Chapter 43
SHAY
A few blocks down Spadina, my mind a thousand miles away, flashing lights flicker through my rear window. “Shit.”
As I signal and pull over to the side of the road, I mentally catalogue what infraction I could have violated to attract the police. The needle on my speedometer is only a few clicks above the limit, my lights are on, and my license renewal is up to date.
I don’t have so much as a speeding ticket.
Maybe there’s an APB out for a forlorn, cupcake-obsessed woman who can’t get her life together.
A tall man approaches, his uniform blues highlighted by the occasional passing headlight. He raps his knuckles on my window. “Please step out of your car, ma’am.”
Ma’am. I almost snicker, but I’m pretty sure he asked me to step out of my car, not roll down my window or extricate my license and registration. Only felons and serial killers are asked to step from their cars.
I flip my door handle with shaky fingers, suddenly vulnerable on the side of the road. At night. Alone. “Is there a problem?” I ask once I’m out.
I glance around, wildly now, sure there’s a hidden camera.
A TV crew? Some sort of explanation. The nearest intersection is two blocks away.
The sidewalk is empty at this time of night.
The cop’s cap is pulled low, no hint of humor on his face.
And there’s no partner in his car. Don’t all cops have to work in pairs?
“I’m sorry. There must be some mistake.” I eye my purse on the passenger seat, frantically wondering how to get my phone and call the girls. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
“Shay Gallagher?”
There goes that theory. “Yes,” I say, drawing out the word.
Maybe something happened at work. A break-in? Or Maeve could’ve faked evidence at a crime scene because she thinks I’m the reason she got fired. Or… I picture my folks in an accident, and my stomach drops. Spots cloud my vision.
Before I stroke out, the cop places a piece of paper in my hand. “This is for you.”
Pulse thundering, I unfold the sheet, only to be faced with familiar writing.
Un-freaking-believable.
Kolton’s note reads:
If you’re done pretending you can live without me, get in the car. Eric will be your chauffeur. The wooing will begin shortly.
My relief is so palpable I drop my head forward.
Kolton wants me. He hasn’t moved on. I don’t have to chase him down tomorrow.
I’m not going to jail.
Also? What kind of jerk plans a stunt like this?
“Are you all right, Ms. Gallagher? Sorry for the show. Kolton can be persistent.”
Chuckling, I lift my head. “You have no idea.” Note in hand, I finally relax. “Let’s do this. But what about my car?”
“Raven is on her way over. She’ll drop it at your place.”
Of course my friends are in on this ridiculous plan.
Eric helps me into the backseat and closes the door, my worry and irritation from moments ago now excitement. I adjust my leather jacket, wishing I weren’t wearing faded jeans and a white T-shirt, my beige bra way too ordinary for a Kolton reunion.
Guess he’ll have to take me as I am.
My knee bounces restlessly as Eric makes eye contact through the rearview mirror. “There’s a phone on the seat beside you with a music playlist cued up. Enjoy the ride.”
I slide the ear buds in and select the playlist titled Shay.
Four songs appear:
“Love Interruption”
“We Belong”
“Together”
“Just the Way You Are”
He was serious about the wooing.
Leaning back, I close my eyes as I listen to Jack White’s “Love Interruption,” his raw voice demanding love’s pain. The torture. The sweet agony. That or nothing.
Pat Benatar’s “We Belong” drums into my chest next, her message loud and clear: for better or for worse, there’s no denying love.
By the time Ne-Yo’s “Together” plays, a tear slips down my cheek, his smooth R & B rhythm telling of devotion, lingering scars from past relationships, and healing.
Then there’s Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are.”
As the last note plays, the car stops. Timed perfectly with the music.
I wipe my cheeks and sit up, full to brimming with everything I’ve denied myself the past weeks.
For a lifetime, really. It’s dark outside, but the Toronto Convention Center is recognizable, as is the outline of a figure by the entrance—hair loose to his shoulders, thumbs hanging on his pockets.
My heart skips a beat. Kolton.