Chapter 13
Loch
That asshole doesn’t even see me coming. I could get in a punch, or a few, knock him the fuck out before he knew what hit him.
The tall counter between us can’t save him, but I’m not looking to be arrested tonight for assault.
Pressing my hands against the marble in front of him, I lean in really fucking close.
He looks up with a grin I’m tempted to knock the fuck off his face. “Welcome to—Mr. Westcott?” Fear consumes him, causing his teeth to chatter like an animated skeleton. “How may . . .” His words stagger out of his mouth, and then he gulps heavily. “I, um, help you?”
“You ever talk to her again, and I’ll ruin your fucking life.”
Straightening his bow tie, he has the nerve to keep talking. “I tried to apologize, but she left.”
“So it’s her fault that you’re a skeevy little fucker?”
“No, sir. I just—”
“How about this? You want to keep your job?”
“Yes, sir?” he replies, lowering his voice as he looks behind him to make sure the coast is clear.
“You want to keep your teeth?” When his eyes practically bug out of his face, I continue, “Have her belongings packed and delivered to my address before I return from dinner. Better not be you. Don’t dare step one foot in that direction or near her stuff. You understand me?”
“Absolutely, sir. I’ll have concierge take care of it. And I’ll be comping her stay as well. With my deepest regret, my apologies.” When I keep glaring, he gulps again. “Sir.”
“That’s what I fucking thought.”
I turn and head for the Escalade. The flames continue to stoke my anger just thinking about how Tuesday was treated. A fucking call girl? She was attacked only a few days ago, and now she has to deal with this bullshit? Is she not safe anywhere?
I push through the door and see Brady standing with his arms crossed over his chest. “Anything I need to handle?” he asks like he’s ready to torch the earth if I ask him to.
The guy’s built like a tank, but I don’t need his help. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t let you fight my battles.”
He shrugs, a grin sneaking onto his face. “Always here if you need me.”
We give a quick fist bump before I open the back door and climb in, sliding into the fog of tension that’s built up while I was gone. By the time I buckle in, Brady is pulling away from the hotel. He glances back, and asks, “West Village?”
“Yes,” Tuesday is quick to reply when I say, “No.”
“You still want to go?” I ask, dropping my chin. Her gaze never wavers from mine despite what little light drifts in from the signs we pass outside.
“I thought you did?”
“I’m in no mood to deal with crowds on a Thursday night.” Unlike usual, I’m struggling to shake off this confrontation. Why?
“Then we shouldn’t go.” She shrugs, turning her gaze out her window, but nothing about her response—from her casual body language to her tone—backs what she’s saying.
Giving in isn’t a familiar trait of hers—either before or after she lost her memory. She has opinions and shares them freely. Something I respect, but I also appreciate the honesty. So what has changed?
Silence builds, shifting the air between us as I stare at her, waiting for anything other than her sacrificing her night for me. When she doesn’t elaborate, I look out my window, uncertain how to proceed. Call her out, or let her be?
My knee begins to bounce from the waning adrenaline still coursing through my veins.
I’ll be the first to admit that losing my temper is not good for my reputation.
It’s not good for the firm, and if my dad gets wind of tonight, I’ll soon be dealing with a tense phone call.
But I’m not in the wrong. I didn’t hit the fucker, after all.
That’s progress from back in high school when my brother, Harbor, and I got caught in a few scuffles. We never started it, but it was hard to walk away without finishing it. Not so unlike how I just behaved.
Anyway, the guy looked scared enough. I don’t see the weasel causing a commotion for fear of losing his job, so I should be in the clear.
I’m sure Tuesday would find it hard to believe I wasn’t always so buttoned up. “Classic” as she likes to call it. Or maybe she would after the display I just put on.
She glances over, her eyes lingering on my knee that’s still bouncing, and then raises an eyebrow before turning away. “Are you okay?”
“You were mugged, attacked, got a concussion, offered sex for money, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”
“Yes.” Angling her knees toward me, she rests her hand between us on the seat. “How are you, Loch?”
“I’m . . .” I start but then let the question sink in. How am I? How the fuck am I?
She finally says, “Maybe we shouldn’t go to dinner.”
When I look at her, my left hand still fisted by my side, I reply, “I’m angry.”
“Why? He didn’t call you a hooker.” A smile cracks through the gloom of the car.
I chuckle. “No, he didn’t.”
Sliding just a little closer, she says, “I appreciate you fighting for me, standing up for my honor, and all those amazing chivalrous things. But you don’t have to be my protector. It’s not your job or your responsibility.”
“I—”
“I know you want to help.” I’m captivated by the way the tips of her fingers tap against her chest and then slide over her delicate neck.
She reaches for me, gently prying my fist open and then pressing her palm to mine.
“I’m not something you can continue to check off your daily agenda.
If you want to spend time with me . . .” Even in the shadows of the SUV, I spy the sweetest pink creeping onto her cheeks.
She looks down, but when she gathers herself together again, she looks me in the eyes.
“I’d very much like that, but your duty is done, Loch. ”
“So what you’re saying is that you do want to go to dinner?”
She bursts out laughing, resting her head back with a smile that lights up my night. I don’t even think she realizes her fingers have curled around my hand when she asks, “How do you feel about staying in tonight?”
“Staying in with you sounds like a better plan.”
Just my luck.
