Come On Closer (12 page)

A
little after two, when the daily lull kicked in, Larkin boxed up a few items—and then added a few more—and headed over to Sullivan and Associates.

She wasn't sure what to expect from Shane in his natural habitat, though given their conversation last night, she didn't think it really
was
his natural habitat. She'd driven by the building plenty of times. It was an old brick building not far from the square, with an elegant gold-lettered sign hung beside the door. Her own experience with lawyers was limited to the rare occasions Journey O'Neill had dragged her along to the dingy little office of the cousin of a friend of a friend who worked for cheap, always to fight over unpaid child support. Maybe her memories would have been better if any of the money that lawyer had occasionally managed to procure from her deadbeat father had ever improved her life in any noticeable way, but . . .

Nope, not going down that memory hole.
Larkin shrugged it off and parked along the street, grabbing the pink-and-white handled bag on the seat beside her. Today had been a good day so far. No reason to ruin it by rolling around in her past. She had to be in the right mood for a good wallow anyway.

Still, when she stepped inside the office, it was hard not to be struck by the difference between her memories and Shane's reality. The waiting area was comfortable, wood floors covered by an Oriental rug, chairs with spindly legs and striped cushions, and a glass table covered in neat stacks of magazines. She was going to take a wild guess that this office didn't subscribe to the glossy gossip rags she had fun catching up on at the dentist and the salon.

“Can I help you?” The receptionist's head popped up behind a small window on the far wall, eyes full of polite disinterest. For just an instant Larkin was sixteen again, young and awkward and gangly in some cheap dress that would never cover as much of her legs as she wanted it to. She felt exposed, judged, and written off . . . after which came the flash of anger at herself that she'd allowed those old feelings to creep in.

I belong here. If I've ever belonged anywhere, it's Harvest Cove.
She squared her shoulders and smiled at the receptionist.

“Hi! I'm here to see Shane.” She held up her bag. “Is he in?”

The coolly polite smile turned into a more natural one, banishing any of Larkin's lingering anxiety. “He is. I thought I recognized you. Larkin O'Neill, right? Love your brownies.”

“Thanks!” Her instincts had been right. Apparently,
she'd needed the reminder that they usually were. “Actually . . . I have a couple of brownies in here. Some of this is for Shane, but I brought a bunch of extra in case anybody was hungry,” she said, and watched the receptionist's face light up. Food, she thought, was always a good way to break the ice. It made people happy, and she was all about that.

“Really? You have brownies? You're
sharing
?”

“I'm sharing,” she said, and walked to the window, pulling out the top box. “If you could just let Shane know I'm here—”

“Oh, I will! I'm just really excited to see chocolate.” Her voice lowered. “It's been one of those weeks.”

“Totally understand.” Larkin opened the box, lifted out a big chunky brownie wrapped in paper, and handed it over. “Better with wine, but a glass of milk works, too.”

“Coffee. Perfect with coffee,” the woman said, crooning at the dessert in a way that made Larkin wonder whether she was going to hear “my precious” or something. Chocolate did strange things to people. Instead, she got a warm smile and an invitation to have a seat. “I'll let him know. He should be right out.”

Larkin put the box back in her bag and wandered over to the seats along the far wall, smiling. The receptionist's reaction was what she lived for—it never ceased to amaze her how food could completely change the equation between people. A little sugar went a long way, both in baked goods and in life.

She was just sitting down when Shane strode through the door separating the waiting area from the offices. He was a little dressier than usual, wearing a dark sport coat and a silvery-gray tie, and just that little
bit extra transformed him into someone she'd never quite seen before. It was easy to forget Shane had a real job, considering how much time he spent both not talking about it and wandering away from it.

She wouldn't be forgetting again.

“Hey,” he said, his eyes warming immediately when they met hers. “You came.”

“I meant what I said, and I said what I meant,” Larkin replied with a smirk. She dangled the bag in front of her. “I come bearing gifts, as promised.”

