The Millionaire Makeover (Bachelor Auction) (17 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Dark brown, withered grass crunched under Niall’s boots as he crossed the wide white-dusted field. The grey skies had threatened snow all day, and as he’d left his hotel and drove toward the cemetery, it’d finally fallen. Instead of increasing the sense of loneliness in this resting place, it leant it a feeling of serenity, peace, and purity.

Perfect for his best friend.

Though he’d only visited Michael’s grave once—the day they’d buried him—he walked directly to the large, marble headstone. The image was engraved on his mind. The monument to his friend’s life and death sat under a huge maple tree with a thick trunk and far stretching, nude branches. In the spring and summer, pink flowers and leaves would provide shade and beauty, creating a quiet oasis. Today, the silence wrapped around him, comforting him even as snowflakes melted on his cap and cold fingers of wind crept beneath the collar of his wool coat. Again, perfect. Finally the outside matched the deep freeze that had seized his soul for the past five days.

For several long moments, he stood at the edge of the plot, staring at the marker. It contained the dates of birth and death…and then there was that dash. That dash that said so little about how he lived. And Michael had
lived
. He’d never taken life for granted, had grabbed every moment and wrung the hell out of it. People would probably look at Niall and then Michael, and assume it’d been Niall who’d viewed each day as a gift and greeted it with appreciation, joy, and a limitless enthusiasm. And they would’ve been wrong.

Because Michael had never lived in fear.

While Niall had.

Sighing, he moved closer to the gravestone, and sweeping the bottom of his coat beneath him, settled on the ground.

“I bet you’re surprised to see me here, yeah?” He held up the green and gold bottle in his hand. “You didn’t think I would bring flowers, did you?” Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew two shot glasses. “Only the best Irish whiskey. Jameson. And I even bought you a glass.”

Setting the tumblers side-by-side on the ground, he poured a measure of the amber alcohol into each. He picked up one, downed it in one gulp. Warmth slid over his tongue, heating his esophagus before unfurling in his stomach. The woody oak flavor helped dispel the outer cold.

“Damn,” he rasped, nodding before sweeping up the glass. “
Sláinte,
” he saluted, then tossed the drink back as well. “I know you’re wondering what I’m doing here. In Boston? Visiting you? It’s only been three years. Why now?” he asked, pouring more whiskey into the tumblers. “Well, I have one answer that will satisfy all those questions—I fucked up.” He swallowed another gulp of the smooth liquid. “Hard to believe, yeah?” He snorted.

“I really should be back in Dublin right now. I should’ve left Boston five days ago. That’s five times I’ve rescheduled my return flight. Five fees I’ve paid. The airline fucking loves me by now.” He chuckled, and it scratched his throat. “If I was smart, if I was any kind of friend to you, I would get on that damn plane and return home… But I can’t. I’ve tried, but I can’t. I just sit in that damn hotel room and watch each day turn into another.”

Shaking his head, he stared ahead, the endless rows of headstones blurring.

“I have a confession to make, Michael.” He paused, studied the amber contents of the shot glass in his hand. “We were friends a long time. I could never quite believe that you chose to befriend me—the new, rich, snotty kid with the funny accent. But you saw beneath the attitude and bluster to the scared, insecure boy. I loved you for that—even when I couldn’t say it. But, did you know that every morning I woke up afraid that would be the day you realized I wasn’t worth the trouble? I saw more of the housekeeper than I did my own parents. If I was so insignificant and tedious to them, how much chance did I have with anyone else? I never felt…worthy of your loyalty and friendship. And I lived in fear that you’d leave just like everyone else in my life had.”

He tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and welcomed the slight bite of the falling snow on his skin not concealed by the brim of his cap.

“I can hear you now. ‘What the fuck?’” He chuckled, almost able to catch the deep, voice with its heavy New England accent. “But you did leave me—not through any fault of your own, but…for the first time since I was thirteen, I was alone. I still had Da, but the one person who understood I could sometimes be selfish, arrogant, and stubborn as hell—just to name a few—and loved me anyway, was gone. Only, that wasn’t exactly true. There was Khloe.”

