Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EMMA
Conversation with Nicole
New plan. Let’s meet up tomorrow.
Damien just got in, and he’s exhausted. We have dirt on one of the staffers, so he’s giving us all the spa treatments so we can choose the worst one for Jeffrey and Ellie in the morning.
IF she buys whatever dumbass story he concocts.
Personally, I hope she lets the cops book him for being a pervo. It’s what I’d do if someone ran out on me and called me names.
I mean, it would solve only about half of our problems, since you’d still be facing the inquiry, but come on, how fun would that be?
I text Nicole a thumbs up before tucking my phone away and heading back toward the seating area. The woman from the brewery still has her phone out, but she rests it in her lap as I walk back toward her, claiming the seat Seamus vacated.
She bites her bottom lip.
All I do is look at her—a cool, assessing look that is the only useful thing I learned in the debutante program, and she spills, “It was my fault, really. I was the manager tonight. I should have known what all of the employees were doing.”
I sit back. “Well, that was easier than expected. Usually I have to take people to court before they’ll admit culpability.”
A resigned look fills her eyes.
It’s to my benefit if she’s resigned, but I find myself saying, “Don’t do that. Don’t give up before you even put in a fight.”
She sighs and rubs her forehead with the palm of her hand. Then, in a small voice, she says, “It was my fault. Otis isn’t very good at his job, and we all know it, but he’s sweet, really, and… I should’ve kept a better eye on him, that’s all. Now they’ve had to fire him, and I’m going to have to let him know.”
As Seamus’s self-appointed attorney, I play hardball, even if he’s decided not to sue. But at the same time, didn’t I blame myself for not keeping a closer watch on Jeffrey? For falling for his bullshit?
Here’s something else we were taught in debutante class: be demure and don’t make waves . I didn’t learn that lesson, obviously, but maybe it slipped under my skin anyway. Maybe, when I had doubts about Jeffrey, I told myself that it was because I was being hard, and women were supposed to be soft.
This woman is as soft as a cashmere sweater knitted by lambs.
I tilt my head, studying her. “And Buchanan Brewery will be paying for his medical bills?”
She nods forcefully. “Yes, of course. Every penny.”
“So long as his bills are covered, he won’t press charges.”
Air gushes out of her, and she rubs a keychain hanging from the side of her purse. “Thank goodness. I knew he was a kind man.”
“Kind?” I repeat, letting out more of a snort than someone’s official representative should. It’s just…kind isn’t a word I associate with Seamus.
Secretive? Absolutely.
Flirtatious? Yes, he makes it an art.
Sexy? Effortlessly.
Interesting? Yes, to my misfortune.
But kind ?
A kind man would rescue kittens.
And, sure, Seamus has done that, but he didn’t come over knowing he was going to rescue a cat.
No, he just thought he was helping you, and he didn’t hesitate. Just like he didn’t hesitate to volunteer for Operation Love Destroyers. He hasn’t quit either.
Sophie nods vigorously, more animated than before. “I was here on Tuesday morning with my aunt. I’d had this string of bad luck that ended in a freak accident. My aunt said it was a sign that I shouldn’t marry Jonah, and it really was awful —the worst day I’ve had in years—but then Seamus and this sweet older man came into the waiting room with a bunch of flowers. They were giving them out. And after he heard what had happened, he brought us lunch. It was the sweetest thing. Sometimes a kind gesture can really turn a person’s day around. I couldn’t believe he was the one who got hurt at the brewery today.” She plucks at the bottom of her sweater. “To be honest, it felt like more bad luck. You know, my aunt’s convinced there’s some sort of weird spiritual nexus today because it’s Leap Day and a full moon. Part of me thinks she’s right, because strange things have been happening all day. All week, really.”
I don’t usually buy into that kind of thing, but maybe there’s something to it. Because what she just told me about Seamus makes my stomach feel like it’s flipping around.
“He brought you lunch on Tuesday?” I ask. I was so convinced he’d gone on a date, but he’d brought Sophie and her aunt lunch because she’d had an awful, no good day. Shit. He rescues kittens and brings lunch to downtrodden women in emergency rooms. Maybe he has a kind streak, the way other men have mean streaks.
“Yes,” Sophie tells me. “Like I said, I appreciate kindness. You don’t see much of it when you work in customer service.” There’s a buzzing sound from her vicinity. Her eyes widen and she reaches into her lap for her cell phone. “Oh, it’s Jonah,” she says. “I’ll just be a moment. He doesn’t like it when I don’t answer right away.”
Strike One against Jonah. And there, in Sophie’s eyes as she walks away, is Strike Two. Answering a call from her fiancé makes her nervous.
