Chapters 1-3 of
The Love Destroyers
Chapter One
Emma
My brother Anthony is getting married tomorrow, on New Year’s Eve. He seems to really like his fiancée, so I decide to do him a favor and slip out of the rehearsal dinner for some fresh—i.e. arctic—December air. I don’t want to destroy his happy buzz by saying any of the things running through my head.
Like, love is for suckers.
Or, are you sure about this? You’re both great, but everything you know about each other would fit onto a one-sided sheet of paper. With large font. Five-inch margins.
It’s all true, but you wouldn’t know it to look at them. They’ve been giving each other heart eyes over the appetizers. It’s enough to make a person lose their appetite.
I head out through the back of the restaurant, because my mother would have something to say if she caught me, but almost immediately regret it. It’s dark, cold, and there’s an oversized dumpster that smells like the carton of takeout I accidentally left at the back of my refrigerator for a month last summer. It had grown a colony of mold that probably hosted lifeforms more intelligent than my ex-boss.
Let it never be said I’m afraid of a challenge. Scrunching my nose, I turn the corner, nearly trip over an evergreen shrub covered in suspiciously colored snow, and keep on walking until the smell dissipates. Then I lean against the rough brick wall and suck in a couple of deep breaths. A chill seeps in through my coat, and I feel a bit better—for about two seconds. Because I hear heavy footsteps turning the corner from the trash area.
I bristle and reach into my purse for my pepper spray. If some weird guy was masturbating behind the dumpster, waiting for an unsuspecting woman to come along, he’s going to learn that I don’t know the meaning of unsuspecting.
You know what? I almost hope Happy Feet back there is a pervert on a mission of sin, because it would feel immensely gratifying to whale on someone who deserves it.
A dark figure—tall and rangy—comes into view, and the air puffs out of my lungs. There’s not much of a moon tonight, but there’s enough ambient light streaming through the windows of the restaurant for me to recognize him.
Seamus James.
My brother’s soon-to-be brother-in-law. He nods to me without saying anything, and for a second, I think he’s going to walk right past me—his long legs carrying him off into the night, the devil only knows where. Then he stops beside me, about six inches separating us. He says nothing as he leans against the brick wall beside me.
I angle my neck slightly to look up at him. My future sister-in-law, Rosie, is almost painfully adorable, from her blond hair, streaked with purple, to her sunshine personality that’s cast light on all of my brother’s dark places. Her eldest brother, Declan, is a thoughtful, silent hulk of a man who makes his living as a landscaper. And then here’s this middle brother…
Seamus is the kind of guy who looks like he’d be the cause for a divorce—with a haircut like Fonzie’s, a perpetual leather jacket, and tattoos you can sometimes see a hint of through his clothes. In other words, he’s a man who’s trouble and has decided to advertise it. He’s a bit sleazy. He reminds me of the Marlboro man on a case of old cigarettes.
As if he can hear my thought and wants to underline the likeness for me, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
I snort.
“Something funny?” he says, lifting his eyebrows as he sticks the end of the cigarette in his mouth. Goddammit, that shouldn’t be hot.
He pulls a silver lighter from his pocket and lifts it, flicking it to life with his thumb. The dancing flame illuminates his face for half a second—his eyes are a flinty brown, surrounded by eyelashes that make him almost pretty.
I clear my throat pointedly, and he grins as he blows smoke away from me.
“I can still smell it,” I point out.
“Want me to go away?” he asks, his voice deep and husky.
“If I said yes, would you?”
He gives me a sidelong glance, his body still precisely half a foot away from me against the wall. I suppress a shiver, not wanting him to see weakness.
“Care to find out?” he asks.
It sounds an awful lot like a challenge, and I’m a woman who finds it hard to walk away from challenges. At the same time, I don’t necessarily want to be alone out here, stuck in unhappy thought spirals.
“What do you give their chances?” I ask, knowing he’ll understand exactly what I mean.
My brother needed someone to marry him by New Year’s so he could fulfill the demands of his trust fund. Strange? Assuredly. But my father enjoyed controlling all of us when he was alive, so it’s in character that he decided to give everyone one final heart attack from beyond the grave. My brother was supposed to marry another woman—an awful, conniving gold digger—but she dumped him a couple of months ago, leaving him with only two months to find a wife. Hence his decision to marry a woman he barely knows. It’s beyond lucky, and somewhat beyond belief, that he managed to fall in love under those circumstances.
Sweet but, like I said, also kind of sickening.
Seamus laughs, low in his throat, then takes another drag from his cigarette, blowing the plume of smoke away from me, so at least he’s not a total dickhead. “You’re the former divorce attorney, aren’t you?”
Ouch. As if I needed to be reminded of my current unemployment status. Still, I’m feeling generous, so I give him what he asked for. “I’m guessing 60/40.”
It’s a generous estimation. After all, Rosie and Anthony have only known each other for a month.
He gives another low, throaty laugh. “Brutal. I’m not a relationship kind of guy, so I get where you’re coming from, but don’t you want it to work out?”
“Sure. And if karma really meant anything, then it would. My brother deserves something good, and your sister’s a ray of sunshine, but good deeds are punished and bad deeds are rewarded. Karma’s a fairy tale people tell themselves so they don’t have to deal with how screwed up the world is.”
Oops. I didn’t mean to unleash the full power of my bitterness on the Marlboro Man.
He gives me a long, assessing look.
“What?”
His mouth tips into a slow, lazy grin, the cigarette hanging from it, and I feel an unwilling pulse of attraction that’s all about my body and not a single bit about my brain. “Just wondering who fucked you over and what you did to them for it.”
A laugh coughs its way out of me. I shoot an accusatory look at the cigarette. He shakes his head slightly, another smile building on his mouth, then rubs the cigarette out against the side of the building. I’m prepared for him to drop it, proving he is a litterer on top of everything, but he doesn’t. He just keeps it in his fingers—his hold surprisingly delicate.
“Why do you figure I did something to them?” I ask after my laughter dies down, leaving a strange feeling in its wake. Inappropriate lust, maybe. Sadness, surely.
He nods at me, a twinkle in his eye. “You’ve got all the marks of a ball buster.”
“I take that as a compliment, you know.”
He pockets the cigarette. “You were meant to. Because you still haven’t told me your story, and I’m bored. I’d like to butter you up enough that you’ll share it.”
“You’re bored?” I say with a snort. “Was it all that talk of love and devotion in there?”
“I’ve only ever felt that way about a car,” he says, with a smirk that hides plenty. “But Rachel was one hell of a hatchback.”
“I believe you’ve only felt that way about a car,” I tell him pointedly, “but not that it was a hatchback. Hatchbacks don’t inspire that level of devotion. Especially from a car guy.”
I know he is one. Rosie told me he works at a garage in New York City. She showed me photos of some of the old cars he’s restored. The only thing I know about cars is that it’s time to take mine to the shop when the oil light goes on, but I can tell the cars in the photos would be coveted by people who know more about motor vehicles than I do.
