The Good Chase (17 page)

She trailed off, her gaze meandering over to the rugby match that had just started, and a new splotch of color appeared on her cheeks.
Aha
.

“Yes?” he teased.

“I'd like to be naked with you again.”

“Deal. After the lamb. I won't even touch you at your parents'. They won't have a clue how much I like you.”

“They'll know what we are. They just won't ever say it out loud, won't ever admit it.”

“And what are we?” He was enjoying this far too much.

She opened her mouth to respond, but then her face wrinkled in confusion. “I'm not sure?”

He laughed. “Good enough for me. I don't have a clue, either.”

“Good.” She smiled. “So . . . lamb? And then naked?”

“Lamb,” he said, an intense excitement blasting through him. “And then naked.”

*   *   *

S
hea's childhood home was everything Byrne had never had. The parents were similar, if only for the fact they loved their children and wanted the best for them, but the house stuffed with furniture, the dining room table laden with home-cooked food, the overall warmth . . .
everything
was different.

It was all he'd dreamed of growing up, the very reason he'd taken that football scholarship. When he'd left for college, his dreams were humble. A house like the Montgomerys' had at first felt like more than enough. But then he'd gotten a taste of what more there could be, seen what so many of his classmates already had, and his dreams got inflated. By a couple of million notches.

It should have been stranger, having dinner with Shea's parents, except that it wasn't. Peg and Fergie Montgomery were as witty as they were wholesome, joyous as they were pious.

Byrne sat there at the oval table with the lion-claw legs and plastic apple-themed placemats, drinking his sparkling water and listening to Shea and her parents recount stories. Didn't matter that he had no idea who or what they were talking about, they had an easiness to their relationship that made Byrne happy to just sit back and listen.

“Will you say the blessing, Byrne?” Peg asked after she'd set out the lamb roast.

He fish-mouthed for a few seconds; then, remembering what his own mother had told him about meal blessings ages and ages ago, he said, “I'd love to.”

His parents, long since having gone bitter over religion, had told him that blessings before meals were less about praying to something or someone, and more about giving thanks for what you had.

Holding hands with Peg on one side and Shea on the other, he said, “Thank you for family. Thank you for health. Thank you for fine company and thank you for love. And thank you for allowing me to be here tonight.”

Peg squeezed his hand once and reached for the carving knife. Shea was positively beaming.

Once he'd left South Carolina, meals had taken on a whole new definition, meaning he actually ate food three times a day, often more. After college and grad school, once he was thrust into the financial world, meals often meant cramming in food at his work desk at ten thirty at night. Or eating out with coworkers, or entertaining clients.

To sit at a table with family—even though it wasn't his family—was an eye-opener. A welcome change from his life in the city, a welcome addition to his life experiences. He could sit here for hours, listening and soaking it all in.

And watching Shea.

She was lovely as she interacted with her parents, but it was interesting how she held back. How her speech patterns changed, how carefully she chose her words, and how perfectly that serene smile stayed pinned to her face.

“You sure you can't stay through tomorrow night?” Peg asked Shea as they were finishing up the homemade cherry pie, almost half of which was sitting in Byrne's belly.

“Can't,” Shea said, folding her napkin. “Sunday nights are really busy at the Amber, if you can believe that.”

Just like that, the mood in the dining room shifted. Not chilled exactly, but awkward in its silence, when the rest of the evening had been filled with conversation.

Fergie frowned into his water glass. Shea met Byrne's eyes for a moment as if to say,
See?

Byrne cleared his throat and asked into the silence, “Did you happen to see Shea on the History Channel the other night?”

He could say he'd been bored and was flipping through the channels only to stumble upon the whisky special, but the truth was, he'd searched it out and recorded it especially.

Fergie's chin lowered as he looked at his daughter over the top of his glasses. “History Channel?”

“She was really fantastic,” Byrne said. “It was about bottles of Scotch whisky uncovered in archaeological digs. Cool stuff. The things she knows, they're amazing. That one interviewer said you should get your nose insured.” Byrne smiled at Shea and she smiled back, but it was strained.

“You never saw it?” Byrne asked her parents.

Shea gave him a weird look, and then Byrne glanced into the front living room, where all the furniture had been placed for conversation. No TV.

“No, I'm sorry,” Fergie said. Only he didn't aim the apology at Shea.

Shea closed her eyes a beat longer than a blink. Byrne instantly felt like a complete shit.

Peg rose, gathering the dirty dishes and stacking the pie tin on top.