But I shake the thought off, because I’m not wearing the Emma the Divorce Attorney hat. Right now, I’m just Emma Rosings Smith.
And I’m here as Seamus’s…
I don’t particularly feel like his sister-in-law, and friend isn’t quite the right word given that I watched him stroke himself as the shower pattered hot water all over his body.
My mouth goes dry, and a needy feeling flares through me—interrupted when a man hustles in with a bow-legged walk and whisper-hisses to the nurse at the check-in desk before leaning awkwardly against the wall. Definitely some anal play gone wrong. Another woman is brought in on a stretcher, still wearing her bicycle helmet.
This is why people become ambulance chasers. I could spend a few hours in this emergency room and walk away with thirty clients.
After fifteen minutes, Sophie comes back. There’s a troubled look on her face, and I instantly start rummaging through my purse to pull out my emergency chocolate bar.
“Here,” I say, handing it to her. “You look like you could use this.”
A smile brightens her face for half a second before sliding away, but she reaches for the bar. “Do you always keep one in there?”
“Always. You never know when you’re going to lose a case or need to swear at someone but can’t.”
“Thank you. I do something similar at work. You know, you’re kind too.”
“Please don’t repeat that to anyone.” I tell her with a smile. “So…what did your fiancé do?”
She sighs and unwraps the chocolate. “ He didn’t do anything. His brother saw my wrist guard and texted him about it. As if it were any of his business. They don’t get along, and he’ll find any excuse to aggravate Jonah.”
“You didn’t tell your fiancé you got hurt?”
She glances away, running her fingers over the wrist guard. “I don’t like for people to worry about me. Jonah has a lot on his plate. He needs to take all these trips for work, and I didn’t want him to feel like he had to cut this one short for me.”
“Would he have?” I ask pointedly, unable to help myself. This isn’t my old cynicism about relationships coming into play. I’ve seen this sort of scenario play itself out time and time again—often enough to sense it.
This guy isn’t good for her.
She gives me a half smile. “I guess I’d have to ask him to find out. I…caused a lot of trouble when I was younger, and I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since. Sometimes it feels impossible.”
Something clutches in my chest.
I think of Seamus and the past he’s referred to…
Is that how he feels? Is he trying to make up for what he did by helping me?
I don’t like the thought of either of them spending life as some kind of Sisyphus-ian struggle—a never ending dance of trying to make up for the past and forget it.
“Maybe you should forgive yourself for whatever it is.”
She gives me a soft smile. “I’m trying.” Then she shoves down the rest of the chocolate as if she needs the immediate infusion of sugar dosed with caffeine. “Thank you for that. Chocolate might not solve any problems, but it feels like it does.” Her gaze finds the front desk. “I’m going to leave them with all of our information for the bill, but I need to go. The whole tasting room has to be sanitized after the incident with the skunk. But stop by the brewery any time. Drinks on me.”
“Because your staff nearly killed my boyfriend?” I ask, with a hint of humor.
Her eyes widen in surprise. “I didn’t realize. You said he was your client.”
Shock zips through me as I realize how badly I just misspoke.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say quickly, baffled by myself. If I was going to call him anything, why on Earth would I call him that? Brother-in-law, client, maybe even friend, I could get, but boyfriend ? “Slip of the tongue.”
She smiles at me again as she gets up. “Sometimes a slip of the tongue is all it takes. Take care of yourself, Emma. And him.”
After she leaves, I call Buchanan Brewery and demand to speak to the manager, making a real nuisance of myself. I learned from the best, after all.
A tired-sounding man finally answers, and I inform him that Sophie deserves a commendation for her handling of the situation and we will only withhold suit if she isn’t fired. I also suggested he should seriously think about giving her a raise.
I don’t know if she’s good at her job, but I do recognize a person who’s in need of a lucky break from the universe. It feels good to be the person who tries to deliver it.
I can feel some of the rage I’ve been carrying leach away.
Conversation with Seamus
My ribs are fine, Little Rich Girl. Get me out of here. I’m five minutes away from climbing out a window.
Not happening.
Being in a hospital is way more fun when your mother was the one who injured me. No one’s even offered me a charcuterie board yet.
Twenty minutes later
Thanks, but I didn’t actually want a charcuterie board.
Too bad. Eat it.
I’d rather eat you. ;-)
Not part of the deal.
Spring me, gorgeous. I’ll make it worth your while.
You WILL get looked at by a medical professional.
Two hours, two trips to the vending machine, and a mostly unproductive call to Nicole later, the red-haired nurse finally wheels Seamus out from the back. The guy gives me a cautious glance as he brings the chair to a stop in front of me.