“I did notice you drove one here,” he says with a waggle of his eyebrows.
“So you were watching me, huh? Good to know.”
“I was watching the hatchback.”
Laughter spurts out of me. “Yeah, well, you can romance her on your own time. Just don’t stick your dick in the tailpipe unless you like to roll the dice. I haven’t gone to the carwash in months.”
He laughs through his nose. “I knew you were a ball buster.”
I give him a sidelong glance, lingering more this time. Nothing’s changed. He’s a man who looks like trouble. A man who likes trouble. He’s the last person I should confide in.
He raises his eyebrows and pulls a flask out of his other pocket. Offers it to me.
I shake my head. “No Rohypnol for me, thanks.”
Rolling his eyes, he opens the flask and takes a swig before offering it to me again.
“Now, it’s the saliva I object to,” I say, but I accept it from him anyway and take a long swig. Whiskey. Good whiskey.
A sigh escapes me, and I go in for another swig before handing it back. “I appreciate that you like the good stuff.”
“I definitely do,” he says, giving me a long, sizzling look that makes me laugh again, because I’m wearing a long coat that conceals me from head to toe.
“What?” he asks, making an amused sound that’s not quite a laugh. He pauses to take another swig of the whiskey before tucking it away again in his leather coat. “You’ve injured me.”
“I doubt it. Don’t you know you’re not supposed to hit on your sister’s in-laws?”
He makes another not-quite-a-laugh. “Now you tell me. I was about to have something really special with your mother.”
I fake a gagging sound.
“Anyway,” he adds. “Who says I’m hitting on you? I talk to everyone like this.”
“But you’re especially nice to hatchbacks.”
His lips curl into a grin. “What can I say? I like a big ass.”
I laugh again, easing into it—and into this probably inappropriate conversation. “Of course you do. You have a flat one. Everyone looks for what they don’t have in a sexual partner.”
I’m just messing with him. He has a nice ass, truth be told, not that I should have noticed.
His eyes sparkle in the near dark as he pushes off from the wall and pointedly turns in a circle in front of me, showing off the goods. Yes, definitely a nice ass, and he’s wearing jeans that show the right kind of wear. I feel a swell of awareness that I squash down.
“You’re telling me that’s not one fine ass?” he asks finally before propping himself against the wall again.
“I take the fifth,” I tell him pointedly.
“Sounds like a yes.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Only a yes means yes.”
“I’m familiar with the definition. So what did this guy do to you? I’m assuming it was a guy.”
I huff out a breath that fills the air with white mist. “What didn’t he do?”
“Way to get me on the hook.” His voice sounds amused. “You told me nothing but in an interesting way.”
“Who says I want you on the hook?” I ask, turning toward him slightly and raising my eyebrows.
A frigid breeze blows a pinecone toward me, but I don’t have the slightest interest in going inside. Because there’s that twinkle in Seamus’s eyes again, as if he’s up to no good. It’s obnoxious, and also sexy.
What would happen if I suggested giving him a lift back to his hotel room, or whatever, in my scandalous hatchback?
I smush the thought like a bug and ignore the awareness dancing across my skin as he shifts slightly closer, cutting the six inches between us to four, and faces me more fully.
He watches me for three seconds—I count—and then says, “Maybe you just want to punch every guy you meet in the nuts.”
“Not every guy.” I hold his gaze. “Are you offering yourself as tribute? I might accept.”
His mouth hitches up on one side, humor lines bunching around his eyes. “Not tribute for a blow to the nuts. But if you want to punch me in the chest or the arm, I’d take it.”
“You’re trying to trick me into hurting my hand,” I say. Because he may be rangy and more stretched out than his brother, but there’s no denying he’s fit. It would hurt to punch him. Not that I truly have any intention of doing such a thing.
He holds my gaze. Another challenge.
A sigh gusts out of me, because I know I’m going to tell him everything. Maybe I need to tell someone. My brother and my mother know a little, but they don’t know the full story. I can’t share it with them, because I don’t want to hear any Oh, Emmas or for them to look at me like I’m a victim. I refuse to be a victim. I don’t think Seamus will do either of those things, if only because he probably doesn’t give a shit. I also don’t think he’d tell anyone.
“My boss was embezzling from clients…” I start.
He doesn’t comment, he just pulls the flask out again and opens it, taking a sip before passing it to me, his brow cocked. I take a long pull, painfully aware of the phantom impression of his lips, right beneath where mine are pressed, before handing it back.
“And you called him on it?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah. I asked him a question about some numbers that weren’t adding up, and the next thing I know, he refers this new client to me. This woman was a nightmare. Her name’s Ellie Reed.”
He doesn’t react whatsoever, so I continue, “She’s this big social media star with this pet rabbit named Carrot.”
“Carrot?” he says with a snort.
“Carrot,” I repeat. “Creative, she is not. Anyway…she was eating up all of my time, even though her marriage had lasted about five minutes. I was getting calls from her ten times a day. I wanted to drop her, but Jeffrey, that’s my ex—”
“Your ex?” he asks pointedly.
I hold my hand out. Without needing to ask what I want, he pulls out the flask and hands it to me. I take another swig before returning it. “Yeah, my boss is my ex, although we were together at the time.”
The words have a bitter mouth feel, but they want to come out. I’m not the ball buster he thinks I am. Not anymore. The knowledge of my defeat is soul-crushing. I’ve always had a hard time losing, but it’s worse now, after a career of bringing in wins for other people. I swallow nothing, giving myself a few seconds, then clear my throat and continue, “He did more general practice, and I handled most of the divorce cases. No need to tell me it was stupid to get involved with him.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. You already know I like to get handsy with the hatchbacks. How old is this guy?”
I shake my head slightly, at myself as much as him. “Fifty-two.” I shouldn’t be telling him any of this. But at the same time…I don’t want to stop. It’s like I can’t.
He wings his brows up but doesn’t comment.
“He looks younger.”
A snort escapes him. “Sure he does. I’ll bet he even gets carded by people who want a good tip.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t want to defend that asshole—just the poor decision-making that led to this lifetime low. “Anyway, he wouldn’t let me drop her as a client. It seemed a little weird, but he insisted it would be bad for our public profile. I didn’t think too much of it until I figured out they were sleeping together.”
He whistles. “Jeffrey and Rabbit Lady?”
“Yeah,” I say through a dry throat. “After I found out, I confronted them at the office. And they…”
“Were fucking like rabbits?” he suggests after a moment.
