A Daddy for Dillon (26 page)

“Maybe we need to go back to Atlanta,” Shane suggested. “Shutting that door
is
pretty damn permanent, Wy. Even you’ve got to admit that.”

Wyatt eyed his older brother. The eldest of his brothers at thirty-two, Shane was chief operating officer of JMF Financial. Slightly higher up the food chain than Wyatt was, but neither Wyatt’s nor Sawyer’s or Asher’s stake in the future of the company was any less important. “We can discuss it later.”

“But—”

“He’s right,” Asher said quietly. He was only a year younger than Shane, and as was often the case, when he
did
speak up, he was the voice of reason. “This isn’t the place.”

“You’ve all lost your minds,” Michael muttered. He was older than them all, and cousins or not, was used to calling the shots. “What
ever
is going on. You’re just gonna up and leave everything you’ve worked for at JMF. To stay in Red Rock.” He shook his head at what he clearly considered unfathomable, but thankfully dropped the subject and waved his finger over his squat glass. The bartender saw the signal, and poured him yet another shot.

The blonde was good at her job. Efficient. Didn’t linger, listening in. The reception had an open bar, but Wyatt figured he’d still leave the girl a healthy tip. She’d certainly earned it.

The voluptuous hostess slipped past again and Wyatt tracked her progress without really realizing it. The bartender was a pretty blonde who looked like she’d be just as at home batting around a volleyball on the beach as she did working behind the busy bar. In contrast, the hostess was a stunning knockout with enough curves to please a Formula 1 driver.

Wyatt wasn’t a race car driver. And while he usually tended toward tall, athletic women more like the bartender, he found himself definitely appreciating the hostess’s heady curves. Watching her was a lot more pleasurable than dwelling on the mess they’d left behind in Atlanta.

A mess that he and his brothers had had no hand in creating, but one they sure as hell had to live with.

The bartender stopped in front of him. “Sure I can’t get you something stronger, Mr. Fortune?”

He shook his head. He’d learned a long time ago that he couldn’t keep up with his brothers when it came to liquor. “I’ll stick with the soda, thanks.”

“Designated driver?”

“On occasion.” At this stage, neither his brothers nor his cousin looked like they were going to stop drinking anytime soon, so maybe he would be filling that role that night, as well. Michael had arrived at the reception with the wedding party in one of the limousines. Wyatt and his brothers had driven over in one of their rental cars.

“Let me know if I can get you anything else,” the bartender offered, and experience told Wyatt she wasn’t only talking about drinks. But even after conveying the message, she was already in motion again. Wyatt turned against the bar until it was behind his back and leaned on his elbows. He wasn’t interested in the bartender. He wasn’t interested in anyone.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of auburn hair and his gaze followed it.

“Hard to believe Emily’s married,” Michael mused, beside him.

Wyatt grunted in agreement. His died-in-the-wool career cousin had been as devoted to FortuneSouth Enterprises as her brother, Michael, still was. Like Wyatt and his brothers, his cousins had been raised up in their father’s Atlanta-based business, though FortuneSouth was a telecommunications company while Wyatt’s father, James Marshall Fortune, had founded the financial firm, JMF. Everyone in the family knew there was no love lost between James and his younger brother, John, even though only a few years separated them. James hadn’t even bothered coming to Red Rock for his niece’s wedding.

But everyone also knew that the two brothers were pretty much cut from the same cloth—workaholics who were driven to succeed, and had. Many times over.

John, however, had never pulled a stunt like Wyatt’s father, James, had. Not as far as he was aware, at least. Emily had quit working for her father because she’d followed in the footsteps of all of her siblings—save Michael—who’d transplanted themselves to Red Rock, all in the name of love.

“The Red Rock curse,” Michael murmured beside him, his thoughts obviously running the same course as Wyatt’s. “Weddings every time we turn around. Enough to give a man the willies.”

“Weddings aren’t always a curse,” Asher countered.

Michael’s eyebrows shot up. “
How
long ago did you sign those divorce papers of yours?”

Asher’s lips thinned. “Some marriages work.”