“It’s just bruised,” Seamus says. “This is a lot of fuss over a bruise, if you ask me.
The red-haired nurse shakes his head, giving me a quick glance. “A bruised bone is different from bruised skin.”
“Oh, come on, Paul,” Seamus gripes. “I thought we were buddies.”
Looking at me, Paul continues, “Make sure he’s not too active. He should sit down instead of lying down, whenever possible, and if he lies down, he should prop himself up. Lots of fluids. Not very much exercise. He should take his pain medication as prescribed.”
I tug the discharge papers out of Seamus’s hands. “Thank you,” I say as Seamus gets up out of the chair. He looks bemused by my intervention, something that will probably change when he realizes how serious I am about following the recommendations to the letter.
Turning to Paul, Seamus grins. “Until next time, friend.”
The nurse looks like he takes it as a threat. Turning to me, he says, “Tell your mother we did our best with the resources we had available tonight.”
I laugh, he loses color, and I figure it’s as good a time as any to thank him and hustle Seamus off to the car. The automatic door is busted, according to the handwritten sign hanging on it, which hasn’t stopped dozens of people over the last couple of hours from standing in front of it, waving at it, and in one case kicking it. So I lead him to the manual one and hold it open for him.
He gives me a wry look, but I say, “It’s either you accept my help or you ride around in a wheel chair. Your call.”
He could point out that he is certainly big and strong enough to do whatever he likes without my approval, but he just shakes his head slightly and steps through the door.
I follow him out, stepping out into the cold night air, and lead him to the garage where I parked. The full moon is beating down on us, reminding me of what Sophie said.
I don’t believe in hocus-pocus, but there’s no denying this day feels different from most, although I don’t know yet whether it’s cursed or blessed.
It definitely feels significant.
“So, did you scare Sophie away?” he asks as he gives me a sidelong look.
I can see the imprint of pain on his face, especially in the tightness at the corners of his mouth, but he’s good at pretending not to feel it.
Not to feel anything.
I used to be good at that game too. It’s only lately that I’ve felt myself cracking at the seams, feelings and words slipping out.
“No,” I say as I lead him into the garage and up the ramp. “I like her. She had to go to take care of some problems at work. It sounds like Nicole was one hundred percent at fault, so I called her boss to make sure no one gives her a hard time.”
Approval glints in his eyes, and I pretend not to notice or care.
“I’m not telling you because I want your approval.”
“I’m giving it to you anyway, so it’s your lucky day. Now, make it my lucky day and tell me that Ellie got Jeffrey arrested.”
“Unfortunately not. He came up with some bullshit story about wanting to surprise her. She’s still pissed though. She didn’t tell him to leave, but she made him rent his own room.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “Has Nicole found anything on Ellie’s phone?”
I laugh. “Not yet. She said there were hundreds of thousands of photo and video files.”
“You’re going to enjoy the hell out of those. Countless hours of Ellie drinking coffee and talking about fluoride.”
“Is she pro or con?” I ask, stopping next to the passenger side of my hatchback—cherry red, a color that, statistically speaking, makes it more likely I will get stopped by law enforcement for going over the speed limit.
Not at all practical, but I wanted it anyway.
“Oh, definitely con,” he says as he stops beside me. “She gave me a five-minute lecture about it when I asked for some tap water in the ER waiting room.”
“Let me guess, Sophie’s the one who got you some.”
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his jaw. “And she got her dipshit cousin to bring me a soda.”
“She told me you bought her and her aunt lunch the other day.”
“She told you that, huh?” he asks, his gaze floating to the car next to mine, as if he can’t meet my eyes while talking about something nice he did.
“Pretty kind of you, she thought,” I press, lifting my eyebrows.
His gaze meets mine. “It was nice of you to make that call for her. And to send Chuck advice on his divorce.”
“Oh God,” I say, “Chuck. I wonder how their date is going.”
My mother hadn’t sent any texts, so she wasn’t bored, at least.
“You know, she spent half an hour picking out an outfit before I left for the Grove Park this morning. I’ve never seen her do that for anyone. She’s always so decisive.”
“Good,” he says with a grin. “Because Chuck spent an unreasonable amount of time buying groceries earlier. It seems only right that they should both be nervous.”
I jangle my keys, not quite ready to get in the car, and study him. “You think he’s going to be disappointed when he realizes she doesn’t care about cooking?”
“Nah,” he says offhandedly. “He just wanted an excuse to go over there. He’s too nervous for the direct approach, but I’m guessing your mother is the kind of woman who’ll tell him what she wants.”