My laughter is bitter—like a pill you try to swallow but crunch between your molars instead. “I didn’t see it happening, thank God. But I saw enough. It was a setup all along,” I say. “She got me yelling at him on camera. He wanted to attack my image so no one would believe me about the embezzling. But I didn’t figure it out until it was too late. No one knew he and I were together, so he pretended I was an obsessed employee. Inappropriate. Unprofessional. He didn’t press charges, but he fired me and made a professional complaint against me.” I reach back and rub the tips of my fingers against the brick wall, needing to feel the rough burn against my skin. “The accountant, who I thought was my friend, backed him up. Probably because she didn’t want to be in deep shit for not catching it herself. There’ll be a disciplinary hearing before the state bar in a few months, and I could lose my license to practice law. Permanently. And then there’s a restraining order.”
I take a deep breath of frigid air, still tinged with smoke and back-alley trash. That and the brush of my fingers against the bricks helps ground me in the present, but I still feel the pull of what I’m telling him. The horror of knowing it’s not over.
I’ve always valued my ability to discern the truth, but I trusted a man who gleefully destroyed me. I’d thought Jeffrey and I were partners, equals, but he’d been making a fool of me behind my back in more ways than one.
That’s the kind of realization that makes a person question themselves. It’s kept me up at night, wandering the halls of my mother’s house like a lost ghost. I’ve been drinking too much, sleeping too little, and the worst of it is the feeling of helplessness. Of not being able to change the tide and turn this loss into a win.
I glance at Seamus and see he’s frowning at me.
“What, you’re afraid I’m going to hit you in the balls after all?” I quip, even though I suspect the frown has more to do with his changing assessment of me. Maybe he sees me as weak now.
I steel my spine and add, “If I didn’t hit him, I won’t hit you. Physical violence doesn’t solve anything.”
He shrugs, his eyes on mine. “It can. But that’s the extreme option.”
My lips part in surprise. “Uh…I’m already in deep enough shit, thank you very much.”
“Who’s the restraining order for?”
“It’s from him, against me. He didn’t want me getting anywhere near the office.”
“Couldn’t you prove you were a couple?”
I force a sardonic smile. “He was always so careful about secrecy. We used a private messaging app, and I regularly deleted the history. He said he did too, but…” I shrugged. “He cherry-picked texts to make it look like I’d been harassing him.”
“Brutal,” he says, lifting his eyebrows.
“It’s already been weeks, so I’m guessing every hint of evidence at the office has gone through the shredder. There’d be nothing to find if I could get in. He’s backed me into a corner.”
Haven’t I spent many of those sleepless nights trying to find a way out? But every person I’ve reached out to has stonewalled me and refused to help.
“Well…” He takes out the flask for another sip, his expression thoughtful. Then he leans back again, one leg propped against the wall behind him in a pose that’s so effortlessly sexy I’m immediately suspicious he practiced it.
“Well, what?” I ask.
“It’s certainly not a boring story.”
My laughter is so fake it might as well be canned. “It’s certainly not about love and devotion.”
He sets his other foot down, watching me intently, in a way I feel everywhere. “You’re interesting.”
“I’d repay the compliment, but you haven’t told me any stories, boring or otherwise.” I glance toward the front of the restaurant, which is bright compared with this side alley. “Maybe we should get out of here. They’re so happy they probably won’t even notice.”
Damn, I shouldn’t have said that, but I don’t regret it. Maybe I need to have some mindless fun. Make some bad decisions that’ll give me something else to regret for a change.
Seamus grins at me, then removes the stubbed-out cigarette from his pocket and sticks the filter into the side of his mouth. “I only tell stories to women I’m trying to sleep with. And you’re right, you know. It would be pretty stupid of me to try to fuck my sister’s sister-in-law.”
I’m not sure what I expected from him, but his response feels like a slap to the face. A bucket of cold water poured over my head.
“Smoking is disgusting,” I comment coldly.
“I know.” He watches me, his eyes lingering on my mouth before chasing downward to my very well-covered chest. “Are you disappointed I’m not trying to sleep with you, Emma?” He purrs my name in a way that quakes through me.
“No,” I scoff, trying to act unaffected. And then I say something that’s a bold-faced lie: “I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man alive.”
“I guess not,” he says, with that lazy grin. “You like to call them daddy.”
Rage tears through me, but he’d probably get off on it if I slapped him. No, if he wants to tease me, he deserves to be repaid in kind.
I step closer to him and run my fingers lightly over the zipper of his jacket, taking in the way his pupils dilate as he watches me. Then I press my hand to the black thermal shirt he’s wearing beneath it, trying not to notice the definition I feel under it. He angles his head to the side, almost in question, and I give him a flirtatious smile. Right before I reach in quickly and snatch the flask out of his inner pocket. He doesn’t try to stop me, or do anything but watch me with that cocky look on his face.
For half a second, I imagine splashing the whiskey on him, but why waste good whiskey? I slip it into my purse and head toward the front of the restaurant to rejoin the party, leaving Seamus out with the trash.
I can hear him chuckling as I walk away.
Chapter Two
Seamus
I can’t sleep.
I’m kept up by a chorus of You could be inside of Emma Rosings Smith right now, you absolute idiot.
The voice in my head is right. I am an idiot. Emma is sexy as hell—from her thick, glossy, dark hair and moss-green eyes to her curvy ass. But it’s her smart mouth that’s got me twisted up in knots. She’s all sharp edges and razor wire, and it would be something indeed to be the man she lets in.
It would also be a stupid-as-hell mistake to sleep with a woman who’ll be at every family event from now until I die.
Or until the forty percent chance Rosie gets divorced comes to pass.
Besides, where would I have even brought Emma? She’s staying with her mother. I’m sleeping in my brother’s guest bedroom, next door to his fiancée’s father, Chuck, a man whose sense of direction is so poor he’s already tried to enter my room twice, thinking it’s his.
I made the drive down from New York City with Chuck. It would be impossible not to like the guy. He’s like a marshmallow made human, but I’m jumpy enough that I’ve started using my lock.
I sit up in bed and run my hands through my hair, silently abusing myself. I should have stayed in a hotel. I could still stay in a hotel. If I’d had a hotel room, maybe I could’ve risked it…
After Emma stole my flask, she spent the rest of the night drinking from it, always making sure she was in my field of vision. I’ll be damned if it didn’t make me crazy.
She’s something, all right, and that ex of hers is a piece of work who deserves to be bludgeoned over the head with karma. I think I’d probably enjoy being the one who did it. Or at least standing by and watching.
Groaning, I grab my phone off my nightstand and check it—
We’re doing it, Shay. Are you in or are you out?
Oh, hell.
The text is from Wally at the garage I work at in the city, and it is not good news.
I know exactly what he’s talking about. A few weeks ago, he got approached by a crime boss about laundering money through the garage and giving a few stolen cars new parts and paint jobs.
I don’t need to think about it. I’ve been there, done that, nearly gotten killed because of it. I tap out a response.
Out, brother. And you should be too.
Which means I’m also out of a job.
It’s not exactly hard to find a job as a mechanic, but the timing is shit. I just blew all my money on a car I’ll probably never get running—a sweet, four-door AMC rambler.
