Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
EMMA
I scream and run to Seamus, getting down on my knees and grabbing his shoulders, one hand wrapped around each. His eyes are closed and there’s a bump on his forehead that’s leaking blood.
Shit, shit, shit .
My heart is thumping so fast, too fast, and everything inside of me is buzzing with worry. Is he okay? It feels very important for him to be okay, and not just because my mother was the one who clocked him in the head. If he’s not okay…
He makes a groaning sound deep in his throat and then lifts a hand to his forehead, smearing some of the blood from the wound.
At least he can move. It’s good that he’s moving. It’s something .
“ Are you okay ?” my mother asks, hurrying over to us. My gaze is on Seamus, so it takes me a second to realize she’s talking to me . I glance at her and see she’s holding a second glass paperweight like a missile.
“Mom!” I shout. “Put that down at once.”
“You said kitten ,” she says, her voice edged with nerves. “I stayed close to the room just in case. You can’t be too careful. Was he—” Then her gaze lands on Seamus, laid out on the floor. “Oh, dear. That’s Rosie’s brother, isn’t it? Wait….was he attacking you?”
“No, Mom, Jesus. There’s a cat in the walls.”
“Why on earth would there by a cat in the walls?” she asks, her tone sharp. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Asks the woman who nearly killed Rosie’s brother. Don’t get hung up on the cat right now. We need to make sure he’s okay.”
Another sound issues from Seamus, making all of my nerve endings prickle. Lifting a hand to his face, I trace his cheek. “Seamus, Seamus, can you hear me?”
Nothing.
In movies, people slap someone who’s had an injury to bring them back to awareness, so I lightly tap his cheek with my palm. His hand reaches up to grip my wrist, and relief radiates through me like a whipcrack.
He’s okay. Or sort of okay. Okay enough to hold my wrist.
He opens his eyes and they lock onto mine. “What did I do this time?” he asks hoarsely, his lips forming a pained smile.
My fingers curl in his light grip, caressing the side of his face. “You’re alive.”
“Are you disappointed or glad?” he asks.
“ Very glad. And you remember who I am?”
“You’re beautiful. That’s not a thing a guy forgets.”
It’s not an answer, but something inside of me, tamped down so far it’s barely there at all, glows.
“Where are we?” he asks, his fingers flexing gently on my wrist before releasing it.
Oh, shit, he doesn’t remember what happened before he got hit. That can’t be good.
“Seamus,” I say slowly. “You’re in my house. You answered my Honey Do call. There’s a cat or something in the wall. You were trying to get it out, and—”
“I’m afraid I threw a paperweight at your head,” my mother says primly, much more herself now that she knows she’s not a murderer. “It was all a misunderstanding. You see…Emma had chosen ‘ kitten’ as our safe word in case the Honey Do contractor tried anything, but we didn’t account for the possibility that there might be an actual cat in the walls.”
“Huh,” he says, his gaze unfocused as he looks around. Then he adds, “At least the carpet’s already the right color.”
Worry thrums through me, and now that he’s freed my wrist, I can’t seem to stop touching him, running my fingers over the side of his face. Touching his arm, his hair. Reassuring myself that he’s breathing and warm and alive. It’s very, very important for him to be safe.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” I say.
But he reaches up and captures my hand, holding it to his warm cheek. My eyes settle on that raised bump on his forehead, a line of blood trickling from it, down his cheek, but it’s not on the side or back of his head. That’s a good thing, right?
“Don’t leave me alone with the woman who tried to murder me,” he says with a half-smile.
I glance over and meet my mother’s gaze. She looks like she feels guilty, which is probably a first for her. “Mom, can you call someone?”
“Of course I will,” she says.
But Seamus shakes his head. “There’s no need for that. I don’t have health insurance. There’s no point in paying thousands of dollars for them to tell me to take it easy and use an ice pack.”
“ Seamus ,” I say, an admonishment ringing in my tone.
He glances up at me. “Hey, it wasn’t offered in my employment package,” he says, humor in his voice. Humor is always in his voice, dammit, and I appreciate that as much as it aggravates me.
“Well, I’ll be paying, of course,” my mother says stiffly. “After all, I am the one who knocked you in the head.”
“It’s not necessa—”
“It’s very necessary,” I insist. “You’ll go, and you’ll listen to everything they say.”
“Agreed,” she says, then purses her lips and leaves the room to make the call.
I glance back down at Seamus, who’s grimacing now. He starts to sit up and I still him with a hand on his chest. “You can’t get up! What if you have a concussion?”
He groans. “Then I’ll be sitting up with a concussion. I’d prefer that to lying down in case your mother gets any other brilliant ideas.”
But I keep my hand planted on his chest. “Please. Stay here until someone who knows what they’re doing can look at you.”
“You’re bossy as hell,” he says, not sounding displeased about it.
“I know,” I agree.
There’s another mewling sound from the wall.
“Someone needs to get the cat out,” he says, trying to sit up again. “I like cats.”
“So do I, but you’re not going to be the one who saves it.” I attempt to hold him down with my hands, but he finishes sitting, the stubborn bastard. I retaliate by sitting on his outstretched legs, just above his knees. He makes a displeased sound and then wipes his face with his hands before tentatively lifting one of them to touch the big knot.
