The Good Chase (10 page)

“So what do they think of what you do now?”

Her eyebrows lifted in resignation. “They don't. Or if they do, they immediately put it out of their minds. If I bring it up, which I've learned not to do, they change the subject.”

“Which I will also do now, in case it might be a sore subject.”

Another shrug. “Not really. I deal. They're too precious to me to fight with them over it, and it won't change anything anyway.”

The second beer tasted better than the first, because he got to watch her drink, too.

“Did you use Corey for his distillery connections?” he asked.

She laughed. “I totally did. He didn't catch on until the second summer, when I told him I didn't want to date him, and that I just wanted to work in a distillery and learn everything I could.”

“Did you?”

She grinned wickedly. “What do you think? I learned everything and more. Made some incredible connections with people in the industry who saw promise in me, who told me that I had one of the best noses they'd ever been exposed to. I still keep in contact with them. But not Corey.”

“Thank God for that. Tell me what happened after college, how you got to the Amber.”

Her first uncomfortable pause. The only reason he noticed was because she finally looked away from him, and the only cheesy thing he could compare it to was like when the sun ducked behind a cloud for a second.

“Well, I was on the plane home for the last time, that final summer, and I was crying because I knew what I wanted to do with my life and didn't have a clue how to go about it. Or what sort of jobs were available to me.”

She was, quite literally, the most fascinating woman he'd ever met. He didn't want her to ever stop talking. He wanted more. Wanted to sit here at this ugly, clunky table with the hard, uncomfortable chairs and talk to her until the place cleared out. And then start all over again.

“I majored in business, since there was no whisky tasting degree.”

He barked out a laugh. “You sure about that? Depends on where you went to school.”

“You know what I mean. I was a good student, but business really wasn't my thing. It's not even about being book smart. To make it in New York City in that arena you have to have this take-no-prisoners, go-get-'em attitude, and I just didn't have it. I didn't want it either, to work in that high-rise world. So I did what any recent college grad does who's questioned what the hell to do with their life: I waited tables during the day and tended bar at night.”

Another odd glance into the crowd, toward where Jen and Leith were arguing over a dart's placement. Shea twisted her glass between her hands. “I saved money. I was loaned some more. The rest is history.”

There was more, he knew, but she'd given him so much already that he didn't want to push. He was already insanely happy over how much she'd said. He was, he dared to think, encouraged.

“Did you know,” he said, “that the most I could find on your background was that you learned to love whisky in Scotland?”

She arched an eyebrow. “You looked me up?”

“Not really. Just what's on the Amber website.” He took a drink. “How come you shared that story with me?”

As she stared at him, the look in her eyes changed. The cool, aloof Shea vanished and in her place sat the affable, interested Shea he'd kissed on a picnic bench.

“The campground,” she replied.

He leaned forward. “The kiss?”

She considered that. “No. Everything else about it. Seeing you there, first of all, in your jeans and sweatshirt and flip-flops, looking all normal and well . . . you know.”

He smiled. “No, I don't. Do tell.”

She swished a hand at his face. “
That
.”

Good enough for him.

“But I have to know something,” she added.

“Okay.”

“Who the hell was that guy at the Yellin party?”

He frowned. “You mean Gordon?”

“No. I mean you.”

A ton of air whooshed out of his lungs, and he scratched at his head, feeling where the mud from the tug-of-war had dried along his hairline.

“The suit, the smirking, the obnoxious talk with those guys—”

“I know.” He stared into his beer. “I know.”

“Because I liked the Byrne who came into my whisky tent on Long Island. And I really, really liked the Byrne who surprised me at the campground. Rugby Byrne is who I'm into. But Bespoke Byrne, the Byrne who was at Yellin's, was most definitely not that guy.”

“Bespoke Byrne, huh?” He tried to push a smile to his face, but it felt forced, and probably looked all wrong, too. “It's the suit,” he said. “Sometimes it gives the wearer superpowers of being an asshole.”

Shea shook her head. “I wouldn't go so far as to say ‘asshole,' but definitely different. Even after you assured me at the campground that you weren't at all that kind of guy. I was ready to bend more rules for you, and you threw me off guard. Confused me. It was like you were two different people.”

“I was. I am. I have to be. The nature of the job I picked. And most days I hate it. I hate it because it's who I have to be to survive in that world. But I'm finding that the longer I have to be that guy, the harder it is to shake him off.”

Her turn to lean forward, pressing her elbows into the table. “So how do you do it? How do you shake him off?”

“Rugby.” Instant, easy answer. “Rugby on the weekends, working out, training, practicing during the week. Whenever I can, even if it's the middle of the night. Let me hit, let me run, and I feel like myself again.”