Suddenly feeling miles away from sleep, I head downstairs with the intention of grabbing a smoke. My brother informed me my ass would be handed to me if I attempted doing it from the window, and even though that automatically made me want to try, I’m attempting to be on my best behavior. Which is what led to the whole not-fucking Emma decision.
But when I get downstairs, Chuck is reclined on the couch, watching, I shit you not, reruns of The Nanny while drinking what appears to be hot chocolate. He’s silver-haired, medium height, and a bit burly, although more like a teddy bear than a boxer. And right now he’s giving me an aw-shucks look as if I caught him doing lines of cocaine.
“I don’t suppose we can keep this to ourselves?” he asks.
“Uh, which part?”
His taste in reruns? The late hour? The flannel pajamas he’s wearing?
“The hot chocolate,” he says in an undertone, glancing at the stairs. “I’m supposed to cut down on sugar and fat, but there’s nothing like a good cup of hot chocolate to help you get to sleep. I know that shouldn’t be true, because of the sugar, but I’ll be darned if it doesn’t work.”
“Yeah, I’m not going to narc on you for drinking hot chocolate,” I say with a laugh, running a hand through my hair. This man is so wholesome I’m surprised he made it to his sixties. In the neighborhood where I grew up in Pennsylvania, he would have been eaten alive. People used to give shit to my brother, Declan, who’s been the size of a tank since he was twelve, just because he liked taking care of plants.
“Thanks,” Chuck says with obvious relief. “Will you join me?”
He sits up, clearing space on the cushions. Nicotine is calling my name, but I don’t like being under anyone’s lock and key—even a cigarette’s. If I can put off having a smoke for a few minutes, I figure it’s a good sign that I’m still partly in control.
I settle down next to him, wincing at the laugh track on the old show.
“Oh, I should have offered,” Chuck says, misinterpreting my reaction. “Would you like some hot chocolate? I got special marshmallows.”
“No thanks,” I say, bemused. “So what’s keeping you up, man? The engagement?”
My brother just proposed to Chuck’s daughter, so the engagement is new. Lots of marriage going on around these parts. Maybe it’s good we’re gonna have a divorce attorney around.
Former divorce attorney.
My mind dips back to what Emma told me about her shitty ex. I find myself cracking my knuckles, thinking of what I’d like to do the guy for pulling a thing like that on her.
Chuck sets down his cocoa cup. “Oh, I’m thrilled for the kids. Truly thrilled. Declan and Claire are perfect together.”
He clearly means it. I wonder if he’d be this earnest if he knew my brother used to grow weed for our uncle, who was a crime lord. Or that I’d done my own dabbling for the family business. Honestly, I give it 50/50. Chuck is so determined to think well of the world, he’d probably come up with a list of handy excuses we could make for ourselves.
There’s something admirable about his good humor—and it also makes me think someone had better watch his back to make sure he doesn’t get stabbed or swindled. To my surprise, I find myself wanting to do the job.
He’s looking at me with furrowed brows, so I add, “Yeah. Me too. Thrilled for the kids.”
He gives me a good-natured smile. “You’re having a laugh at me.”
“I’d never. So what’s got you up and drinking hot chocolate?”
He takes a sip from the cup, acting protective of it, before saying, “Claire’s mother. I’m starting to think she’s not coming back.”
Anyone with a CliffsNotes version of the story could have told him that. According to Claire, his wife left them years ago to join a cult in the Pacific Northwest. She’s been banging the swami for years, but on paper she’s still Chuck’s one and only.
“Yeah, buddy,” I tell him. “I think you might be right.” My mind flits to Emma. “I know one hell of a divorce lawyer if you’re ready to do something about it.”
No, Emma’s not practicing, but she clearly needs a win. Giving someone advice might be good for her. It’d definitely be good for him.
He sighs and picks up the mug of hot chocolate. “I’m going to send her a letter about the wedding. They think phone calls, emails, and text messages add to the earthly weight of their souls, so letters are the ticket. I hate to make ultimatums, but if she doesn’t commit to coming to the wedding and supporting Claire, then that’s it. It’s over.”
If it’d been me, that would have been it years ago, but again, this guy is a marshmallow. So sweet, the world is full with people who’d love nothing better than to hold him over an open flame and then crunch in.
“I’d agree with you there, my friend,” I say. “I’ll introduce you to Emma at the wedding tomorrow. She’s the groom’s sister. You can get the ball rolling.”
“Thanks,” he says, then lifts the mug as if making a silent cheers. “You’ve been a good friend.”
“Something not a lot of people would accuse me of,” I say with raised eyebrows.
“Maybe you haven’t been around a lot of people who need that kind of a friend.”
I’m not sure whether he’s implying I’ve chosen shitty company or shitty company naturally gravitates toward me, but I nod distractedly. I’m starting to feel the nicotine itch badly. “Thanks, man. You have fun with your—” I get up and wave a hand to encompass The Nanny and the hot chocolate. “You go crazy with it.”
I mean to stay out for only a couple of minutes, but I’m feeling on edge. So I have a couple of cigarettes and take a walk around to the back deck, with its view of the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains. It’s dark, but stars speckle the sky here in a way they never do in New York, and I feel a strange yearning I can’t put words to.
When I get back inside, Chuck is asleep on the couch, curled up, and it’s so fucking wholesome I actually find myself pulling a blanket over him and turning off the TV.
I feel a presence and look up to see my brother on the landing at the top of the stairs, staring down at me with a disbelieving look that almost makes me laugh. Declan’s only a year older than me, but to hear him talk, it might as well be a decade. He still sees me as a misbehaving kid. A little brother. Our parents passed away when we were barely adults, and he launched himself into the head-of-the-family role with so much intensity you’d think he had competition for it.
Declan gestures for me to come up, and when I get to the top of the stairs, he pulls me away from them—and into my room, flicking on the light switch. “Did you just tuck in Claire’s father?” he asks.
“I did, yeah,” I say, then nod toward my unmade bed. “And did you bring in here to tuck me in? I figured you’d prefer to spend your night between your woman’s thighs.”
He glares at me from down the nose I’ve punched before. To be fair, Declan’s punched me too. Nearly broke my nose when I was fifteen after I accidentally trampled some of his plants. Then again, I’ll be damned if you can find two brothers who haven’t gone at each other at least once. Doesn’t mean we don’t love each other. I’m man enough to admit that I love my brother and my sister more than anything, even if it sometimes feels I got preassigned as the family fuckup.
“Not funny,” Declan says.
Shrugging, I tell him, “You were born with a broken sense of humor. It’s not your fault. Rosie and I try to make accommodations.”
“Why’d you leave the rehearsal dinner for so long?”
Oh, for God’s sake. Leave it to Declan to notice. He probably figures I was dealing drugs out of the back.
Maybe I would have been, back in the day.
Time changes a man, though. These days I’m not much interested in making a buck or creating a reputation for myself as a badass. I’d rather get a drink at the pub and have some laughs. Or spend time with a fine-looking woman.