“Read the statistics. These days, more of ’em don’t,” Michael returned. “You won’t find me ever going down on bended knee.” He had to raise his voice over the pulsing beat of the music. He turned until his back was to the bar like Wyatt’s and sipped his drink. “Not that I’m against women, mind you,” he added, his gaze on the gaggle of young women who’d crowded on to the dance floor. They obviously didn’t care that none of their dates were out there with them; they were dancing and shaking, shoes kicked off and hooting as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

Wyatt’s gaze moved on from them and he realized he was searching for a sign of the hostess again. She was probably about the age of the women on the dance floor. It was too bad she was working and wasn’t out there, too. But he didn’t spot her. Maybe she’d already gotten off duty and had left.

He thought about leaving himself, but controlled the urge and eventually, the reception finally started to wind down. Wyatt had counted off several more rounds of drinks that his brothers and Michael knocked back, and they started making noises about checking out what was left of the New Year’s Eve festivities elsewhere in town. Particularly the prospect of encountering some unattached lovelies.

Wyatt wasn’t interested in more music or booze or women. He was interested in the truth behind his father’s inexplicable betrayal. A truth that, so far, hadn’t been forthcoming from any quarter, least of all the old man.

“Last call, gentlemen.” Despite working her tail off for several hours, the bartender looked as perky as ever. “Anything I can get you?”

“We’re heading out, hon,” Michael told her, his trademark smile in place. He reached over the bar for a clean glass and set it on the bar, then tucked several bills from his wallet into it. “You be sure and find some lucky man to kiss at midnight.”

The bartender shook her head, looking rueful. “
Hon,
midnight came and went an hour ago.”

Wyatt hid a smile, but typically, Michael let that little detail roll right off his back. “Every night has a midnight,” he drawled.

“That it does,” she agreed, her amusement deepening. She nudged the glass back toward Michael. “And that’s not necessary tonight, Mr. Fortune.” Her gaze took in the rest of them. “You boys going to be taking a cab, or is Mr. Designated Driver on duty?”

“They’re cabbin’ it,” Wyatt answered before anyone else could. The hostess had just reappeared through the kitchen door and his interest in getting out of there dwindled. He looked over at the bartender and swirled his glass in a circle on the bar. “Hit me one more time, would you please?”

“You bet.” In seconds, she’d given him a fresh smile and a fresh soda before turning away to fill the flurry of orders she’d gotten for last call.

“Going to hang here for a while, huh?” Michael gave him a speculative look, hanging back while Wyatt’s brothers headed to the front of the restaurant. Asher stopped for a moment to talk to the curvaceous hostess and Wyatt figured he was asking about arranging for a cab.

Again, his gaze held on the line of her creamy spine, revealed here and there by the intriguing cut-outs of her form-fitting black dress. “Gonna be quieter here than it will be wherever you guys decide to go,” he told his cousin.

Michael laughed beneath his breath. “I’ve seen what you’ve been eyeing all night.
Quiet
isn’t on your mind.”

Wyatt’s fingers tightened around the cold glass. It was easier to let his cousin think his distraction with the shapely hostess was responsible for his decision to hang back than to explain the black hole that was yawning open inside of him. After the last few days of wedding festivities, he just wanted to be left alone. “She’s not a what, Mike.” Nobody ever shortened Michael’s name. “She’s a who.”

Michael’s smile sharpened even more. “As long as whoever she is manages to help you lighten up, without you ending up down on
your
knee.”

Wyatt grimaced. His cousin should know better. Marriage was no higher on Wyatt’s list than it was on Michael’s.

“Maybe you’ll come to your senses about returning to Atlanta along the way,” Michael finished. He reached across the bar and set the glass with the hefty tip he’d left on the bartender’s stainless steel work area then gave Wyatt a slap on the shoulder before crossing the restaurant.

Despite the alcohol Wyatt knew he’d consumed, his cousin’s steps were as sure as ever.

He exhaled and watched them all push through the front door of the restaurant. There was no way Wyatt would be reconsidering his decision about returning to Atlanta. He’d drawn the line in the sand. His father had stubbornly refused to explain his actions regarding the family company, JMF Financial. Which meant that, if anything, Wyatt would only be digging that line deeper and wider. He had right on his side, while his dad was drowning in wrong. There was just no other way to categorize James’s decision to sell the company out from under them.