“Your mother could have been a star pitcher.”
“Are you okay?” I ask, worry bubbling inside me. “Your forehead is bleeding.”
He looks up from his hands and smiles at me—a smile I feel in my chest, the sensation pulsing outward and bucketing awareness through my body. “I’d feel a whole lot better if you scooted up a couple of feet.”
I roll my eyes at him, but there’s no denying I feel our proximity in a new way. His legs are stretched out beneath me, his hard chest so close. His…
Meowwwww
He groans again. “I’m going to get it out. It could get injured from the wood and plaster dust.”
“Like hell you are,” I say, grabbing the sledgehammer from where it fell on the floor. “You’re not going to steal my thunder. I’m going to save it.”
Something tells me it’s the only argument that will stick.
He smiles at me and reaches over to wipe something off my cheek. Plaster maybe. Hopefully not his blood. “You’re going to sledge the wall you paid me to sledge? That’s not very Little Rich Girl of you.”
“I don’t care for that nickname. If you call me that, I’m calling you the Fonz.”
His smile widens. “So you’re a girl who likes the classics, huh?”
“We had a parttime nanny who watched it. Now, I’m going to get up, but you’re going to stay put. In fact, you should lie back down—”
“Not going to happen,” he all but growls.
“Will you promise not to move if I get up?”
His eyebrows rise. “Emma, you do realize that I could get up even with you on my legs and my head done in, right?”
I stay put. “Promise me.”
Sighing, he says, “Yes, I fucking promise.”
I get up, bringing the hammer with me, my heart beating hard. Because of adrenaline, I decide. It’s not every day your mother nearly kills your sort-of brother-in-law.
Still carrying the hammer one-handed, I walk over to the globe bar and grab a fancy folded towel, not dusty because the house cleaning service my mother uses comes in here regularly, and hurry it over to him. I lower the hammer for a moment so I can get onto my knees again.
“Please don’t tell me you’re planning to press that to my injury,” he says.
“I’m not going to lie. You need to put pressure on it, right?”
He huffs out air. “I don’t know, I’m not a fucking doctor.”
I gently bring it up to his forehead, dabbing at the wound. It obviously hurts—I can tell from the way he’s holding his strong jaw. I don’t think, I just lean in and kiss the uninjured part of his forehead next to it. It’s warm beneath my lips.
When I pull back, I see him looking at me—an emotion I can’t read in his eyes.
I shrug. “Something my nanny said. She always said she’d kiss it better. Did it work?”
“No. You should probably do it again to thoroughly test it.”
It’s his easy flirting again—which seems to flow out of him like water from a faucet. I like it more than I should, but I’m not foolish enough to believe it means anything. So I just smile at him and lift his hand up so he’s the one holding the cloth to his forehead. “Better not.”
“Too bad.” He runs his free hand over mine, his voice a deep rumble. “Is your mother going to finish the job when she finds out that I’ve dirtied her cloth?”
“I won’t let her.”
A moment passes. Me looking at him, him looking at me, only a few inches separating us. It’s there again—the chemistry trying to fizz out of control between us.
I clear my throat and stand. “Now, what do I do?”
“Wrap your hands around the handle, one at the end and the other midway,” he says. “Then stand with your legs shoulder-distance apart and your knees slightly bent—”
“Like golfing,” I say.
He snorts. “Like golfing, Little Rich Girl.”
Maybe I deserved that one.
“Now, think about Jeffrey Nichols and put a fucking hole in that wall. High up though. Careful for our friend.”
I cry out and slam the hammer into the wall, putting force behind it. It hurts. It feels fantastic . And through it all, that little voice continues to mewl.
I hit the wall again and again, until finally there’s a hole—a hole I put there. I did it. Me. Over the past month, I’ve torn down wallpaper. I’ve thrown things away. I’ve stabbed a mattress just to see what it felt like—but none of it was satisfying in the way this is. Maybe because this isn’t only about releasing anger. I’m trying to save someone too.
“There’s a hole, Seamus,” I say, turning to him. He still has the cloth pressed to his forehead, and he’s watching me intently.
I expect him to say something weighty, fitting to the occasion—I’ve struck a hole into my father’s heart. I’ve taken the first step toward freeing an innocent creature, I’ve done some dirty work for once in my white-collar life. But Seamus just grins at me and says, “That’s what he said.”
I’m laughing as I set down the hammer and then look inside the bared interior of the wall. I can see a pair of little eyes glimmering in the dark. My heart hammers as I reach a hand down. “Come little kitty, come.”
The kitten hisses, which is fair—I just battered down its home, but I need it to trust me. To believe in me. I pitch my voice higher, the way people talk to babies and dogs. “Come, kitty, come.”
But the kitten hisses again.
“They’re not like dogs, Emma,” Seamus says from behind me. “You probably just insulted her pride.”
I nearly snort at the thought of a kitten having pride. Then again, what do I know? I’ve never had a pet. We weren’t allowed one here in Smith House. I could have gotten one after I left, of course, but someone had bought me a congratulations succulent after I graduated from law school, and it had only taken it two months to wither. If I could kill a succulent that easily, what would happen to a fuzzy animal?