“Can I help you with the dishes?” Byrne asked, thinking he had to smooth things over somehow.

Peg looked perplexed. “Oh, I wouldn't dream of it.”

Fergie followed his wife into the kitchen, and Byrne whispered to Shea, “I'm sorry. Did I fuck up?”

She shook her head. “No. But thank you for trying.”

How he wanted to bend in closer, give her a kiss of encouragement. “You okay?”

A little roll of her eyes and a genial twinge of a smile. “Sure. We're used to talking about everything but my career. Ignorance is bliss in this family. I can handle it. It is what it is.” She threw a pointed glance at the kitty-cat clock hanging by the archway leading into the kitchen. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Only if you are.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Mom,” she called, “I'm going to take Byrne back to his hotel.”

They went into the kitchen to say their good-byes, and as Peg gave Byrne an unexpected hug, she asked him, “Will we see you again?”

He hesitated, glancing at Shea. “I certainly hope so.”

“I'll meet you outside,” Shea told him. “Just let me talk to my parents for a sec.”

He ducked into the lamplit front hall, looking for the door. Earlier that evening they'd come in through the back because Shea wanted to show him the patio she'd installed with her father during one of her high school “classes.” On the right, the hallway was bisected by a staircase heading to the second floor. The green-striped wallpaper was covered with family photos. Immediately drawn by framed images of baby Shea, he stopped to look at them all.

Plump, tiny toddler Shea. Big-toothed little kid Shea. Awkward, stork-legged teenaged Shea. College-aged Shea standing in what could only be Scotland, an older man who was clearly Fergie's father draping a sweater-clad arm around her shoulders.

By the stairs hung an ornate frame, heavy and silver. The photo inside was of Shea and Marco—him in a perfectly tailored tux that gleamed with money, and she . . . in a wedding gown. They stood on the steps of St. Bartholomew's Church in Manhattan, the train of her dress swooping around to spill in carefully placed folds down the steps.

Shea looked impossibly young, all baby-faced and glow-eyed, and Marco like one of those creepy old men who just swapped out girls when they aged too much.

They looked like models, photographed for some dramatic magazine spread meant to highlight lavish city ceremonies. Only they were not models. It was absolutely real.

Shea came out of the kitchen, jingling her car keys. “You ready to—”

Byrne whirled, but she'd seen him leaning toward the picture. Her face turned as white as that wedding dress. As she slowly came toward him, her eyes locked on the photo, her lips curled in a sneer.

He said the only thing that came to mind. “You were
married
to him?”

She reached out, took the frame off the wall, and tossed it onto the stairs. The glass cracked.

“Yes,” she said. “I was.”

13

S
hea took Byrne's elbow and guided him out to the small front porch. At the height of summer it was still light at this hour, though sunset was approaching. Words escaped her. For what felt like a whole minute, she couldn't remember how to speak English. That fucking photo. Why the hell hadn't her parents taken it down?

Byrne slipped his hands into his jeans pockets. “For the record,” he said, “you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. I'm not reacting this way because I feel like you should've told me, or that I'm owed any sort of explanation. That's not it at all. I'm just wondering why you didn't say anything more at the club the other night. You said ‘ex' and I assumed boyfriend.”

“That was kind of deliberate. I don't like admitting I was married. Especially to him.” She tugged on the ends of her hair. “I'd say I'm shocked he didn't tell you himself, except that he'd eventually have to admit that I was the one to leave him, and he wouldn't show that kind of weakness to someone like you.”

Byrne cocked his head to one side. His expression filled with compassion, and it made her heart squeeze for unknown reasons.

“Want to tell me about it?” he asked softly. “You can say no.”

She took a deep breath. “You know, I think I do. Want to tell you, that is. I think you should know since . . .”

Since what? She had no clue what they were to each other, where they were going as a couple. Only that there was
something
there between them that was over and above just sex. She realized that she wanted more than a physical relationship from him, and keeping secrets probably wouldn't help her in the long run.

He smiled at her from under his lashes. “Will this require the terrible light beer kind of courage? Or maybe something fancier? I do know a bit about wine.”

Why did he have to be so awesome? She laughed nervously and continued to tug at her hair.

“Nothing right now.” Liquor was for enjoyment, for celebrating. Not for dulling. “We seem to drink a lot together and I don't want to tonight. I know where we can go. To talk.”

He swept a gesture toward her car parked in the driveway. “Lead the way.”