There’s something loaded about the way he says it. Like he’s wishing I’d tell him what I want.
I would, if I knew, but after everything that’s happened, I keep second-guessing myself. I’m full of doubt. Because I’m starting to realize there are no fast and easy answers when it comes to relationships. Percentages may bear out in a statistical sense, but it feels so different when you’re going through things personally.
I swallow, glancing down into the car.
“You’re right. She probably will. That’s something I’ve always admired about my mother.”
“I admire it about you,” he says.
I can feel him looking at me, and finally look up and meet his gaze. “My mom forced me to do debutante classes because I kept sneaking out of the house.”
His grin is delighted. “Of course she did, and of course you did.”
“But I wasn’t very good at most of it. It was useful in teaching me to hide my reaction to people. But the rest of it was pure B.S. about being demure and soft. I’m not a soft woman.”
“Which is precisely why I’m so hard for you.”
My lips lift at the corners, despite my best attempts to shove them down, and my shoulders start shaking. I’m laughing and trying to hide it, badly.
He starts to laugh with me, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and his face lighting up. But he instantly presses his hand to his ribs. “You’re killing me, Em.”
“Let’s get you into the car,” I say, my voice softer than I’d like it to be, because even now, I’m worried about being nice to him. Because I feel myself softening, and I know that when I harden again, I’ll be spread thin—like a bar of butter that’s forgotten its shape.
He’s not a man who’s serious about women—I know that from his sister, and from his own admissions. Even if he were, I would be a fool to be serious about him. I know he’s done bad things, illegal things. Being with him could be an even bigger threat to my career than Jeffrey.
I unlock the car, and he climbs in with a gusty groan. Before he can lean over and strain his rib, I reach in and work the seatbelt around him, leaning in slightly to click it into place, my hand glancing over his coat and his jeans. An intimate knowledge of him—of what he looks like without any of this on—flashes through my brain and fries my synapses.
When I pull away, he’s staring at me. There’s a warm look in his eyes as he says, “Are you going to cut up my vegetables too?”
“You eat vegetables?” I ask in mock shock.
His grin weaves through me, creating more memories I’m going to want to hold onto. “I would if you’d cut them up for me.”
I put my hand on my hip, noticing the way his eyes dip to follow the motion before lifting again to my face. “The charcuterie board didn’t do it for you?”
His grin widens. “I get the sense that they put it together from the salad bar at the cafeteria. The cheese was cottage cheese, and bologna was one of the meats. Not that I’m complaining.”
“So I only have a sliver of my mother’s authoritativeness.”
“Which means you have three times as much as most people. It looks good on you.”
I smile at him, feeling a tugging sensation in my chest. A yearning for him to see me and like what he sees. It’s a vulnerable feeling—the kind that I normally shut down. But I sit with the discomfort as I circle around the car and then get in beside him.
We talk about nothing on the way to the apartment, and I know without asking that he saw my weakness. Instead of fitting his finger into the wound or teasing me for it, he’s giving me a moment to collect myself. It’s unexpected. And it only makes this softness I’m feeling worse. I’m that butter, spreading thinner and thinner. Losing my solidity.
I should mind, but maybe the full moon Leap Day is melting my brain, because right now, I do not.
When I park the car in the garage beneath his building, he glances at me. “Will you unlatch my seatbelt?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows. “I'm not sure I could manage it without you.”
Obviously he could, since clicking out requires a lesser motion than clicking in, but I want to do it. So I do, and when he gets out of the car, towering over me, he asks, “Are you going to come upstairs? I don’t see Chuck’s car. He must still be with your mother.”
I’d still love an update about how that’s going, but I’d be lying if I said it was foremost on my mind.
“I’ll get you settled in,” I say, because I don’t want to leave him yet. Maybe it’s because of the full moon Leap Day, and the feeling that anything that can happen will .
Maybe I’m wasting its magic, being here with Seamus, instead of going through the contents of Ellie’s phone. My career and reputation depend on me finding at least one smoking gun. But I don’t want to leave him yet. I can’t.
I hurry around the car so I can grip his arm and help him out—and then don’t want to let it go after I shut the door behind him. It’s thick and sculpted, and it feels good to hold him.
His eyes find mine, and the look he’s giving me is so deep and penetrating, I feel a hot shiver work through me. I try to deflect by asking, “Where’s your car?”
“You mean Ingrid?” he asks with a twist of his lips. My hand is still wrapped around his arm, and I feel it flex slightly, moving beneath my touch. I drop my hold. “I don’t know if I’m ready to introduce you to my girl. She might get jealous.”