“I was having a smoke.”
“For half an hour?”
I raise my eyebrows, studying him, “You want a log of every time I take a shit too?”
He huffs out a sound that barely qualifies as a laugh. “I’ll pass. I’m just—”
“Wally’s going through with it, but I told him I’m out.”
I’d told Dec a bit about the trouble at the garage—how Wally and a couple of the other guys were approached on the sly about going on the take.
I’m not sure why I told him exactly, given I knew how he’d react. Worried. Judgmental. Like a parent, even though we’re so close in age, no one can ever tell which of is older. Maybe I told him because I wanted to be held accountable, to make sure someone forced me to do the right thing.
A sigh eases through him. “That’s good, Shay. That’s really good.”
“Yeah, I’ve given myself a pat on the back too. It’s the only time I’ve gotten to feel really self-righteous over losing a job.”
He glances at the door before shifting his gaze back at me. “Why don’t you come stay with us for a while? There’s plenty of room in the house. I know Rosie would be over the moon.” He pauses for half a second before adding, “So would I.”
I laugh, shaking my head. Feeling like I need another cigarette. “We’ll see.”
He gives me a half smile that says as clear as words—we both know what you mean by that. “Good,” he says out loud. “You ready for this?”
He’s talking about our little sister, walking down the aisle toward a man she barely knows. A man she claims she loves.
But that’s our Rosie. She wears her heart on her sleeve, always has. Still, she’s a woman who knows her own mind. If she says she loves this guy, I’m inclined to trust her. I’ve spent a little time with Anthony over the last couple of days. He acts like he worships my sister, so I’ll forgive him for being little stiff around the edges.
I think of Emma, whose edges are like razor blades, and grin. Maybe tonight didn’t end as sweetly as it could have, but it sure was fun. I’ll be seeing her again tomorrow. Something tells me she’ll bring my flask.
I nod at Declan and clap him on the back. “Yeah. I think Mom and Dad would’ve approved. He seems like a good guy, and they think they love each other. It’s all good.”
“Think they love each other?” he asks with a laugh.
“There’s no way of knowing something like that for sure. So, yeah, they think they love each other.” I raise a finger. “Now, don’t go running off to Rosie telling her I said so. I’m not saying they’re wrong. They want to make heart eyes at each other and buy too many appliances, that’s their business. The only thing I give a fuck about is that she’s happy. As long as he keeps making her happy, I’ll be his best buddy.”
He shakes his head and runs a hand over his beard, something he grew after we left Pennsylvania, where we were the O’Malley family, and became the Jameses. We left after my uncle died, seeking some kind of fresh start.
One of the people we left behind was the woman I’d thought I loved for a while. Thinking I loved Lia and wanted to marry her had taught me a thing or two about love: Mostly, the love you can have for your family is the only worthwhile kind. Everything else is driven by hormones, proximity, and luck.
I look her up on Facebook now and then.
She’s married now, to a man who wears T-shirts with stupid slogans on them.
I know she’s the one who bought them for him, and I feel lucky that I’m not the schmuck still wearing them.
I kept one of them, in case I ever forget what thinking I was in love did to me—it says I’ve got a dig bick.
I’ll bet Lia has her husband out busting kneecaps, too, working directly for Jimmy the Red, the man who took over for my uncle after he died.
Declan thinks we left our past behind us, and we did.
But it wasn’t as easy as he thought it was.
I hope he never finds out what it cost.
Something tells me he’d find a way to blame himself.
He meets my eyes again, every inch the big brother. “You’re gonna fall in love for real one day, too, Shay, and then you’ll know there’s no maybe about it. You’ll know. You’ll know because it’ll hit you like a damn hammer over the head, and she’ll be the only thing you ever think about.”
“Sounds like a curse.” There’s no way in hell I want to let any woman have that kind of sway over me. I’d only convinced myself I was in love last time, and look how that turned out? Taking in the goofy grin on my usually stoic brother’s face, I can only imagine the horror of being that pussy whipped over a woman I actually love. Not thank you.
He smiles at me. “It is. And it’ll also be the best damn thing that ever happened to you.”
This might be the first time my brother’s ever lied to my face.
Chapter Three
Emma
It’s New Year’s Eve, the day of Anthony’s wedding. I’m hungover from Seamus’s whiskey, but I wouldn’t let a thing like that stop me from making a point.
Before I head downstairs to join Rosie and the other bridesmaids, I tuck his flask into my garter belt, liking the cool press of it against my inner thigh. I hope he enjoys the way I’ve decorated it.
Not that I have any intention of flashing him my thigh, of course.
Unless it’s to torment him.
I’ve decided I’m still angry with Seamus James, if only because I’m pissed off at the world, and he’s the latest man to have put a target on his back.
Was he right to turn me down?
Assuredly.
The last thing I needed to do was stumble down to my brother’s wedding, smelling like his brother-in-law. Or to deal with his knowing looks and comments every holiday. But he didn’t need to be such a dick about Jeffrey. I’m perfectly aware that I made a mistake. I feel the ache of that knowledge every day. I didn’t need a reminder from a man who likes to play fast and loose with life.
Sniffing to myself, I put on some red lipstick and then leave my bedroom. Walking downstairs, I take stock of the house. My mother has agreed that I can redecorate it while I’m temporarily unemployed.
Smith House is old, much-too-large, and filled with heavy old furniture better suited to people who’ve been dead for fifty years. My childhood home has always felt weighed down by its lengthy existence—as if every rich man who ever owned still haunts the halls, gasping whenever someone forgets to use a coaster.
Not anymore. Maybe I can’t reclaim my own life, but I’m going to evict every last one of their ghosts. They can go haunt the retirement home across town.
I’m smiling at the thought when I reach the bottom of the steps and turn toward the room where Rosie’s getting ready, taking note of the threadbare patches on the expensive carpet runner. I take the turn too quickly, and walk directly into a hard body that smells slightly of smoke.
He turns to look at me, raising one eyebrow, and heat flushes through my body. That only pisses me off more. So does the fact that Seamus looks pretty damn good in a suit. Better than he has any right to. He reminds me of an evil jetsetter in a James Bond movie—one who looks so good you find yourself rooting for the wrong side to win.
“What are you doing here?” I ask pointedly.
“I was invited. Your brother might have asked Declan and me to stand up with him, but my sister comes first, and she wanted to lift a glass with us before she signs her life away. What are you doing here?”
He knows I live here, obviously. So I’m guessing he meant that as a blow. It lands like one, dammit.
“Interior decorating,” I reply, waving a hand at the statue standing proudly at the end of the hallway. It looks like a seventy-pound baby with gout. “I was thinking of having a tag sale. I’d give you a good price if you’d like to take that off our hands.”
The thought of a tag sale pleases me, because that would definitely piss off our ancestors.
This time both of his eyebrows wing up. “You’re really going to lie down and play dead?”