She drove to a lake on the outskirts of town. A wide dock stretched out into the water, and on the opposite side two hills dipped low—similar to the hills around the Gleann farm—perfectly framing the impending sunset. It was nearly eight thirty, and the sun was already a huge orange ball settling into the green basin. The benches nailed to the dock were full of families waiting for prime picture-taking time. Little kids ran around, excited to still be awake.

Shea went all the way to the end of the dock, took off her sandals, hoisted the hem of her long dress up and over her knees, and sat down on the edge, her toes skimming the cool water. Byrne kicked off his flip-flops, rolled up his jeans to midcalf, and did the same.

Hands perched on the lip of the wood, they turned to each other at the same time. He was so incredibly gorgeous in the sunset light, and she fought a powerful urge to tell him so. His lips parted under the force of a short, sharp inhale, like he was going to tell her something. He merely smiled. With his eyes. Sometimes that was the best kind of smile. Then he turned his face to the water, his bottom lip rolling between his teeth.

“It was four years ago,” she said. “The divorce.”

He nodded to no one in particular. “You looked really young. In that picture.”

“I was. A baby. Barely twenty-four.”

“And how old was he?”

She had to think about that. “Forty-three or something? Remember I said I used to tend bar? After college?”

“Yes.”

“Marco used to come in there. A lot. He talked to me. A lot. Tipped me.
A lot
. I fell for it. Really hard and really fast.”

“I noticed you said ‘it,' not ‘him.'”

It hurt, even to laugh at herself. “Exactly. I fell for everything he wanted me to. The big talk, the big show, the big gestures, the even bigger money. All those things I didn't even know about growing up, and my naivete just ate it all up with the spoon he was using to feed me.”

Byrne swallowed, still staring out at the water, which had turned the most vibrant shade of gold. “Did you love him?”

“I sure thought I did. We had one of those weddings you only read about in magazines, the kind with a thousand guests and five-course dinners and . . .” She flitted her fingers toward the sunset, as though she could erase it all with a gesture. “And I thought that
was
love, all that stuff. He made me believe it. He made my parents believe it.”

“I was going to ask you about them, why they still had that photo up.”

“Marco always knew exactly what to say to them. All lies, of course, about his religion and how much he loved and supported and protected me. All of that was bullshit.”

“So you loved him but he didn't love you.”

“I don't think he knows what love is. He just wanted—” She couldn't say it. It sounded so unbelievably dumb and egotistical, coming from her own mouth. She could say it to Willa, could bitch about it between martinis and karaoke songs, but not to Byrne. Not another man. Not a man she actually cared about.

“He wanted arm candy,” Byrne finished, looking over his shoulder at her.

Still so awkward to admit, but he said it so naturally, so matter-of-factly, that she strangely didn't feel put on the spot. She gave the tiniest of acquiescent nods.

He responded with a little roll of the eyes. “Don't worry,” he said. “I know his type all too well. Did he cheat on you?”

She shook her head. “Don't think so. He always wanted me with him. Constantly going here, traveling there. A party, work thing, benefit, vacation, whatever. I don't know when he'd have had the time, honestly.”

“Arm candy.” Byrne scowled. “So what did you do during that time? Not work at the same bar, I take it.”

She let out a humorless laugh. “No. Noooo. He made it very clear once we were married that I didn't ‘need' to do that anymore. And because I was stupid, I agreed with him. So I didn't do anything. Nothing he didn't have me do anyway.”

Byrne leaned back on his hands, and she had the hardest time in the world not staring at the flat of his belly, the way his T-shirt stretched across his chest.

“Are you sure we're talking about the same Shea?” He squinted against the sunset. “Not your doppelgänger or anything?”

It still hurt to be reminded of who she used to be. Or, more accurately, she
didn't
used to be.

“Because,” he went on, “I can't think of anything you'd like less than to be sitting in some rich older guy's apartment, waiting for him to snap his fingers. I know I don't know you all that well yet, but I can't believe you ever put up with that.”

Yet
. She clung to that single word. Held it close to her heart. Used it to create hope.

“But at that age I didn't know any better,” she said. “Not really, anyway. My parents taught me until I went off to college, and even then it was to a school smaller than many high schools. I spent a lot of time in Scotland, yes, which was the first thing ever to crack open my eyes to the world around me, but it did only that. I was still a baby, scared to be bigger than I was, if I can be honest. I graduated college and I knew nothing. Nothing, Byrne.

