitated, which had to be normal, all things considered. Even Frankie, with her next-to-no knowledge of kids, could figure out that Isla must be confused and missing her mother. Shawn looked at the bags on the counter, slowly beginning to take out the items and giving Isla room to get comfortable, just as Frankie had done for him a few minutes ago. Juice boxes, socks, toothbrush…

He got to the stuffed porcupine she’d thrown into the cart as a why not, and Isla’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning.

“You like this guy?” Frankie asked, the question halting Shawn’s movements. Isla nodded, edging closer, but stopped only a few steps in.

Frankie didn’t let it deter her. “I like him, too. Should we give him a name?”

Another nod, but no reply. Looked like Frankie was winging it. “How about Brownie?”

Isla shook her head, and Shawn gave it a shot. “Champ?”

At Frankie’s snort, he straightened. “What? What’s wrong with Champ?”

“That’s a dog’s name,” Frankie said. “We need a good porcupine name. Something…I don’t know. More spiny.”

One black eyebrow rose. “Okay. How about Dill Prickles?”

The laugh that flew out of her was completely involuntary. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“I would not kid about something as serious as naming this porcupine,” he said, putting a hand over his heart. “We can call him Mr. Prickles if it makes you feel better. What do you think, Isla?” Shawn looked at her, and there was no mistaking the hope in his eyes. “Does he look like a Mr. Prickles?”

Wide-eyed, Isla nodded. She hesitated, her stare bordering on scrutiny as Shawn held the stuffed animal out for her. His arm span allowed her a decent amount of space, and Isla tiptoed forward cautiously, getting only as close as she needed in order to take the toy. While she didn’t say anything, nor did she give up even a hint of a smile, she didn’t retreat to the doorway once she had Mr. Prickles, either, and Frankie took the progress as her cue to leave them to it.

“I should let you two have a chance to, um, do more of this,” she said. To Shawn, she continued, “There’s a change of clothes and some kid toiletries in the last bag. Also, some pajamas. I didn’t know how long it would take you to, you know, get to that part, so I tossed them in, just in case.” Dimly aware that she was both babbling and very, very bad at this nurturing thing, she turned toward the door. “I’ve got everything at work under control, so don’t worry about it. I’ll see you when I see you, okay?”

“Frankie—”

She waved him off. “Really, it’s fine. I promise to keep you in the loop if anything major happens. And if you need anything else, just text. Bye, Isla.” Frankie smiled even though a tiny furrow had appeared between the little girl’s dark brows. God, she looked like Shawn. “It was really nice to meet you. Have fun with Mr. Prickles. Shawn, I’ll see you at work.”

Frankie’s feet got her ninety percent of the way to the door when her cell phone buzzed in her pocket, and damn it, she had to at least check to make sure it wasn’t Alfie being routed from her burner phone or Sinclair with something urgent.

Shawn: I need something.

Her chin whipped up, her heart clacking against her ribs. “Are you texting me from across the room?”

“You said to text if I needed anything else, and you weren’t going to stop otherwise, so, yeah.”

Well, hell. He wasn’t wrong on either count. “Okay?”

“You’re not wrong,” Shawn said quietly. “I do need a lifeline. I have a lot to figure out, and I’d really like it if you could stay for a while to help me get started on that. Plus”—he looked at Isla, who met his gaze—“Isla and I need help eating the toaster waffles you brought. Don’t we, kid?”

Isla didn’t respond, but she did watch Frankie very carefully, and the words flew out of her even as her heart warned that they shouldn’t.

“Well, I’m more of a Pop-Tart girl, myself, but in this case, I suppose I can make an exception.”