It lands like a blow, but I scowl at him and remind myself of that flask, strapped to my thigh. It’s proof that I don’t lay down and play dead, dammit. Not unless I have no other option.
“I’m biding my time,” I insist. “I’m going to fight him at the hearing.”
I’m proud of the way my voice doesn’t quaver, because I know Jeffrey has connections that might come through for him. I do not.
Shaking the dark thoughts off, I prop my leg on a decorative plant stand against the wall closest to me and pull the flask out of my garter belt.
I take a swig, my leg still hoisted up, and then return the flask to its place. I’m rewarded by the look Seamus gives me—and punished by it too. Because I can tell he wants to slam me against the wall and fuck me, and even if he’s aggravating as hell, I’d really, really like him to.
But he conceals his reaction quickly and then says, “The Hello Kitty stickers were exactly what it was missing. Good call. But I question why a thirty-two-year-old woman would have them.”
“I don’t believe in age-ism.”
His whole face lifts in amusement. “No, I guess you wouldn’t.”
For about the five hundredth time, I think about what he said yesterday—about me calling men daddy. He wouldn’t know how close that bat-swing came to home. My father, the scion of the Smith family fortune, died when I was ten. He was a cold, withholding asshole who showboated for the public but treated his family with contempt and me with absolute indifference. Not that I’m complaining. My brother was unlucky enough to have held his interest. He used to beat him to “toughen him up,” something I’d only recently found out. That revelation has only added to the weight I’ve been feeling. Logically, I know there is nothing I could have done. I was a little kid. But the knowledge that I failed to protect him or even notice what was going on makes me feel even more powerless. Useless to everyone. My brother and my father.
Maybe Seamus was right, and there’s a lost part of me that longs for the approval and interest of older, withholding men. There’s no denying the only men I’ve dated seriously are quite a bit older than me. I wasted two years I’ll never get back on Jeffrey. And before him there was Tom, one of my professors in law school, who had the courtesy to wait until after I graduated to ask me to put on my brightest red lipstick and blow him.
I hate that I did it.
I hate how good it felt to be noticed and wanted by them.
If it’s a pattern I’ve unintentionally fallen into, I’m not proud of, and I certainly don’t appreciate being called on it.
I lift my face, pretending I can look down my nose at Seamus. “You smell like smoke again.”
“Addiction’s a terrible thing, Emma,” he says with an amused tone.
I start moving again, going fast, but his long legs make it easy for him to keep up.
“So is being an idiot,” I say.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ll have to take your word for it.”
I glance to the side and give him a withering look as I pause. “Are you implying I’m an idiot?”
Grinning, he stops too and lifts both hands, palms out. I can hear Rosie down the hall, three doors down, laughing. She spills out joy as if it costs nothing.
“Like I said,” he tells me. “I’m no idiot. Only a fool would say something like that to a woman like you.”
“I used to think so, too,” I say with a sigh, opening to him again without meaning to. My throat feels raw, and my feet already hurt from the pinch of my heels. He watches me almost earnestly as he leans against the wall. The wallpaper in this hallway is a hideous dark red and gold pattern—the kind of interior design choice you’d expect to see in Dracula’s mansion.
“What changed your mind?”
“Jeffrey won, Seamus.” I glance past him, at the door. “I tried to fight back, and each time I did, it got worse. I’m the hysterical, crazy woman, and he’s a pillar of the community. I can’t get within fifty feet of him. Literally. All of my former friends have written me off.”
He watches me, his eyes unreadable. “I’ll break his kneecaps if you want. You can call it a wedding gift for your brother. I’d prefer to do that than shell out for a pepper grinder.”
Holy shit. I think he actually means it. My mouth drops open, a gasp nearly escaping it. I close it before the worst can happen, thank God. “How would that fix things?”
“It wouldn’t, but at least you wouldn’t be suffering alone.”
“I believe in law and order.”
He gives me a wry look. “But sometimes it needs a little push, don’t you think?”
“Why would you do that for me?” I blurt. “We don’t know each other.”
“That’s not true,” he says, his smile widening. “We’re about to become family.”
“And do you regularly break kneecaps for your family?”
Something flashes in his eyes, and he looks almost dangerous. My whole body becomes intensely aware of him—even my elbows seem to be screaming that this man is a predator. Apparently, my elbows also like predators, because my impulse isn’t to run but to lean in closer, more intimately. He waits for a few seconds, keeping me on alert, then says in a low, serious voice, “There’s no end to what I wouldn’t do for my family.”
Swallowing, I say, “Well, why don’t you prove it by going in there with your sister?”
He grins at me—a knowing grin—and raises one shoulder. “Shall we?”
I don’t want to walk in with him.
I don’t want questions.
I don’t want my horny elbows to create problems for me.
“I’m going to go look at that statue down the hall. I’ll be right there.”
He snorts, shaking his head, and passes me, his hand brushing against mine as he goes. I feel hot shivers pass up my arm and zip directly down between my legs. Dammit, I’ll bet he did that on purpose.
I watch him, soaking in the sight of his body. He has the kind of ass a man only earns if he works for it.
Before he enters the room, he turns his head slightly to look at me, catching me watching, and winks.
A scowl slips over my face, and I head down the hall toward the hideous statue because I need a minute to collect myself. I’m pretty sure Seamus would actually destroy Jeffrey’s knees if I asked, and I’m alarmed by how tempted I am. I won’t do it, but the thought of that man writhing in pain brings a smile to my face.
The therapist I should probably be seeing would have something to say about that. They’d definitely have something to say about the hatred and anger seething inside of me, wanting to break through my powerlessness paralysis like magma. Here’s the truth: I dislike Ellie Reed, but I loathe Jeffrey Nichols to the bottom of my soul. I want my job and reputation back, of course, but there’s a part of me that wouldn’t be satisfied by that. I want to see him destroyed. Ruined. Shamed. The same way he’s done to me.
Reaching the statue, I feel a ridiculous impulse that I lean into. I pull a tube of red lipstick out of my purse and draw a smile on the statue’s face. There. Let’s see if anyone notices. A little pop of chaos that would have made my father red-faced with anger. But he has no power over me, my mother, or my brother anymore—and I’m going to find a million ways to show it. Ripping down the wallpaper, auctioning his treasures, giving his statues makeovers.
A voice in my head whispers that I’m putting lipstick on statues to get back at my dead father when I could be sticking it to the motherfucker who ruined my life. It insinuates that I’ve fallen into this state of arrested development because I’m afraid.
Which is when I turn back toward the now-closed door. I can hear the low rumble of Seamus’s voice, followed by laughter.
I don’t want to go in there.
I’m in no mood to make other people merry, but again, I like Rosie. I like her friends.
I like—
Well, like isn’t the right word for how I feel about Seamus, but I’m not sure what word would cover it. He’s aggravating. Full of himself. Dangerous. Sinfully attractive.
