Chapter 13
CHELSEA
Three days later, I was downtown again, only this time I was going to park as far away as possible from Indigo Street and the offices of Reilly and Sons as I could. It was difficult, in a small town, of course—everything was a ten-minute walk from everywhere once you were over the bridge.
And it was impossible not to feel anything.
I pulled into a spot on Maple Street, a few blocks on the other side of town from Betsey’s, where I was meeting Jude for our lunch. The one we’d planned on the dog disaster day.
Or the I-almost-kissed-Eli’s-best-friend-day.
Though it had been three whole days, I couldn’t stop thinking about Seamus and what had happened between us.
Every time it came up, I tried to remind myself nothing had happened.
Which, honestly, it didn’t, really. We didn’t kiss.
We didn’t say anything beyond what two acquaintances might say to each other.
But he’d blown on my neck, among other, more direct things.
I never thought I’d consider blowing air a move, but it had been the straight-up sexiest thing I’d ever experienced, outside of sex.
Even now, it sent shivers down my body, right down between my legs.
What had transpired between me and Seamus hadn’t been innocent.
We’d crossed a line we weren’t supposed to cross.
One I’d promised myself I’d stay away from.
One Eli would lose his shit over.
Not that I cared about Eli’s feelings on the matter. What did matter was that Eli would lose his shit on Seamus. That Seamus had told me how vital his friendship with Eli was, and how I knew I couldn’t do anything to risk that.
I cut the engine. I should have gotten out—should have stepped out into the crisp October air and walked over to Betsey’s to save a seat, as Jude was habitually late and Betsey’s habitually busy at the Friday lunch rush.
Instead, a jolt of nerves hit me. I hadn’t been around this many people since the I-almost-kissed-Seamus day, and that hadn’t exactly gone well.
I thought of being in the crowded cafe, with its press of people.
Betsey’s was often filled with as many tourists as locals, as famous as it had become.
I’d thought meeting up with Jude in a crowded place would be fine, seeing as everyone would be staring at him.
But as I pulled down my visor mirror, my stomach swayed.
I’d put on makeup before I left the house—just a little mascara and blush, plus a pair of hammered brass circle pendant earrings.
My bruises were almost gone, and I’d fixed up my hair, too.
But there was no hiding.
I pressed my fingers along the new, lower-profile bandage running across my face.
My scar was healing, and no longer required the thick absorbent gauze.
It didn’t require any bandage at all, the doctor had said at my checkup yesterday.
The stitches were gone, and it was healing well.
But I still couldn’t bring myself to take the bandage off outside the house.
An angry pink raised scar ran the length of my face, from my forehead across the bridge of my nose and cheekbone.
Seamus had acted like he didn’t care about the bandage. But everyone else did that day. Everyone else would stare, like they always did, and as much as I wanted to pretend I didn’t care either, it didn’t feel great.
My phone buzzed, and I snapped the visor shut.
JUDE: Get me the pot pie if you’re there already.
CHELSEA: I’m not.
JUDE: Are you hiding in your car?
CHELSEA: Maybe.
JUDE: We can go somewhere else? Takeout?
I was touched by Jude’s thoughtfulness. And as I held the phone in my hands a moment, I was sorely tempted to take him up on hiding.
But I spread out my hand, taking in the scab on my palm, already healing.
I recalled Seamus treating my wounds, looking after me like it was his job.
It wasn’t only Seamus who’d helped me, it was his dad, too, when he took the dog.
The woman at the front, Joyce, when she’d given me the name of a good puppy trainer.
His dad hadn’t stared at my face like I was some kind of monster.
Joyce hadn’t either. They’d all been so kind to me, and I hadn’t so much as sent a thank-you card.
I picked up my phone again.
CHELSEA: No, Betsey’s is good. But if you have a minute can you run an errand with me first?
If Jude was with me when I went back to Reilly and Sons, there was no chance of anything happening between me and Seamus. Specifically, no confession or oversharing or… anything I couldn’t do with a brother around.