“Come on back, I've got a little time.” He glanced at the receptionist, who had torn off a chunk of brownie and was trying, unsuccessfully, to shove it in her mouth before anyone noticed what she was doing. “Oh, come—Deb, did she try to bribe her way past the desk?”

Deb shrugged. “Don't know, don't care. This is my favorite day at work ever.”

He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Giving away my food,” he said, arching an eyebrow at Larkin before beckoning her forward. “Come on. Before any more of my brownies mysteriously end up in other people's mouths.”

“I brought extra,” Larkin informed him as she followed. “To share.”

“I don't share.”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” she said as they moved past two doors. One was closed, but the other contained a pretty brunette at a desk. She looked up curiously as they passed. Larkin waved.

“It's more like a defining personality trait,” Shane replied, and led her into his office. Larkin noted that he quickly shut the door behind them before she turned to take a look around. It was very . . . dark. The
furniture was all heavy, dark wood, mahogany maybe, and it sat on an Oriental rug that was patterned in shades of burgundy and deep blue. A large bookcase sat against one wall, full of books that looked both dense and lethally boring. His diplomas hung on the other wall, and a pair of windows behind his desk looked out onto the snow-covered yard.

Two low-backed chairs were turned to face the desk. There was a much bigger chair behind it. She could imagine this version of Shane behind it, but it gave her a strange feeling. She supposed she hadn't understood just how big the difference was between his current career and the one he seemed to be toying with. She'd only ever really wanted to do one thing. It hadn't been easy, but it had made some things easier. It had saved her from this sort of career crisis, for one thing.

“So what did you bring me?” he asked, moving in on her.

She laughed helplessly when he hooked his fingers into her belt loop and hauled her against him. She might have gotten him to agree to hitting pause on the sexual part of things, but he didn't seem to have any intention of keeping his hands off her. She couldn't say she minded.

“Sugar,” Larkin said, and his grin was wicked.

“Good. I could use something sweet in my day.”

She knew what he was doing only a split second before he did it. Larkin's eyes widened. “Shane, you're going to smush the
mmph
—”

He had some awfully smooth moves for such a big guy, and any concern she had about smashed baked goods vanished as soon as he kissed her. Her noise of protest when their lips met quickly turned into a sigh
of pleasure. The hand she'd braced against his chest relaxed against the soft fabric of his shirt, fingers splaying before sliding up to cup the back of his neck. His tongue swept inside her mouth to tease and taste, and Larkin only dimly felt the tugging at the back of her head before her hair tumbled around her shoulders.

“Hey.” It was as much of a complaint as she could muster under the circumstances, and a breathless one at that. Probably because he'd decided to nibble her earlobe. “I can't go back to work like this.”

“Good. Stay here. I love your hair. I've thought a lot about how it would look spread out on my desk.”

“Oh.” The image was immediately seared into her mind—cool wood against her back, Shane's muscular form braced over her, hot skin against hot skin, driving into her until she was half out of her mind with—

“Well, this must be the mystery woman. Sorry to interrupt.”

Larkin sucked in a breath and tried to pull away, but Shane's hands tightened on her, allowing her only a tiny bit of distance before he slid one hand around to encircle her back. The gesture probably looked casual, but she could feel the tension thrumming through him and knew it had nothing to do with her. Shane's voice, rumbling up from deep within his chest, told her everything she needed to know in two simple words.

“Hi, Dad.”

•   •   •

Sorry to interrupt, my ass.

Shane turned to look at his father peering in the doorway and wondered who'd tipped him off. Normally, a closed door was a clear sign not to come barging in. But then, Jim Sullivan wasn't great at boundaries, at
least where other people were concerned. Especially when those people were his family.

“For a second I thought you were actually working in here.” His father's voice stayed pleasant, jovial, even. But Shane got the message. He ought to, since it was always the same:
You're not working hard enough; quit being such a slacker and make me proud
.

Easier said than done, as he knew from long experience.