He slowly finished his drink, his thoughts turned inward and only when the D.J. finally stopped the music did he add his own contribution to the bartender’s tip glass. She gave him a good-natured smile tinged with a hint of regret.

He pretended not to notice. He just wasn’t interested. So he left the bar and the restaurant behind, and headed out into the cold night. He didn’t have to bother saying his goodbyes to anyone in the family; they’d all left and he’d be seeing them again later in the morning at the brunch being held at their hotel. His mother had reminded him three separate times about the brunch, as if she’d suspected—correctly enough—that he’d had more than his fill of wedding folderol.

His rental car was only one of a few still remaining in the parking lot. When he reached it, he unlocked the car and climbed in. But instead of starting the engine, he sighed again, staring blindly at the steering wheel.

They hadn’t broken the news to Clara yet that they wouldn’t be going home. It didn’t take a genius to know that his mother wouldn’t be thrilled. She’d never been involved in the running of JMF, but she’d always been involved in her children. The fact that they were all adults with their own lives hadn’t changed that at all.

He raked back his hair, digging his fingers into the back of his tight neck. Deciding to draw that line in the sand had been the only thing to do, considering what their father had done. But how were they going to break the news to their mother? As far as she knew, they were all scheduled to leave for Atlanta after the brunch. They needed to let her know they wouldn’t be accompanying her.

“Sir? Would you like a cab after all?”

Jerked from his thoughts, Wyatt frowned and looked up.

The hostess from the restaurant stood beside the car, a brilliant red scarf draped around her shoulders. She was leaning down slightly and even though the only light to speak of came from the dome light in the rental car, he could see the way her eyebrows crinkled together over her eyes. He was hard-pressed to know where to look—at those dark eyes of hers or the spectacular cleavage that was leaning over him, barely inches from his face. He noticed no rings on the fingers wrapped in her shawl, but aside from that, he resolutely kept his gaze above her neck. It wasn’t exactly easy. “Do you follow all your customers out to their cars?”

Aware of the dismissive glance the man gave her chest, Sarah-Jane jerked the shawl more closely around her shoulders, clutching it together tightly with her fist. “I only follow the ones who’ve been drinking and want to drive.” She managed to keep her voice cool, which was a feat since she’d never done such a thing in her entire life. But she certainly wasn’t going to let down Maria and Jose Mendoza.

The handsome man frowning up at her had held court at the bar with his companions for hours. She didn’t even want to contemplate the restaurant’s liability if he drove while intoxicated.

Although, she had to admit, even in the dim light, he didn’t exactly look intoxicated.

And then, he planted his foot on the ground and slid out from behind the steering wheel to stand in front of her.

She swallowed hastily, taking a step back, only to feel her ankle wobble in the high heel.

His hand shot out and he steadied her. Even adding the toe-pinching stilts to her five-foot-seven height, he was still a few inches taller than she was. And his shoulders were so wide, they actually made her feel like hers weren’t.

“I think you might be the one who needs a cab.”

He was laughing at her. She jerked her elbow away and took another careful, nonwobbling, step back. “The pavement’s uneven,” she defended, then wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

“Then you’d better be careful,” he warned lightly. He looked down at her feet. “It’d be a crying shame if something happened to one of those beautiful ankles of yours.”

Definitely laughing at her. “It’d be a crying shame if something happened to that beautiful car you shouldn’t be driving,” she returned.

He looked up at the pitch black sky for a moment. When he looked back down at her, his smile was right out there in the open. But before her defenses turned her completely into a block of stone, he stuck out his hand. “Wyatt Fortune. And aside from one shot and a bit of champagne, I was drinking soda all night. But I can walk a straight line if you want me to.”

Sarah-Jane stared at the hand extended toward her. Okay, so she’d spent half the night inside the restaurant trying not to be caught watching him. And it really had been concern for everyone’s safety that had prompted her to approach him when she’d seen the way he’d just been sitting alone so oddly in his car. He hadn’t even closed his car door.