Still. This animal has to be desperate and alone to have crawled into the walls of this house to stay warm, right? How did it even manage such a thing? It’s crafty too. Smart.
“Come on, kitty,” I say, my tone more modulated. “Come on out and see your new home.”
“You’re going to keep her?” Seamus says, and his voice is over my shoulder this time, slightly breathy. It’s warm and almost affectionate and feels like a caress to my ear.
I turn toward him, finding him closer than expected, that cloth lifted to his wound. “You’re not good at following instructions,” I say, poking his hard chest.
“Never have been,” he replies, giving me one of his easy grins that becomes pained half a second later.
“You broke your promise,” I accuse.
“I only made it under duress. Now, let me see if I can get him out.”
“You’re injured.”
“By your mother. Remind me never to piss off a Rosings woman again.”
“You’re doing it right now.”
His smile widens. Contracts. It’s hard to look away, but my friend gives another mewl, and I turn back and gaze down at the kitten.
“She’s coming closer, Seamus,” I say in a whisper, watching as her little black body moves nearer.
“She?” he asks, crowding me from behind. He’s not touching me, but he’s close, so close—his clothes a whisper against mine. I feel a deep awareness of the space he’s taking up, and how it almost overlaps with mine.
“ She ,” I repeat. “She wouldn’t do me the injustice of being another man.”
When he laughs, his chest does brush against me.
“A black cat. Some people would say she’s unlucky.”
“Then they’re stupid. There are a lot of stupid people in the world, aren’t there, Shadow?”
I can feel Seamus’s smile. “Shadow?”
“I thought she might be a ghost. It seems appropriate.”
“You did?” he asks, and again, I feel his eyes on me and the heat of him. It’s like bathing in sunlight after a long stretch of cold days.
“Yeah. This place has always felt haunted to me. I’m sure Rosie’s told you, but my father was a bad man. He used to hurt my brother.”
He places a hand on my hip, his fingers wrapping around it—steady and sure. It’s an intimate touch, but I don’t try to push him away. “Did he hurt you too?” he asks, his voice a low, threatening rumble.
I swallow, watching inside of the wall as Shadow takes another tentative step toward us. It’s easier to watch her than him right now. “No. Not like that. And he didn’t molest me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
His hand flexes around my hip. “But he did hurt you. That’s what all of this is about, isn’t it?”
I feel his word at my neck. Inside of me.
“He’s dead,” I say, which is no answer at all. Shadow takes another small step in our direction. “She’s close enough for us to get her out, I think.”
“Move over, Emma,” he says, trying to move me. But my mind imagines a different phrase leaving his mouth— bend over, Emma.
“No,” I object, although whether it’s to the thought or to him, I can’t be sure.
“I’m taller. I’ll lean in and scoop her up.”
“What if you get a second concussion?” I ask, turning to him. His face lowers so he can look at me, our faces nearly as close as the one and only time we’ve kissed. A butterfly tries to take flight in my chest, but I mentally smash it with a fly swatter.
“If leaning in and scooping up a cat gives me a second concussion, than I’m in bigger trouble than we thought.”
He’s right, and a part of me wants to share this moment with him. It feels only right for it to be ours. He recognized that Shadow was in there, and we worked together to get to her.
“Who’s going to hold the cloth to your wound while you do it?” I ask.
He gives me a pointed look.
“I don’t like blood.”
“Complain to your mother.”
Fair point. I edge away from the opening after taking one last look at the kitten. Once Seamus is in position, I press my fingertips firmly to the cloth, making him flinch.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“Can I smash the paperweight later to avenge myself?”
“As long as you don’t smash my mother. I’m mostly convinced it was a mistake.”
He’s laughing slightly, the vibration of it passing through the cloth, as he bends over the hole and lowers his arm inside, moving slowly and with purpose so as not to frighten the little kitten.
There’s such gentleness in the movement—something I wouldn’t have expected from a man like Seamus, and emotion clogs my throat as he lifts the little cat out. It’s small and fuzzy and filthy, covered in dust and probably asbestos and who knows what else. It’s a miracle that she’s alive.
I move with Seamus to keep the cloth pressed to his wound, and he holds the kitten one-handed to take over from me. I go to take the kitten from him, and he holds her to his chest.
Smirking at me, he says, “Not so fast. I want shared custody.”
“Excuse me,” I say, putting a hand to my hip. “Shadow does not come from a broken home.”
“How traditional of you. But I’ll be going for 50-50 custody.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “And who’s your lawyer?”
“ You . You’re going to have a real fight with yourself over this one.”
A warm fondness fills me up, making me woozy. I don’t want to like him like this, but only my skin is stone, and he’s already gotten under it. I like that he wants to do this together, even if it makes no sense since we neither live together nor are a couple.
“Do you honestly want to share her?”
He holds my gaze and nods. “Yes, but that might be the concussion talking. I’ve never had a pet.”
“I killed a succulent.”
He raises the little kitten up in his arm. “You, Shadow, are probably fucked. I’m guessing getting sprung from that wall was the worst thing that ever happened to you.”