16B would happen to be walking into the building behind us. I hold my arm in front of the elevator doors while they walk on, then join them. She drags her tongue over her full upper lip. “Thank you,” she whispers to me when she passes.
I keep my eyes on Tuesday or the shiny metal walls of this box. I will purposely avoid her at all costs. Tuesday has been a real sweetheart, but I have a feeling she’ll get some of her bite back if pushed too far.
The other woman doesn’t even try to hide the fact that she’s staring at me. Desperate for my attention, she shifts, aligning herself with me. My eyes flick to Tuesday in the reflection, who appears to be stuck in an eye roll.
I restrain a smirk, but barely.
16B glides off the elevator like she’s walking the runway but makes sure to say, “Good niiight,” to me as she exits.
Fuck, this won’t go over well.
The doors close, and Tuesday comes behind me. From behind my ear, she whispers, “Good niiight.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
She’s laughing, walking around the elevator like she finally has the run of the place. I turn around. “Who’s the model?” Her voice dances between teasing and genuine.
I don’t blame her for being curious. I’d be asking all about some dude if he acted like that with her. I reply, “Long story.”
The doors open, and she walks into the hall but stops to wait for me. “You know . . .”
Here it comes. Fortunately, she’s turned my mood around, and I can enjoy a little playful banter with her. “I do know. I know a lot.”
“And so humble, too, Mr. Westcott.” Her tone stays light, bordering on a giggle.
“I try to remember my roots.”
“Why do I have a feeling your roots were never humble?”
Money never meant bragging or above others in my family. She’ll see that when she meets my mother . . . Wait. My feet stop ten feet shy of my front door. Why would she meet my mom?
She keeps walking like she’s been here a million times before instead of once. Stopping in front of the door, she turns back, her brows cinching together as she waits for me.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I need to get her out of my head and realign my goals. As I unlock the door and she walks into my apartment, I realize there’s one fatal flaw to my plan.
I just told her she’s staying with me.
Does telling her she’s coming home with me equal a temporary situation, transitional, or moving in? Running my hand through my hair, I grumble, “Ah, fuck.” We probably should have put rules into place before making a drastic decision like this.
Too late . . .
She rushes to the windows, pressing her hands against the glass to look at the skyline. Glancing back at me, she says, “It’s more stunning at night.”
I close the door, locking it. “It is,” I say, making my way to see the view as if I don’t have the option every day. The thing I don’t do is leave fingerprints or, worse, handprints on the glass.
But it’s hard to be bothered when seeing the pure joy in her eyes. I add, “I’m rarely home during the day, so this is my view most of the time.”
She turns around, her back pressed against the glass. “It’s magical.”
I hold out my hand. When she takes it, I pull her closer. “Magical indeed.” Now that she’s safe, though, I move toward the kitchen. “Water? Soda? Wine?”
“Water, please.” She comes to the bar, resting her arms on it, watching me.
“Bubbles or flat?”
“I don’t even know what that means?” She shrugs and touches the faucet. “Tap works.”
I’ve never felt more pretentious in my life than I do right now. How did I acclimate to this life so quickly? I grab a pitcher from the fridge and pour a glass. “Filtered okay?”
“That works.” She takes a sip as I pour myself a glass. Resting her elbows on the bar, she has her back to me as she takes in the view again. “It’s weird what I remember and what I don’t.”
I come around and pull out a chair at the table.
“Like what?” I ask, then take a drink of my water.
Unable to keep my eyes off her, I watch as her expression flickers through a myriad of emotions.
“Like the age thing, or . . .” She stops herself and takes a deep breath.
Moving to the windows again, she smiles as she looks out, but it doesn’t counteract the sadness seen in her eyes.
Glancing at me, she says, “I don’t know if I can drive a car or what I do for a living.
What’s my favorite fruit? Do I have allergies?
I don’t know my own last name, but I know who the president is, and something in my gut tells me I love the ocean and going to the beach.
Do I like tuna casserole? How do I even know what tuna casserole is?
” Her face pinches, but she laughs, though the humor is lost. “See what I’m saying? ”
“It must be hard.”
We haven’t turned on a single lamp or light in the apartment but seeing the soft glow from the skyline against her skin has me thinking.
“I speak of my life in past tense like I’ve been reincarnated instead of what existed in this universe.
I was living an entirely different life earlier this week. ”
“Maybe this is your second chance to get it right.”
“That’s just it. Get what right? On the same line of thinking, maybe that’s why no one is looking for me. Maybe I was awful.”
“You weren’t awful, Tuesday.”
“How do you know? I’m tired of waiting to find out just so I can start living again.”
“I just know,” I say with conviction.
“What do you know about me?”
“That you were a great person. A strong woman. You don’t have to wait on anything or anyone. Just live.”
Massaging her temple, she drops her head down. “It’s a lot to process.”
I set my glass down and go to her. “It is, but you don’t have to do it alone.”
A half-hearted smile creases the corners of her mouth. “When are you going to stop trying to save me?”
I don’t know what makes me do it—her attempt at smiling to make me think she’s all right, the lights that shine like stars in her eyes when she’s looking up at me, or I’m just a sap when it comes to this woman—but I bring her into my arms and hold her tight. “When you no longer need me.”
She feels so right, and when her arms wrap around me, her cheek resting on my chest, I realize I was wrong. Asking her to be here isn’t my fatal flaw.
The thought of her leaving is.