All her focus was on him. Good and tight. It felt amazing.

Chris ended another song, the last note strung out and buried under applause.

Byrne hadn't realized he'd been staring back at Shea, silent, until a woman said, “Hey, you guys.”

Both he and Shea startled like they'd been caught with their pants down. He looked up to find Jen standing between them, her mouth cocked in a knowing grin.

“Sorry,” Jen said.

Shea drew casual fingers through her hair. “What's up?”

“Leith and I are heading out now.”

Leith grabbed Jen from behind, one of his hands sliding around her stomach. He looked a little red-faced, a little antsy. Byrne knew that look very, very well.

“You lose, Leith?” Shea poked.

“No,” Leith said, his face angling toward Jen's neck but not quite touching. “I won. And I want my prize.”

Jen pried Leith's fingers from her body, only to wind them together with her own. “I just wanted to come over and tell”—she touched Byrne's shoulder—“sorry, what's your name?”

“Byrne.”

“Byrne. Right. Hi. I recognize you from last year.” Jen shot a sidelong glance at Shea. “Anyway, I saw you take the shuttle into town, and I just wanted to let you know that the last shuttle going around the lake is leaving in fifteen minutes.”

Worst timing ever.

Leith pulled Jen out of the pub, Jen's throaty laugh trailing behind.

Byrne looked back at Shea, who was already watching him. She stood up quickly. “I should get going, too,” she said. “The tent's all set up, but I have to throw the sleeping bag inside. Going to be a little damp.”

Then she bit her lip, as though she, too, was remembering how enthusiastic he'd been about potential tent sex. He didn't want her to be embarrassed, though, and didn't want to make a big deal out of it, so he stood and gestured for Erik's attention. When he got it, he pointed to an invisible watch.

Shea was still staring at Byrne with those big, gorgeous, sunny eyes. When her lips parted, he almost injured himself restraining the urge to kiss her.

“I can't stop thinking about that kiss at the campground,” he blurted out.

Her head tilted back. It was slight, a minuscule movement, but it was an invitation if he'd ever seen one. A temptation that he knew he couldn't take right then, even though he was salivating for her, his mouth anticipating the press of hers. He wanted to taste all the stories she'd just told him, the whiskies of her past, and just . . . her.

“Neither can I,” she said.

“I want another. Hell, I want a lot of them.”

To that she said nothing. He hoped it was because she wanted him as badly as he wanted her, and she was just as clueless as he how to go about it gracefully.

To hell with grace.

“And fucking,” he added. “Fucking would be great, too.”

She was a big girl with a commanding presence, a confident woman who knew exactly what she wanted, and he was pretty sure he was reading her vibes correctly.

He felt his cheeks tighten as his grin broadened, and he loved the slow smile he got in return.

The breath she drew in was choppy, even less steady on the way out. “It would, wouldn't it?”

“But not tonight.”

She shook her head. “No, not tonight.”

He bent forward at the waist, getting close enough to touch but not actually doing it. “See you tomorrow then?”

“Yes.”

And it was the most beautiful word he'd ever heard.

8

T
he morning was hot, and so was the paper coffee cup in Shea's hand. She locked up her car where it was parked in the lot between the big silver building that used to be some company's headquarters and the fairgrounds' sprawling field. Her whisky tent was on the building's front lawn, just one part of the tiny, temporary town of white tents where she'd make her home for the day.

The games wouldn't open for another hour, and she wouldn't be serving whisky until noon, but she'd arrived early because she found herself in the mood to watch a little rugby.

The fairgrounds teemed with players grouped together by the color of their uniforms, all getting ready for the day's tournament. Red and black, that's what she recalled Byrne's team wore, and she stopped on the sidelines to scan the pitch for him.

There he was, jogging across the grass at midfield. He was moving away from her, but she'd know his body anywhere, which was strange because her exposure to it had been extremely limited and had been hindered by those pesky things called clothes. Black shorts showed off those killer thighs, and the red-and-black-striped shirt fit snugly around his waist and chest and biceps. The blond guy from last night ran next to him. Byrne was talking, telling a story with big arm gestures, and his friend was laughing.

Then Byrne flipped around to jog backward. Still talking, he happened to look over and see Shea standing next to a family setting up lawn chairs. He did a double take, which probably wasn't too smart considering he was also running backward and talking, and he tripped.

Stumble, thud, ass in dirt, amazing legs flying up in the air.

His friend doubled over, arms wrapped around his waist, and didn't make a move to help Byrne up. Shea snorted coffee out of her nose, which, as it turned out, didn't feel good at all. She choked, pounded on her chest, and then when she looked up, Byrne had come up to his elbows on the grass and was laughing at
her
.

