Chapter 24
Maeve
“Italian wedding soup, chicken soup, butternut squash and ginger puree, six bottles of water, soda, soda water, dinner rolls, lunch rolls, crackers, fresh sourdough… What’s his plan, to carbo-load the flu away?” I shake my head and laugh, mostly happy that I feel well enough to laugh.
Weird. Must’ve been a twenty-four-hour bug.
I’m so relieved Kellin’s managed to avoid catching it.
Kellin popped in and out of my room all day. In between preparations for the Weaver-Deaver wedding—I still snicker when I hear those names together—and dealing with day-to-day hotel shenanigans—that boiler for one—I don’t know how he found time to be so attentive to me.
Attentive but…distant, all his smiles a little too weak and hollow.
But maybe I’m reading into things. I did spend most of the day half-asleep.
Hopefully I didn’t scare him off. I loathe being dependent on others.
Lenora, who gets paid to assist me, doesn’t count.
But because I’ve spent a large part of my life around angry, needy men too caught up in their own shit to ever offer me help, I eventually gave up on expecting any kind of assistance, choosing instead to handle everything myself.
Being able to rely on Kellin felt…indescribably good. Like for once, I wasn’t alone.
Today, he filled a void in my heart that I didn’t know I had.
That little part of me still preserved from childhood. The Maeve that yearns to be taken care of.
To feel warm and coddled and…loved.
Shaking my head, I grab some glass containers from a cabinet to store the soups in.
I really misjudged him, which bothers me to no end.
I’d hate to become this cynical person who assumes the worst of everyone, but guardedness is in my genetic code. In the mafia, survival requires caution. Distrust.
Is that why I didn’t initially give him any credit?
He’s shockingly handsome. Stop-traffic hot. And he approached me with the exact solution I needed for this pipe dream of getting out from under my father’s shadow.
I’ve been asking myself all day—while he’s bopped in and out, sacrificing his own workday for mine—if those were the only reasons I’ve been paying him any attention at all.
Because he’s beautiful, and I hadn’t been laid in eons.
Because I hate my father.
I’ve behaved selfishly, protecting myself while Kellin puts himself out there. Allowing him to spoil me without offering enough in return.
I want to fix that by sharing more of myself with him…if he still finds me attractive after today.
More than that, I yearn to resurrect the younger, less jaded Maeve of the past.
If Kellin and I hope to move forward in any capacity—whether it be business, pleasure, or both—I want to share the version of me that harbored bigger dreams. The Maeve that launched the Cypress from the ground up.
How do I recapture the positive mentality that started this hotel?
At what point did my hope die? And where did I bury it? Maybe I can start with that.
I refrigerate the soups for later as my mind wanders back to the day my mother died.
I hate when this happens, but it’s what I get.
I mean, given my thought pattern, I practically tied a leash around my mind and dragged it back to that tragic memory.
By that point, I’d been angry with her for years. For giving up on us all. For leaving her children to deal with our father while she hid inside her own head.
Still, my heart broke when she died.
I was raised around violence and death, but that didn’t prepare me for my mother’s gray skin, her hollowed cheeks, her blank eyes. Or how her skin felt like stone.
Even in death, peace evaded her.
That hurt the most. Anytime I picture her defeated expression in that casket, I hunch over until the pain dulls.
I sit down at the table to do just that when my phone pings.
I’ve got about a dozen missed calls and messages that I’ll deal with later, but for now, I tap open the newest one.
Where are you? We tried you earlier. Penthouse. Now. Dad.
Like a child being summoned by the principal.
Great.
I stuff my feet into a pair of flip-flops by the door and go.
I often use the stairs because staff and hotel guests alike frequently stop me in the elevator, and if I’m pulled into a twenty-minute-long conversation every time I round a corner, I’d never get any work done.
Tonight, I choose them because I’m dressed in a loose cardigan and old, faded jeans, and I don’t want to risk being seen. When I first open the door to the stairwell, I experience a residual twist of fear, followed by a healthy dose of leeriness.
No Shout or anyone else here, and picturing Kellin dislocating that man’s arm again reassures me enough to continue up the steps without glancing over my shoulder.
Once I stop at the top of the stairs, I realize I don’t have my key card.
Luckily, both the stairwell door and the penthouse have a coded entry option.
When I learned early on that my father planned to treat the suite as his personal playground, I took precautions to ensure other guests couldn’t access the space accidentally.
Also, both brothers have somehow managed to lose their key cards in the past. Just a complete shit show that no one needs.
I type in the code to enter the hallway and repeat the process outside the penthouse. I open the suite door to the smell of old smoke, socks, and a sweet medicinal odor that triggers my gag reflex.
Bourbon.
It’s akin to a locker room after the big game, except accentuated with booze.
Despite the dishwasher in plain sight, plates pile up in the sink.
Various bottles of top-shelf liquor grace the countertops, most of them uncapped. Funny how all alcohol smells vile after a night of drinking.
I let the door slam closed and glare at my father. “You know we have housekeeping, right?”
“No housekeeping.” He jerks his chin at the skinny man on the recliner. “We can’t let Nolan—”
“Nope!” I swipe a hand through the air. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
I already possess more than enough knowledge. This guy managed to piss off our East Coast relatives, and my dad’s hiding him in exchange for information. Or something similar. I don’t care about the specifics.
My father shakes his head in disgust. “Such a fucking disappointment.”
That goes both ways, Dad. I bite my tongue. “What do you need?”
He scans my outfit while flicking a bit of ash off his cigar. “Why are you dressed like that? Do I pay you to enjoy mid-week personal days now?”
He doesn’t pay me at all. I write my own checks, thank you very much.