As it turned out, Jude was only a few blocks away, and a few minutes later, as I rounded the corner, I saw my brother striding down the sidewalk.
He opened his arms. “Nutty!”
I grimaced at his ridiculous nickname for me, his adaptation of Mom and Dad’s ‘peanut’ moniker for me.
I wished, for the first time ever, that I had his absolute inability to understand embarrassment.
With his easy gait, confident, upbeat tone, and blond hair tied in a knot on the top of his head, Jude oozed confidence.
He could belt out the theme song to Sesame Street and make it look good.
A pair of young women I didn’t recognize turned and openly gawked at him as he passed, whispering something to each other.
Jude was oblivious, of course, and when he reached me, pulled me into a bear hug.
He’d grown accustomed to fame during his pro-tennis career, and had been good-looking all his life.
He was cocky because of it, though he wasn’t conceited.
But that was because he didn’t even have to try to look the way he did.
He literally walked around in ripped jeans or tracksuits and probably forgot to shower on a regular basis and still he had women fawning all over him.
“Ugh,” I said, getting a whiff of his armpits and pushing away from him. He definitely forgot to shower this morning.
“Oh yeah, sorry. Did a quick ten miles this morning.”
“A quick ten miles,” I laughed. When Cass and I used to run together, we never ran more than five and that took us probably just as long as Jude’s ten. Occasionally, we’d run into Jude down on the river trail. He loved flying by us hollering “On your left!” Captain-America style.
“Why bother showering when I’m doing demos this afternoon at work, anyway?”
He meant tennis demos. He was the recreation director at the Rolling Hills, a job he skimmed by on with charm, talent, and zero care or interest in any of the “job” aspects of the job.
But he got away with it because he was Jude Kelly, former two-time US Open tennis champ.
All he had to do was a ten-minute podcast interview, plug the Rolling Hills, and our booking rates went through the roof.
And unlike me, I didn’t sense that he had any suppressed urges to spread his wings—he’d already done that. Besides, Jude shouldn’t be spreading anything right now, least of all his arms, which he was doing on purpose, a childish grin on his face.
“I don’t know, hygiene maybe?” I said, fake coughing, and waving my hand in front of my nose as he raised his arms up and sniffed.
He grinned, and I pinched my own smile into a fake frown, rolling my eyes. Jude threw his arm around me. He knew exactly how charming he was.
“Thanks again for doing this with me,” I said. I told Jude a little about what happened, leaving out a couple of key details. Like how I’d almost been run over. And anything more than just ‘Seamus helped me with a couple of bandages.’
He laughed, of course, at the thought of me chasing a dog through downtown.
I tried to put on a bright face, like it had been hilarious.
Then he’d told me he understood—he and Jack were dog-sitting his friend Rafe’s pug.
“Rafe has a pug?” Rafe wasn’t really Jude’s friend—he was Griff’s.
But years ago he’d been Jude’s bodyguard, back when Jude was the hottest thing on the tennis courts.
I still associated Rafe with Jude, even though since Jude’s career ended, he and Griff had started doing business together.
What kind of business he was doing exactly I couldn’t say, but I did know a pug didn’t seem anything like Rafe.
He didn’t really seem like a dog person at all, and if he was, I’d peg him for more of a tough-guy kind of animal.
“He acquired it,” Jude had said, laughing. “Anyway, Jack loves the little guy. I dunno if he’ll be able to give him up when Rafe gets back.”
I’d thought of Lola, and how even though she’d put me in danger, it had been hard handing her back to Mia even after a day.
“So, what are you thinking?” Jude asked now. “Fridge magnets?”
I gave him a glare. “No, not fridge magnets.” There was a tourist shop up the street I’d told Jude I wanted to stop at, but now that I thought about it, I wasn’t sure anything there was really appropriate.
Then my shoulders sagged. What was I supposed to get the people who were so kind to me?