Rolling my eyes, I add, “ She is an inanimate object.”
“Says a woman who bought a practical car in an impractical color.”
“I like red.”
“Then you’d like Ingrid. She likes to go fast and take turns at reckless speeds. But she’s a bit of a bitch. She always pops lights right before inspection time.”
“You shouldn’t call women bitches,” I chide teasingly.
He shrugs. “So she’s an asshole. A shithead. Whatever you want to call her. Do you still want to meet my shithead?”
“I do,” I admit. There’s been a growing hunger inside of me, for time with Seamus. For touching him. For knowing him. I’ve seen his streak of kindness, and his delicious perversion, and now I want to see what else his passion can build.
He smiles at me, and the pleased look on his face is so genuine, I feel myself responding in kind.
“Right this way,” he says, nodding. And I follow him around the corner. My breath sucks out of my lungs when I see the car. She’s cherry red, just like my hatchback, but that’s where the resemblance ends. She’s long, sleek, and red, with the kind of circular headlights that make cars look like they have faces. I skim my fingers over the perfect finish, rounding the car to take in every angle.
I glance back at Seamus, noticing the hungry way he’s watching me.
Another gasp almost escapes me, but I swallow it down before saying, “I know nothing about cars, but she’s beautiful. You’ve put a lot of love into her.”
He swears under his breath, then says, “Fuck it. I’m going to be honest. This is where I want it to happen, Em.”
“Excuse me?”
“This is where I want to see you touch yourself. In the backseat of my car, splayed out in front of me.”
Heat blasts me, but then I remember where we are. I glance around, worried that we might be overheard.
He shakes his head. “There’s no one around. Just you and me.”
“It’s not happening,” I say. “There are probably cameras back here.”
“I thought you might want us to share our dreams with each other,” he says with a small smile. “That’s all I’m doing. That’s what I’m going to be thinking about all night. You touching yourself in my car while I stand over you watching.”
My lips part, and a wicked need fills me that I try to crush into submission. His smile says he knows it.
“How many cars have you restored?”
“Dozens. I sell them to old rich people who don’t know what to do with them.” His grin develops a sardonic twist. “Like Jeffrey Nichols.”
“This car would be wasted on him.”
He gives me one of his sardonic grins. “We’re not all Little Rich Girls. I do it for the pleasure, but I need money.”
I shrug, because he has a point. I may have given away most of my father’s money, but I kept enough of it to still qualify for that title. I was born to privilege. Privilege smothered me, but it brought me opportunities too. “You don’t have to sell this one, though, do you? My mother’s paying you for helping?”
His grin stretches wider. “You have a way of reminding a man of his place.”
That wasn’t what I’d meant, but maybe it’s best if that’s the effect it has. Because I still feel that thrum of possibility tonight. Of believing anything can happen. That belief is as dangerous as it is beautiful.
He nods after a moment, then says, “Yeah, and I’ve got that job lined up, week after next. I’m keeping her.”
I watch him watching the car, taking in the light in his eyes. This is what he loves. This is the passion that drives him. “Why don’t you restore cars for a living?”
“I’ll have steady work at the garage,” he says.
It’s not an answer, but it’s obvious he doesn’t want me to press him, even though the glint in his eyes makes me want to press him. To make him reach.
I wait a moment, then say, “Let’s go upstairs.”
He nods and offers me his arm. I take it. Neither of us talk as we walk to the elevator, then take it up to his apartment.
“Let me open the door,” I say as we leave the elevator and walk toward it.
His mouth hitches up at the corner. “Will you get the keys for me too? They’re in my back right pocket. You wouldn’t be crossing a line. You’d be doing me a favor.”
“We both agree you’re sick, then.” I meet his gaze, feeling another of those shivers work through me. Without looking away, I reach around into his pocket, feeling the solid curve of him there as I slip the keys out. More intent pumps into his expression. “Maybe I’m sick too, because I like taking things from your back pocket.”
He smiles at me and raises his eyebrows slightly. “Are you going to keep them?”
“I like the idea of having access to you whenever I want,” I say, swinging the keys around on my index finger, the tinkling of metal filling the air. He stops them with his hand, gripping it around mine. The heat of him filters into me, making me feel drunk.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” he tells me in a rough undertone. “You’ll give me ideas .”
The problem is: I like his ideas. I’m still thinking about what he said in the garage. About what it would feel like to lie in the backseat while he stood in front of me, watching, and then hitched my legs up around his waist so he could—
Swallowing, I unlock the door and open it—and gasp.
Because the place has been trashed.