“I had the flu. I’m just now starting to feel better.
” I walk around the expansive living room, plucking up glassware and plates.
“Are you going to tell me what’s so urgent, or can I get back to work?
” I load the dishwasher with what will fit and start it up.
I cringe at the leftover crust in the sink.
From his spot on the leather sectional, my father stares out the window, quieter than usual. After a moment, he lifts himself up and stalks over to the French doors that lead to the balcony.
The view is one of the best in the city, in my opinion. The pier, the ocean, the Arden below.
Not that Dad notices or appreciates any of that.
Shoulders hunched, he starts to pace like a caged bear. Hungry, restless.
That pacing has sparked anxiety in my chest since childhood. I imagine him shapeshifting into some hairy, fangy, terrifying beast, towering over me as he seizes me by the neck. Claws piercing the skin as he dangles me off the ground before ending me for good.
No daddy issues here. Nope. None.
I join him on the balcony. Maybe he wants some privacy for our conversation?
The view of the Pacific might even calm his nerves.
I don’t know about him, but the fresh, salty air does instant wonders for me.
Of course, anything’s better than the stench in my beautiful penthouse.
Once the French doors close behind us, my father addresses me.
“You notice any unusual happenings in or around the hotel over the past day or so?”
My eyes flick down to the Arden, where I’m reminded of that kiss I shared with Kellin under the twinkling lights.
I refocus. “Other than your men, who seem to be populating like clownfish?”
He cocks his head.
“Clownfish reproduce like you can’t imagine. They’re horny little bastards. Disney left that part out.”
Dad doesn’t laugh at that amusing nugget of aquatic trivia.
Tough crowd.
I don’t know why I can’t just keep my mouth shut around this man. “Should I be concerned about the guy in the recliner watching Law & Order reruns?” I point through the window.
His lips twist into a sneer. “I’m asking the questions.”
“No, I haven’t noticed anything.” I might have my Kellin blinders on, but I’m pretty sensitive to mafia goings-on. “How much longer do you plan on occupying my penthouse? We have a big wedding this weekend, and the couple has reserved this space.”
“My penthouse, you mean. My suite. How much longer will I be here, in the room I own?” He straightens from his usual hunch, an instinctive scare tactic that no longer works on me.
I remind myself it’s just second nature for him. I shouldn’t take the gesture personally. “Your business, my business, our business. We’re still running an operation here, first and foremost. You don’t need to continually point out that you own it.”
He acts like he has more to say, so I give him a minute.
Nothing.
“And this is not your office. Can we at least agree on that? This,” I motion toward the stranger again, “is not good for the Cypress.” I’m whisper-yelling, though I don’t know why. We’re the only ones out here.
“You’d best watch that attitude, Maeve, or I’ll claim the penthouse permanently. Or sell this place out from under you.”
I cross my arms in front of my chest. After spending the entire day in bed, dizzy, weak, and just plain out of it, I don’t have the bandwidth for this crap. Every time we disagree on anything, he threatens to sell the hotel.
And he would in a heartbeat. Because while my father has never hit me, the emotional blows always pack quite a punch.
Instead of using physical violence, he’s subjected me to death by a million figurative cuts over the years.
Disparaging remarks, threats, snatching away beloved things…
including dropping my cat off at the animal shelter because I embarrassed him in front of his friends.
I guess I should be thankful he didn’t kill Fred. He stole him from me, though, just like he ended up robbing me of my brothers’ affection.
My father turns his back on the epic ocean view, too, and heads inside.
I trail after him, bumping into him when he suddenly pivots to face me. “Who’s the guy, by the way?”
My heart leaps into my throat. “Excuse me?”
“The one Brody saw you dining with the other night. Your brother says he’s been hanging around.”
Great. Thanks a lot, Brody. “He’s no one.”
“If he’s here, he’s someone. Do we need to keep an eye on him? I don’t have time for more bullshit.”
“What? No. I don’t know what Brody’s been telling you.
” Think, Maeve, think. “He’s a manager-in-training.
” Not a complete lie. If the deal goes through, Kellin could be around and working with us.
I feel like a little girl again, overtalking to prevent myself from divulging the truth.
“If we expand, and we’re leaning in that direction, we’ll need more manager types.
That’s all. He’s a potential higher-up, a ‘second Lenora,’ should the time come. ”
Please, let us be done with this conversation. What am I even saying?
My father goes into the kitchen and pours himself a scotch.
“If we’re done here, I’m going to go.”
“Steaks. Three. Rare. And another one of these.” He holds up the scotch long enough for me to read the label.
“Okay, I can do that.” No sense in arguing. “Anything else?” I text Lenora as I wait for his response. If I forget to feed the bear, I’ll regret it.
He eyes me steadily but doesn’t respond or demand that I stay.
Just as I spin around to leave, the door clicks and Brody strolls in. “Hey, Maeve.”
I scowl when I get closer. “You’re such a dick, you traitor.” I hiss the words, but he still hears them.
Brody sputters. “What the hell did I—”
I pivot so we’re nose to nose. “You know what you did.”
And then I stalk through the door, slamming it in his startled, puppy-dog face, cutting off whatever stupid excuse he had for being the world’s shittiest brother.
He should know how fraught my relationship with our father is. So why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut?
I answer my own question. Because he and Connor both give Declan Gallagher all their loyalty, leaving none left over for me. I will always come in last place, if I ever merit any consideration at all.
Fear eats at my bravado, swallowing my courage entirely by the time I reach my room. Hopefully the loss serves as a reminder to exercise caution.
The last thing I want is for my father to discover the real reason for Kellin’s presence.