Chapter 49
FORTY-NINE
Even in Manhattan, finding a decent tux at a moment’s notice is no easy feat and neither is getting to Boston on a Friday night.
Stuffing myself onto a packed commuter train, garment bag slung over my arm, I spent the two-hour ride there telling myself that this was stupid.
That this whole thing was an exercise in futility.
It didn’t matter if Conner told Millie’s father the truth or not because I told Millie the truth and she didn’t believe me.
Yeah? So what the fuck are you doing here, Mercer? If none of this matters, if you’re just going to roll over and give up, what the hell are you doing? Why are you here?
The answer is simple.
I haven’t seen Millie in months and as a result, I’ve lost my fucking mind. I don’t even know if she’s going to be here. All I know is that Conner Gilroy is playing the part of my fairy godmother for some reason and he said see you there.
Already late, I grab an Uber to the Hawthorne before stopping at the front desk to see if there was somewhere I could change.
Expecting to be directed to a public restroom or maybe a janitor’s closet, the young woman behind the counter gave her computer keyboard a few taps before smiling at me.
Welcome to the Hawthorne, Mr. Mercer—your suite is ready and waiting for you.
When you’re ready, the gala is being held in the Grand Ballroom on the tenth floor.
When I tried arguing with her that she must be mistaken, that I didn’t have reservations, she just kept smiling while she slid a plastic keycard in my direction.
Compliments of Conner Gilroy.
Taking the keycard with a muttered thanks, I drag myself to the elevator and up to my assigned suite where I had the luxury of showering off a two-hour train ride before putting on the tux I paid entirely too much for.
Calling it an investment, I strapped on the Rolex Millie gave me and marched myself to the elevator.
Half hoping I’d be turned away at the door, I’m handed a catalog and an auction paddle before being let in by a burly security guard with a Mr. and Mrs. Gilroy are happy to have you in attendance, Mr. Mercer. Seeing a bar, I practically dove for it, ordering a Jameson on the rocks.
“Sorry, sir,” the bartender says with a sheepish grin. “But we only have Johnny Walker Blue and—”
“It’s alright,” a deep, male voice says behind me. “You can give him the Jameson.”
“Yes, sir.” Flicking me another look, the man behind the bar reaches under it and produces a bottle. Spinning the top off, he pours a few fingers of Jameson over ice before sliding me the glass.
Dropping a couple bucks in the jar before taking my drink, I turn to find Declan Gilroy standing behind me in a tuxedo that looks like it was tailored to fit King Kong.
While his younger brother isn’t small by any standard, Declan is taller than him by a solid four inches and outweighs him by at least fifty pounds.
Taking a drink from his own glass he gives me a chin tip.
“Hey, man,” he says like it’s been days and not years since we’ve seen each other.
“Hey.” Moving away from the bar, I’m not at all surprised when he follows me.
Stopping, I scan the crowd. I spot Millie’s father right away.
He’s standing by the exhibits chatting with Spencer Halston-Day while his wife ogles every painting before she furiously scribbles notes in her catalog.
I remember Millie telling me once that her mother was a serious art collector and particularly obsessed with Cari Gilroy’s work.
Uncomfortable because I know it’s only a matter of time before Preston Blackwell notices me, I decide the best thing to do is ignore him all together.
“Where’s Con?” I ask, lifting my glass to take a drink. “He promised to stun me in his tux.”
“Jesus he’s so fucking annoying…” Declan makes a rough noise in the back of his throat that I think is supposed to be a laugh.
“We booked a couple of suites upstairs for the night. Con and Tess are on bedtime duty,” he says, his tone making it obvious that putting his kids to bed is where he’d rather be. “We flipped for it.”
“I still can’t believe he’s a dad,” I say on a rough chuckle of my own. “Fuck—can’t believe you’re a dad either.”
“You and me both,” Declan says while scanning the crowd of New England high society like they’re a bunch of rowdy Sox fans.
“Rosie is a year and a half. Sophie and Conner just turned two and I still can’t believe it.
” The awe I hear in his tone is hard to miss.
A reminder that he and Tess very nearly didn’t happen. Were never really supposed to.
“Christ,” I groan. “You named your son after your egomaniac little brother?” Neither one of us are particularly interested in small talk but I know Declan. He approached me for a reason and he’s not going to tell me what that reason is until he’s good and ready to. “Way to feed the monster.”
“I don’t have to feed shit.” Laughing at my description of his little brother, Declan lifts his glass to take a drink. “Con’s ego is self-sustaining. The only person who’s ever been able to do it any sort of damage is Hen.”
Henley, Conner’s wife was another Gilroy near miss.
Another almost didn’t happen. I’m beginning to sense a pattern.
“You come to a lot of these things?” Taking another sip, I watch the people in front of us float by, women in couture gowns and priceless jewelry.
Men, who all look the same with their designer tuxedos and soft hands—all ready to spend obscene amounts of money on art they’ll probably hang in their bathrooms.
“Are you kidding?” He grumbles. “The only reason I’m here is because my last name is on the invitation. You?”