Dangerous is the word I should remember. I’ve already screwed myself over. Playing it safe is a phrase I should learn to love. Maybe I should take my vows at a nunnery while I’m at it.
Sighing, I fake a smile and open the door.
“Emma!” Rosie says with a huge—and genuine—grin. “Come in here and have a drink. Seamus brought me some special whiskey.”
He smirks at me over her shoulder, his gaze lowering to my legs. “Oh, she knows.”
***
I’m a bit tipsy, thank God.
The ceremony is over, and we’re deep into the afterparty.
I’ve held it together—smiling and saying the right things—because I love my brother and want him to be happy. My feelings about marriage may be mostly negative, but I saw the way he and Rosie stared into each other’s eyes while they exchanged vows. I hope they’re able to hang on to that. I need them to. Because I couldn’t help Anthony when we were kids, and I like seeing him like this.
Still, it’s been hard, acting as if I’m not falling apart.
The weight I’ve been carrying for weeks keeps getting heavier, and I’ve tried to swallow it down with help from Seamus’s flask.
It’s half an hour until midnight now, and I’m standing at the edge of the ballroom, watching as Anthony and Rosie sway to the music from the band my mother hired at the last minute. God, they look as happy as they did at that altar, whispering into each other’s ears.
It makes me smile, but my cynical worries they’ll be part of that unlucky forty percent—happy now, miserable in four years. Sniping at each other over who bought what and whether Fluffy the dog could be happy living in an apartment, and how on earth are you going to take care of her anyway when you’ve never picked up a pile of dogshit in your life?
They don’t have a dog, but you’ll be surprised how many times I’ve seen that scenario play out.
I’ll have to remind Anthony to do his part in the event of a dog adoption.
My eyes seek out Seamus as I pull out the flask, which I’ve already refilled once, and take a glug. I haven’t talked to him since earlier, although I’ve caught him watching me half a dozen times. And a couple of hours ago, a very sweet older guy named Chuck introduced himself to me as Claire’s father. He needs a divorce, and apparently Seamus told him that I was “just the woman for him to talk to.” He proceeded to tell me a fifteen-minute story about the wife who’d abandoned him for a cult in the Pacific Northwest. I’ll be honest, I usually love listening to stories like that. His problems are the kind I am adept at solving. But I withdrew from the conversation, because it felt like a harsh reminder of what I’d been and was no longer.
I feel guilty for putting him off, but I tell myself that I’ll email him later, when I’m no longer tipsy and full of restless anger.
Seamus is nowhere to be seen, probably sneaking a cigarette outside or backing one of the guests up against an ornamental pillar.
The thought pisses me off, but that’s not exactly novel. All my thin skin needs is a scratch these days. I wonder if the injustice of what Jeffrey did has altered me on a cellular level.
“What’ve you got in there?” a woman’s voice asks.
I glance over and see Nicole, one of Rosie’s friends. She and her husband are private investigators, although you’d never think it to look at her. She has bright pink hair that’s between a pixie and a bob in length, and every time I’ve seen her, she’s had on the kind of outfit that attracts rather than repels attention. T-shirts with snarky sayings. Bright colors never found in nature. Tonight she’s wearing a dress that’s almost normal—unless you consider that we’re at a wedding and she’s wearing off white.
Not that Rosie, who’s in a golden gown, would care about something like that. She’d probably laugh it off and then raise a toast to her.
“Well?” Nicole presses, giving me a look that invites confidences.
Truthfully, I’ve thought about talking to Nicole about Jeffrey. I don’t know her, however, and she doesn’t seem discreet. If I told her about the restraining order, she’d probably tell Rosie, who’d inevitably tell my brother, who might very well spill everything to my mother—and then I would never hear the end of it.
“Water,” I say, lifting my eyebrows.
She laughs. “You like holding out on me, huh?”
The flask nearly slips from my fingers, because it’s as if she read my thoughts.
“Whenever possible, I like holding out on everyone,” I reply. “The same way you enjoy shocking people. I’m guessing that’s why you’re wearing white to a wedding. Dick move, though, even if you cleared it with her.”
She gives me an approving grin. “Look at you, standing up for our sister-in-law.”
I roll my eyes.
“Will you tell me one thing?”
I tip my head toward her, wondering why she’s continuing this conversation. We barely know each other. “What’s that?”
“Why’d you let that old guy fuck you over?”
Rage fills my gut like a bonfire—a bonfire floating on top of liquid magma. I’m going to destroy Seamus James. Who does he think he is, spreading rumors about me?
He’ll realize what Reid Luther did, after telling everyone in middle school I’d kissed him behind the gymnasium—I bite back.
Everyone at school was talking about Reid’s freakishly large tongue for months.
Of course, Jeffrey hasn’t learned that lesson, as both Seamus and Nicole have reminded me of in the past few hours…
Call me salty, but I don’t like them for it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say coldly.
“Neither do I,” she says with a laugh. “I’ve been spying on Seamus to figure out what his deal is, and I overheard you two talking.”
“Excuse me?” I say, nearly dropping the flask. Instead, I take another gulp—I’m not nearly tipsy enough for this conversation—and turn toward her.
“Parched, huh?”
“Yes. You’ve been spying on him?”
She shrugs, as if it’s no big deal to spy on people. “I haven’t done a deep dive yet, but yeah, of course. His brother’s marrying my sister.”
Ah, so that’s how she’s connected.
“And you wanted to check him out.” I glance at my brother and Rosie, still staring deeply into each other’s eyes. A pulse of protectiveness works through me. “I get it. I ran a background check on Rosie.”
Her lips purse in amusement. “I’m guessing you didn’t do a very good job.”
“Are you angling to get hired for something?” I ask pointedly. Because I'm in no mood for nonsense. I never am, but my tolerance is at an all-time low. Besides, we’re starting a new year in a few minutes, and this obnoxious conversation isn’t the way I’d like to kick things off.
“Nope. I’ve got plenty of money. But I am getting a little bored. I really dislike being bored.” Her gaze turns assessing as she looks me over. “Judging by what you’ve been up to with the lipstick all night, you’re bored too.”
I don’t deny it. Defacing the statue was fun, and I’ve added lipstick smiles to two old portraits of old men—one of them my great-grandfather, another some kind of uncle or cousin even my father couldn’t name. They look better in red.
My mother has asked who’s behind the lipstick mischief, but from the gleam in her eyes, she doesn’t mind. She wants to change things up too. After all, she’s spent the last few decades years in this tomb. Maybe she can tear down the wallpaper with me. Anthony can get in on the action too. It’ll be therapeutic and shit.
Nicole probably wants me to take her case-cracking as evidence of her intelligence, but I’m tipsy enough that my fingers might be covered with the evidence of what I’ve been up to. If I check now, she’ll see me doing it. No way am I going to give her that satisfaction.
“This conversation isn’t making me less bored,” I say, pouring every ounce of my upbringing into the words. The Smiths are practically royalty in this part of the world, or so my father loved to claim. His one point of interest in me was to convince my mother I needed to be a debutante when the time came so I could learn “how to behave like a woman in my station.”