She turned around to clean herself up, but she was going to have to live with a coffee stain down the front of her white shirt all day. Looked like she'd be sporting a strategically placed Montgomery tartan.

When she faced the field again, Byrne had popped to his feet. Still at the halfway line, he kicked one foot back, held his cleat in his hand, and stretched his quad. His crooked smile, aimed directly at her, was a lightning bolt that zapped her squarely in the chest.

He looked too clean. Like Bespoke Byrne had just changed uniform. But the rain yesterday had made the pitch all muddy, and just a few minutes of play would fix that. Shea thanked the graces above and below and wherever the heck they all were that his first match was before she had to get behind the bar, because she was going to love watching him get all messy.

She could admit that now, after last night. Which was funny to think because usually you said “after last night” in the context of something sexual.

Even though they hadn't touched once, it had been exactly that.

A whistle blew somewhere and the teams cleared the field, fading into their spots on the opposite sideline.

Manhattan Rugby played first, the opposing team from somewhere an hour south of Gleann, and when the red and black took the field, Shea couldn't deny the little kick of excitement that zipped through her body.

Byrne was a forward, of course. He was easily the biggest guy on his team, the one in the best shape. The one who looked like he'd been made to play this sport. The forwards were the players who got into the thick of the tangle of bodies during a scrum. They did the rucking and mauling—that hard, physical contact, that pushing and shoving and scrambling—when a guy was tackled and the ball had to come loose.

She'd watched enough rugby in her life to know that all of that fulfilled exactly what Byrne had described last night: that intense need to run, to hit. To be hit. And to get right back up and start it all over again.

She watched it all happen. His face shifted to an intensely focused scowl. His whole body went tense and loose at the same time, the ripple of readiness and preparation mixing into a buzz that Shea could feel across her own skin, even fifty feet away. He glared at the yellow team, hands on his thighs, and just like that, he transformed into the Rugby Byrne she hadn't been able to get out of her mind for weeks.

Watching him now, she didn't think she ever would.

The whistle chirped to start the match, and the team in yellow kicked over to Manhattan. Erik, a back—one of the fast guys, a runner—caught the ball and took off, weaving. When he was tackled, his knees hit the field in a splash of mud. Byrne was there, diving in, going after the ball, then passing it backward to another back.

It didn't take long for Manhattan Rugby to get the first try. It was Byrne who made it, too, as he took a backward pass, tucked the ball close to his chest, and dove behind the posts. His whole body hit and then rolled across the wet grass for the five points. Their kicking player made the conversion, which added another two points, and Shea heard herself shouting and clapping along with the sparse few strangers standing nearby.

The yellow team got the next try then followed it up with a conversion, and then a very quick penalty kick, which put them ahead by three points. It made Shea chew her fingernails, but in the end, the New Hampshire team didn't stand a chance. Because they didn't have Byrne. He played intensely, incredibly. He was all over the field, the clear leader, so spot-on and direct in his tackles and passes. He made the sport look effortless, even though she knew how much work it took to give focus to such beautiful brutality.

Manhattan Rugby quietly celebrated their first tournament victory, and even from across the field Shea could see Byrne's smile. Could feel the weight of everything he wanted to throw off as it lifted from his shoulders and drifted away.

The sounds of Gleann's Highland Games coming alive drifted up from behind her. When she turned away from the rugby pitch, a sea of cars had filled the parking lot, and streams of people walked up the long drive toward the gates, past those dastardly cows. The smell of the food stands hit her nostrils, and the
rat-a-tatta-tatta-tat
of an unseen snare drum pinged her ears. She'd been so engrossed in the match she hadn't even realized the day had started without her.

*   *   *

S
hea had packed up, marked the boxes for Jen to ship back to New York, and was rolling down the tent flap to close the whisky-tasting area, when she heard him behind her.

“Hi.”

She loved the breathiness of his
h
, how he drew out the sound. When she turned around, she really loved the curve of his smile. And the way he stared. And stared.

“You're still here,” she said. “I take it you won the tournament?”

“We did. Winning the tug-of-war was far more lucrative, though.”

“Both events? You may not be invited back next year, you know.”

“Competition for the tug-of-war was stiffer, if that tells you anything.”

“You all set?” called Jen from over by the heavy athletic field where the sheaf toss was just finishing up—Leith was on deck, a pitchfork in hand, ready to stab it into the bag of hay and toss it over the high bar.

“Yep!” Shea waved. “See you back in the city!”