“More than my fair share,” I admit. “Usually working behind the bar but I’ve played arm candy a time or two.”
“For Paige Blackwell.” It’s not a question and the fair amount of distain I hear in his tone is enough to tell me his little brother has told him more than I’d like.
“Yeah.” I give him a nod, still watching the crowd. No… not watching. I’m looking. Searching.
“She’s here, you know?”
“Who?” Still scanning the perimeter of the room, I catch a flash of strapless, dark green beaded silk and loose, tarnished gold hair.
Millie.
Backtracking, I spot her again. Standing in the corner, champagne flute in hand, a tall, annoyingly good-looking man standing next to her.
The kind of man who belongs at these things.
The kind of man who didn’t have to hunt up a tux, last minute and pray the charge went through when he swiped his credit card.
He’s smiling at her. Has his hand pressed into the small of her back, like touching her is his right.
Like putting his hands on her is the most natural thing in the world.
Staring at him, my vision narrows down to a dangerous pinpoint and I can suddenly feel my blood pounding against my eardrums. It’s a familiar feeling where Millie’s concerned.
One I’ve felt every time I watched Allister put his arm around her.
Every time he kissed her. Treated her like she belonged to him.
“Paige Blackwell.”
When Declan says her name, the sound of it tears my gaze away from Millie’s date, landing it on his face with a hard glare. “What?”
“She’s here,” Declan repeats himself, clearly irritated. “Henley almost had her tossed out on her ass but Con intervened—he loves a complication.”
Not understanding or maybe just not wanting to, I let my gaze rake over the crowd again, I spot Paige standing on the edge of a tight knot of socialites, laughing and talking like she’s right where she belongs.
Jesus Christ.
“The fuck is she doing here?”
“Beats the hell out of me.” Declan gives me a surly shrug. “How long were the two of you together?”
“We were never together,” I correct him, my tone sharp. Leaving Paige behind without a second thought, I find Millie in the crowd again. She’s looking up at the man who’s standing too close to her, smiling while they talk quietly.
“Oh, so you weren’t fucking her?” I don’t know many people who’d have the balls to say something like that to me but Declan Gilroy is one of them.
“How is Jessica, by the way?” I ask, practically snarling his ex-fiancée’s name at him.
Declan makes another rough sound in the back of his throat. This one with a lot less humor and a lot more fuck you. “Careful, Mercer.”
“Why? You don’t like being reminded that you’re no better than me?” I keep hammering at him while I watch Millie. She and her date are still talking. Whatever she’s saying, he doesn’t like it. “You fucked up. You fucked up big time. The only difference between you and me is that you were forgiven.”
Still not looking at him, I catch the set of Declan’s shoulders go stiff in my peripheral and wait for him to start swinging.
To tell the truth, I wish he would because maybe it’s what I need.
Maybe I need to get the piss beat out of me.
A concussion might scramble my brain enough to help me start thinking clearly.
Instead of picking me up and dropping me on my head, Declan just stands there, empty glass in hand, watching me while I watch Millie like he’s waiting for me to do something stupid.
Still talking, her escort shakes his head while Millie reaches back and pulls his hand from her waist. The relief I feel is ridiculously short-lived when he dips his head to graze his mouth against her temple before leaving her alone.
I don’t even realize I’m moving until Declan shifts his considerable frame into my path. “Don’t do that.”
“Get the fuck out of my way,” I growl, barely squeezing it out around the clench of my jaw.
“Sorry, man—can’t do that.” Declan gives me a head shake, his tone telling me he isn’t really sorry at all. “I lost the coin toss, remember?”
“So that’s what this is?” I ask, tracking Millie over his shoulder.
She’s on the move, draining her champagne flute before exchanging it for a fresh one on her way out onto the terrace.
“You’re my fucking babysitter.” Something thin and silver flashes outside my line of sight and I look down, just in time to see the wink of it again, catching the light as she walks.
The anklet I gave her.
She’s wearing it.
That means something, doesn’t it?
It means—
“No.” Dec gives me a head shake. “I’m your blocker.”
When Millie disappears from sight, I flick my gaze to his face before narrowing it to a glare. “My what?”
“Your blocker.” Throwing a quick look over his shoulder, Declan lets out an irritated sigh.
“Look—you think I don’t know how fucking lucky I am?
” Looking back down at me his expression softens slightly.
“You think I don’t know that every goddamned day with Tess—with our children—is a fucking gift?
I know—trust me, I know.” Leaning in, he lowers his voice.
“Her father knows you’re here—he’s watching you and if he sees you charging off, after his daughter, he’s going to have his security team throw you off the balcony before she even knows you’re here. ”
Over his shoulder, I watch as a stunning redhead in a black, backless dress steps onto the terrace, a few moments after Millie.
Straightening himself, Declan brushes his baseball mitt-sized hands down the front of his suit jacket. “So, yeah—I’m your blocker asshole, and you’re gonna play it cool. You’re gonna wait and you’re not going anywhere near Millie Blackwell until I fucking say so.”