My mother actually went through with it, although she did it as a punishment after she caught me sneaking out of the house with a bottle of her gin. If it had been the bourbon, she might have let me get away with it, but as it was, I’d spent several Sunday afternoons learning to balance books on my head and eat like a bird with an excessive amount of silverware.
Nicole’s grin is nothing like the poised smile debutantes are told to model. “I like you.”
“I suspect the feeling isn’t mutual.”
“Maybe you’ll suspect differently when I give you some free intel about your new in-laws. Their last name isn’t James.”
“Excuse me?” I say, nearly dropping the flask. I slide it back into the garter, doing it quickly because there’s no Seamus in here to tease.
“Their family had ties to organized crime, but they weren’t interested in continuing in the family business.” She shrugs. “So they changed their last name from O’Malley and moved out of the state. Still…it’s colorful.”
“You’re telling me she is involved in organized crime?” I ask in a doubtful undertone, nodding my chin at my brother’s delightful wife. It’s hard to believe she’d be capable of it. Sure, she’s tougher than she looks—I wouldn’t have let Anthony marry her otherwise—but she’s not hardened. Nothing about my bubbly sister-in-law screams guns and concrete shoes and cannoli.
True, I’m no true crime fanatic. My knowledge of organized crime comes from The Godfather, and Rosie does not fit that world. For one thing, she’s Irish American, not Italian American. For another, she’s sweet and sunny.
Seamus, though…
I could definitely see him being mixed up in that kind of shit, even if he hadn’t made the offer to kneecap Jeffrey. It’s there in his eyes and the way he carries himself, casual but aware, always aware. And I’d be lying if the thought didn’t turn me on.
“Did I say that?” Nicole asks, pointing to herself. “I didn’t say that. I said the family has ties to organized crime. Your brother knows, by the way, and he doesn’t give a shit. I mean, you can’t help who you’re related to. Ask my sister.”
I sigh, watching as Anthony dips Rosie. Of course he knows. And of course my love-struck brother has decided he doesn’t care. He did mention that she had something in her past she didn’t want getting out, and I’m guessing this handful of red flags is that something.
“But, you know,” Nicole continues contemplatively, “I’ve got this funny itch about Seamus. I’ve been wondering if he’s moved on as much as Rosie and Declan have.”
I wonder if her funny itch is because she overheard the offer he made me earlier. I’m tempted to ask, but a part of me feels weirdly protective of the information. I’m guessing Seamus wouldn’t want this woman getting involved in his business.
Which isn’t to say that I won’t be poking around in there with a magnifying glass and protective gloves. I want to know just who Anthony has hitched himself to.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, giving her a hard look.
“I figured you’d be interested too since you invited Seamus to come home with you the other night.”
“What the fuck?” I say, beyond pissed. “I wasn’t…Were you hiding behind an evergreen?”
She grins more widely. “The dumpster, actually. And if you’re wondering whether I heard everything, then the answer is ninety percent. There was a lot of would they or won’t they going on, which got tedious, and I also heard a bit about your personal problem. That wasn’t at all boring.”
“And you’re going to offer to solve it, I suppose,” I say coldly, circling back to the thought that this woman is angling to get hired.
She shrugs. “I’m guessing you’ll need help when you finally get off your ass and decide to ruin him. I figured I’d throw my hat in the ring. Some people like saving rescue animals or baking cakes that look like hamburgers. I like ruining motherfuckers who deserve it.”
I angle my head, taken aback and interested despite myself. “Oh?”
“Oh,” she says. “I have a pretty colorful history of it. I can send you some information.”
“So you are looking to get hired.”
She smiles and tsks, looking almost disappointed in me. “No, Emma dearest. I’m trying to be your friend.”
“I don’t need any friends,” I lie.
I’m not anti-social, precisely. I had friends in Charlotte, people I regularly had brunch with and met for drinks. But there’s nothing like a brush with infamy to show you who your real friends are—and it turns out, I didn’t have any. The minute word got out about the restraining order, I was the one they were talking shit about over their mimosas.
“That’s what I used to think too,” she tells me, then nods to her gorgeous husband across the room. He grins at her, his eyes full of warmth. “I was also wrong.”
“What’re you going to do about Seamus?” I ask.
“You’re deeply concerned about him, aren’t you?” she replies, her gaze back on me.
“Hardly,” I retort. Waiters have started circulating with silver trays topped with full champagne glasses. I grab two. Nicole, probably guessing, correctly, that the second glass isn’t for her, does the same. As soon as the waiter moves along, I say, “But it’s relevant. They’re family.”
“Doesn’t that mean we’re family?”
I scrunch my nose. “Only if you have a very broad definition of the word.”
She grins at me and knocks back the contents of one of the flutes. “I tend to define words as it suits me. And I’m going to keep an eye on Seamus.” She gives me a small nod. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
“You’ll be waiting forever,” I mutter.
She gives me a disappointed look. “I hope not. I don’t like to be kept waiting. Seems to me you could begin the new year broken, or you can focus on breaking someone else.” That dubious advice given, she flounces away, heading toward Anthony and Rosie. My sister-in-law grins and waves her in.
I wonder if she’d still be grinning if she knew her good friend just gave up her secret without any prompting. I’d be glad I hadn’t decided to confide in Nicole, who is obviously a poor confidant, if she didn’t already know everything anyway.
Dammit.
I take my champagne and mosey toward the door, smiling and waving to keep from getting drawn in to any conversations. Suddenly, I need to get away from the crowd. I don’t have the slightest desire to cheer in the new year.
The old year can end. Good riddance. But I didn’t have the greatest hopes for the new one, other than stripping the last of my father from this sagging, once-great house.
I leave the room but keep walking all the way to the front door. Once there, I balance the two flutes of champagne in one hand so I can let myself out. Cold air gusts in, but I step out into it—almost grateful for the way the chill breeze wraps around me and billows under my dress. It’s enough to wake a woman up, just like the polar plunge I did one year for charity, and I feel my buzz sliding away as I weave around the side of Smith House.
I don’t understand what drove me outside until I see him propped against the wall in his leather jacket, a cigarette in one hand. He’s barely visible, hidden behind the thick evergreen shrubs as he stares up at the moon with a bemused expression. Although he’s in a suit, it looks like he ditched the jacket in favor of his leather one.
I almost turn right back around, but then he sees me, and his eyes widen. He instantly stubs out the cigarette and pockets the butt.
He looks like a kid who got caught smoking on school grounds, and I lean my head back and laugh, nearly dropping the champagne flutes.
His expression darkens and he stalks two steps toward me. He has the pace of a predator, and I feel a prickle of nerves dance across my skin, but I’d be lying if I said excitement wasn’t dancing directly beneath it. Then he completes the journey and takes off his leather jacket, slipping his own heat over my shoulders.
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