“So,” Byrne said after Jen had given Shea a thumbs-up and Leith's name blurted over the loudspeaker to the sound of great applause.

“So.” Shea removed the Montgomery tartan from her shoulder and stuffed it into her bag.

He pointed to the coffee stain. “Kind of looks like Scotland.”

She laughed. “It does, doesn't it?”

“Thanks for watching this morning.”

“I haven't watched a match in a long time. It was my pleasure.” Oh yes, it was. “You know, you're really good. If I can say so, way better than any of the other guys. On either team.” He seemed pleased at that but didn't respond. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What you said last night about playing—if you wanted a bigger challenge, why wouldn't you join a more competitive league?”

He bobbed his dark head from side to side. “Sometimes I wish the competition was stiffer, but this is my team. George and I have been playing for a long time, and we brought on the other guys, taught them how to play and such. I couldn't just leave that, turn my back on them.”

A loyal man. It made him that much more attractive. “Have you always played?”

He shook his head. “Football my whole life, up through college. Then in grad school a buddy introduced me to rugby. Since my football days were over, I got hooked.”

“You played college ball? For what school?”

“Boston College.” There was an odd finality to his answer, but she had no time to dwell on it because he asked, “How do you know the game? Wait, let me guess. Your grandpa.”

She remembered the old tube television in Granddad's sitting room, how the nearly constant sound of the matches would fill the whole cramped house, how the TV's picture would jump and waver, and Granddad would spend as much time pounding the top of it as he did cheering on his teams.

“Exactly,” she replied.

The sun was starting its descent down to the hills and trees on the other side of the lake, and the light was very, very kind to his tanned skin and sky-blue eyes.

“That field was pretty muddy,” she noted. “How are you so clean right now?”

He chuckled. “We hosed each other off. There's a spigot on the back of that big building.”

Oh my
. “How did I miss that?”

Applause over on the athletic field marked the end of the sheaf toss and the athletic events for the day. A huge crowd had gathered around the grass, and a fog of kilted pipers and drummers lingered on the far side, preparing for the massed bands conclusion to the games.

Byrne cringed. “I see an army of bagpipes lining up. You wouldn't want to get out of here, would you?”

Shea stuck her tongue out at him, then glanced at her closed whisky tent. Her work here was done for another year. She wasn't holding any bottles, and Byrne wasn't on the opposite side of the bar from her. She was free to do whatever she wanted with him.

“I would. Very much.”

As she walked past him, still avoiding his touch until they were well away from the grounds, she caught a glimpse of his hot, impish grin, and it made her shiver.

He followed her to her car, a small white two-door with windows you actually had to roll down by hand.

“So where are we going?” he asked as she stuck the key into the ignition.

“Away,” she said. “Alone.”

“Perfect.” He reached for her.

She leaned away and he dropped his hand. “Sorry. Trained response,” she said with a glance out the windshield to see if anyone had noticed. “How about a deal? How about you don't touch me until I say it's okay?”

The dip of his head, the heavy look at her from underneath his lashes, was wildly flirtatious. “Sure. Forbidden fruit. I like that kind of expectation.”

“So do I.” She started up the car and put it in reverse, then veered out of the lot and onto Route 6. “Can you imagine the kind of sex people must've had in Victorian England? All that restraint? All that buildup?”

“I was half kidding. Usually I'm more of a go-for-it kind of person.”

“Me, too.” She licked her lips, kept her eyes on the straight line dividing the two-lane road ahead, and took a chance. “But if it weren't for the restraint, when you fell on your ass this morning, I probably would've crawled on top of you.”

He huffed out a sound that was something between an exhale and a laugh. She snuck a sideways glance and saw how his jaw worked beneath a grin.

“If you're going to play it that way,” he said, “when I saw you standing there, all I wanted to do was shove you up against the goalpost.”

“Sounds like that might hurt.”

“I'd make it better.”

She was having a devil of a time trying to suppress her own smile. “Yeah? How?”

“I'd lick your neck as I opened the zipper of those pants.”

Her turn to release some sort of garbled, involuntary sound. The weight of their mutual desire made the interior of the car warm, and she turned on the air-conditioning.

He slammed his head against the headrest. “Please say we're going to your campsite. I'd never fantasized about tent sex before, but ever since I met you it's vaulted to the top of my to-do list.”

The straightaway of Route 6 ended as it followed the valleys and hills of the increasingly mountainous land. The forests thickened, the light turned dappled above. She adored this area.

“We're going to my campsite,” she said.

“Thank
God
.”

“We're going to have to be quiet, though. Think you can do it?”

“I . . . fuck, I don't know. If I have to be. Not going to let it stop me.” His voice dropped. “You?”