“I carried around this fairy-tale view of life that my parents had woven around me. They wanted me to go to college and find a career—preferably in something they approved of, naturally—but they talked about marriage all the time. Like it was the end-all, be-all, to find that perfect man and marry him and all would be right with the universe. I didn't date all that much—Corey in Scotland was my only really big boyfriend, and I still shouldered this embarrassment and shame about sex—so when Marco came along I literally thought he was my prince, come to complete the fairy tale that had been woven into my subconscious.

“I was so weak, so pliable. And my parents were thrilled. It wasn't about the money so much as knowing that I would be taken care of, packed away in my own castle, kept safe and cherished. And I thought the same thing, for a really long time.”

She'd told the story while gazing out at the water, because it was easier to voice that way. But when she turned her head to look at Byrne, he was studying her in a way that immediately put her at ease.

“So what changed? How'd you know you were trapped in this . . . life? It sounds to me like it should've been quicksand. You know, the more you struggle the deeper you fall in. Marco doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'd let you go so easily, especially if he didn't fuck around with other women. How'd you get out?”

She pushed her hair back. “The Amber. The Amber got me out.”

A light of understanding brightened his face. “You said you'd been divorced four years. When did you buy the Amber?”

“Five years ago. And I'm not the one who bought it.”

That, above anything, felt odd to say. To anyone and everyone peering through the windows, Shea Montgomery was the owner/operator of the Amber Lounge.

Byrne went a little slack-jawed. “With Marco's money?”

“No.” A kick at the water. The splash rippled like yellow diamonds. “Remember that friend he so smoothly mentioned at the karaoke club?”

His chin rose and he made an “ahhhh” sound at the back of his throat. The same sort of sound he'd made when she took him in her mouth.

“So Marco didn't like his friend bankrolling your bar, I take it.”

“No. Especially since Douglas and I didn't tell Marco about it until after it was pretty much a done deal. By then I knew I was leaving Marco. The Amber was my new love. I'd found my freedom, my life, my personality, and I didn't want or need my husband anymore.”

“How'd you tell him?”

“I just”—she lifted her shoulders—“did. I said that I was divorcing him, that I didn't want a single dime of his, that I'd leave with what I'd brought in, and that I'd found my calling. I never looked back.”

“Wow.” He gazed at her with a hint of his crooked smile. “So how'd you hook up with this other guy? Douglas, you said?”

“Just to be absolutely clear, we never, ever ‘hooked up.' Not in that way.”

“Didn't say you did. Never even thought it, actually.”

“Good.”

“So how'd that come about? I mean, I remember you said when you were over in Scotland that you had that epiphany about wanting to work in whisky somehow. How did that translate to the Amber?”

“We were having drinks one night, me and Marco, Douglas and his wife, and Marco had to leave for some reason or another. I ordered a whisky—a twenty-three-year-old Laphroaig, as I recall—and Douglas seemed impressed. You don't generally drink Laphroaig if you're a beginner. He started asking me about my background, what I knew about whisky, what I smelled and tasted, all that stuff. I then got a few more whiskies to have the other two try them. I was a little tipsy and just having a good time, babbling on about the drinks, but Douglas was a little blown away, if I can say that about myself.”

Byrne grinned. “You can. By all means.”

“He kept asking me all these detailed questions, even had me take out the menu and point out things about bottles I remembered, distilleries I'd visited, what I'd recommend to certain kinds of drinkers. I knew more than any of the staff in the place. He came to me a week later with the idea of us going into business together.”

“Owning a bar.”

“Not just any bar. A whiskey lounge. Fairly exclusive, high-end, with premium spirits from all over the world backed by solid knowledge. He would be the money but I would be the face, for lack of a better word. He put complete faith in my ability to run a business.”

“Is he still involved? Do you have to report to him?”

She licked her lips. “Yes.”

“An angel investor.”

“Exactly.”

“Gotcha. Those money guys. It's hard to let go.”

She nudged him playfully with her shoulder, and it felt entirely natural.

“So what's he want?” Byrne asked. “More say? Change?”

“Yes to both. Things that don't really appeal to me. But I think I'm also done answering to someone else. I want my own thing—”

“The distillery.”

“Well, yeah, that would be great. But before I found the farm I was just kicking around the idea of buying him out. I don't have the money for that, either. It's all a big circle I need to figure out.”

“What are your other options?”

Chewing at her lip, she considered whether or not to tell him about Pierce Whitten and the nebulous, scary, and quite possibly extremely lucrative offer from Right Hemisphere. She decided not to, because she really didn't want to get into a detailed discussion about her business right now.