“Yeah, well, busted,” Shane replied, uninterested in sparring with him right now. His heart rate had calmed down, as had other parts of his body, but his frustration with being interrupted wasn't likely to go away anytime soon. That look she'd given him when he'd mentioned having her on his desk could have melted steel. “This is Larkin O'Neill,” he added, and tried not to grind it out through gritted teeth. His father's big smile and cold eyes were an indication that today was going to be another one of those days he hated being a Sullivan.

“Larkin,” Jim said. “Pretty name. Very unusual.”

“Thank you,” Larkin replied. A glance at her told Shane she wasn't sure what to make of the man in front of them. She'd figure it out soon enough. Most people did. Not that they usually had the guts to say it to his father's face, which was a wise decision. “It's an old family name,” she finished, and smiled. It was so genuine that he felt a tight pain in his chest. She had no idea how wasted sweetness was here.

“Oh?” Jim smiled back. It didn't get anywhere near his eyes. “And where's your family from? I don't think I know any O'Neills around here, and I know just about everyone.” He laughed, and Shane briefly considered grabbing Larkin around the waist and busting
out through the window. Instead, he decided to cut off the current line of questioning.

“I'm from Californi—”

“Hey, Dad, Larkin just stopped in for a minute to drop something off. You can interrogate her some other time,” Shane said. “We've both got to get back to work. I'm sure you've got other things to do while I say good-bye.”

Jim's smile hardened into a thin line. “I'm never too busy to pay attention to my son's life. Why don't the two of you come for dinner this weekend? Say Saturday around six. Your mother's been complaining you don't stop by more often, you know.” Shane knew that tone, and it was the one that brooked no argument. Dinner was happening, and no plausible excuse magically appeared to get him out of it. If his mother had been complaining, it really
had
been a while. He was stuck.

“All right,” he muttered. His guest, however, didn't seem inclined to go so easily.

“Ah,” Larkin said, “I don't usually get home until about six thirty on Saturdays, and—”

“That's fine. We'll make it seven,” Jim said, waving his hand dismissively. “I'll have Malia whip something up.”

“Malia Breton?” she asked, her frown deepening.

“Yes, our personal chef,” Jim replied. “Does excellent work, much better than the last one.” His mouth quirked up in a humorless little smile. “You know her?”

“A little. We're friendly. She's very talented,” Larkin replied. Shane caught the edge of his father's sharp gaze and ignored it. Sullivans weren't expected to date the help, or friends of the help. Not publicly, anyway.
Lucky for him this was one of the parts of being a Sullivan he had no problem jettisoning.

“Well, you'll have to say hello to her when you arrive. Saturday, it is,” Jim said.

Shane felt Larkin stiffen, and he remembered her Saturday dinners with Gina.
Would have been nice if you'd remembered before.
She tried to protest. “But on Saturdays I always—”

“Let your mother know if you have any special requests,” Jim said to him, rolling right over Larkin. “We'll look forward to seeing you, Larkin.” He left, shutting the door behind him, though not without a look at Shane that clearly said,
You do what you're told.
It was a look he'd seen plenty of times before, usually when his father sensed his only child was about to do something of which he would not approve. The man had some kind of psychic gift when it came to that.

He sighed and turned to look at Larkin, who was still staring at the door with her mouth half-open. Then she turned the full force of her green eyes on him, and she was definitely not happy.

“What was that?” she demanded.

“My father.”

“I know that, I just mean . . . He didn't even listen to me!” He was glad the outrage in her voice wasn't directed at him, but that didn't mean it wouldn't be before long.

“Listening isn't really his strong suit,” Shane replied. “So. Can I pick you up on Saturday?”

Her brows drew together. “No. Look, you need to tell him I can't come. I always have—”

“Dinner at Gina's, I know,” Shane said, and felt the same weariness he'd carried for years settle on his
shoulders. He didn't expect Larkin to understand, since it sounded like she'd had the opposite problem. She'd struggled because she hadn't been given any expectations to meet, had to find her own. He'd struggled because there was no way he could meet the expectations looming over him all his life. And still, here he was again trying to at least meet the baseline. “Look, I know it's not what you want to do. But if we get this over with, he'll drop it for a while. If we put it off, he's going to be up my ass indefinitely.”