One of whom I kept losing my head thinking about?
I thought of Seamus’s teeth closing on my ear, then pinched my eyes shut to clear the vision.
Not now. Not ever, but especially not now, with Jude here.
“Do you have any better suggestions?” I asked, making my voice as bright as possible.
“How about flowers?”
I frowned. That would be my go-to for literally anyone else. But Seamus? “Do men like flowers?”
“Sure they do. But you’re giving them to the office, aren’t you?”
Of course I’d been thinking of Seamus. “I mean, yeah. Seamus, his dad, and the receptionist.”
Jude gave me a strange look.
Had I stammered slightly?
Then he shrugged. “I dunno. I like flowers.”
I also loved a good flower arrangement. At the events I planned at the Rolling Hills, I often built the decor around whatever blooms I thought suited the occasion.
There was a time, too, when I’d painted flowers.
Filled whole books with sketches of them.
Flowers and sunrises and sunsets. And portraits.
Those had all been things I loved. I thought about Seamus’s suggestion that I try making art again…
the thought filled me with dread. But there was a hint of something else, too.
Something pressing at me from somewhere way down deep.
Like fear, layered on top of some ancient seed of hope and possibility.
Flowers. I could do flowers.
“Okay then,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
We headed to my favorite floral shop over on Lily Avenue.
The arrangements were gorgeous, and I chose a fall-themed one to go with the weather, with artfully arranged sprigs of spruce boughs, and orange lanterns.
Luckily the owner, who I did a ton of business with at the Rolling Hills, wasn’t in, so I could buy anonymously.
A few minutes later, we were on our way to Reilly and Sons, bouquet and quickly scrawled card in hand. I’d kept the note as generic as possible: thank-you for your kindness.
Jude was telling a cute story about Jack that miraculously managed to distract me until suddenly we were at the front door of the office. Now, my palms began to sweat.
But this was stupid. I had nothing to be nervous about. Besides, I didn’t even need to see Seamus—I could just hand the box over to Joyce and we could be on our way. My excuse was walking right beside me.
“Oh my goodness!” Joyce exclaimed as we came in the door, her eyes on the flowers, then me, then Jude.
“A little something for you,” Jude said, winking, and she blushed, bringing her hand to her hair.
I had to fight to not roll my eyes at my ridiculous brother. Instead, I said, “Actually, they are for you, but also Seamus and Mr. Reilly. To say thank you for your help the other day.”
“My dear, you didn’t have to do that!” Joyce exclaimed, looking truly touched. “Let me call the boys.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” I said, a little too quickly. “We’re just heading out to lunch, so, maybe just pass on my thanks and—”
“It’s not like we have reservations,” Jude said. “It’s just Betsey’s.”
Now I didn’t so much as want to roll my eyes at Jude as throttle him. “Well, you have to get back to work.” I tilted my head at him, looking hard with my eyebrows up, praying he would get the damn hint.
This had been a terrible idea. I didn’t want to see Seamus again. I couldn’t see Seamus again. Not if I wanted to keep my head clear.
But my blockhead brother just shrugged his shoulders. “Nah, I’m the boss! Anyway, I should thank Seamus myself, for y’know, helping my sister.”
I sputtered, but Joyce was already smiling. She picked up the phone and pressed a button.
“Jude,” I hissed.
“What?”
But Joyce was already talking to one of the Reilly men, telling him he had visitors, and hanging up the phone.
My stomach flipped, and to my surprise, an ancient feeling came over me then, one that made me feel like a little kid again.
It was the feeling of clamming up, of not wanting to say anything at all.
This happened when I felt a situation spinning out of control—I became that scared little girl again who refused to speak—who hid behind her mom until she’d pick me up and whisper it was okay; that there was nothing I had to say.
But I wasn’t a little girl anymore, and Mom wasn’t here.
Seamus was though, pushing through the door with that expression I realized I knew so well on him—contained reservation. Quiet, careful silence.
His eyes locked on mine.