Downing the rest of the whiskey, he again picked up “Michael’s” and sipped from it. Inhaled, then blew it out slowly, deliberately.

“I’ve known her just as long as I’ve known you. For so long, she was your funny, sarcastic, and adorable kid sister. And then one moment…she wasn’t. She was this beautiful, sensual, loving woman who saw past the bravado to the pain. Peered past the swagger to the loneliness. And I didn’t know what to do with it, with her. I ran scared. I pushed her away, cut her off. Because I feared losing her like I’d just lost you.”

He loosed a rough bark of laughter, saluted the marble monument with his drink. “Now I can hear you calling me an asshole. And you’re right. But fate has a way of righting wrongs. Or delivering swift kicks to the asses of assholes. If an asshole can have an ass, that is,” he mused, then snickered. “That would’ve been a great discussion we could’ve had at the pub.”

He shook his head, his humor ebbing, but the hot, slick glide of guilt rushed in. Not even the low glow of the whiskey could erase it.

“I returned to Boston because of your letter, and I tried to keep my distance because of it. When that failed—and failed miserably—I tried to compare her to Veronica. To paint her with the same brush, but she isn’t my ex-wife. Could never be anything like her. And out of my own fear, anger and insecurities, I hurt Khloe, Michael. I don’t know if I can forgive myself for the pain in her eyes that
I
caused. For five days, I’ve been in hell knowing that she’s out there hurting, and I’m too much of a goddamn coward to go to her. There’s a goodness inside her—a goodness that hasn’t been snuffed out by disappointment, loss, and pain. She’s brave, beautiful, generous, forgiving, selfless. She’s…she’s everything,” he rasped.

It flooded out of him as if a dam that had been creaking and bending under the weight of a constant deluge finally snapped. And all the grief, panic, vulnerability, and shame streamed free, swamping everything in its wake. But like Hope in Pandora’s Box, the purifying, bright truth fluttered behind the torrent, fragile but there.

“And she loves me,” he breathed, and the wonder of it filled him to overflowing, almost painful in its intensity. “And I—I love her, too. God, help me, I love her, too,” he repeated, and the awe of the revelation would have knocked him on his ass if he hadn’t already been sitting down. “You said in your letter that she needs a man who will love her with everything he is. A man who will devote and commit himself to her, provide the home and family she dreams about. I am that man. Hell yes, she deserves better. And in myself, I’m not worthy of her. But her love makes me worthy.”

Once more, he inhaled a breath. But this one was cleansing. Weightless. As weightless as his shoulders that no longer bore the burden of guilt. As weightless as the heart that had finally shed old scars and boasted healed wounds.

“So I guess I’m here to tell you while I can’t keep my promise to you, I can. I can’t leave Khloe alone, but I can give her the brilliant future of family, security, and a husband who worships the ground she walks on. I can give her the happily ever after.”

Rising to his feet, he poured one last shot for his friend, slung it back, then recapped the bottle. He tucked the empty glasses back in his pockets and crossed the short distance to the headstone. Smoothing a palm over it, he lowered and pressed a kiss to the top of it, the freezing marble numbing his lips.

“I didn’t say it often while you were here, but I loved you. You were the best friend a boy or man could’ve wished for.” He cleared his throat, blinked back the sting of tears that clouded his vision. “If you have any pull with someone up there, now would be a good time to call in a favor. I need all the help I can as I go begging. Wish me luck.”

...

“Khloe, I know I mentioned it earlier, but I’d just like to reiterate. You, uh, you look great,” Professor Jensen’s nephew gushed, his bespectacled stare fixed on her breasts. Presumably, this was the same nephew her mother invited as Khloe’s dinner partner the night of the company’s gala. It seemed Rosalind decided to recycle prospective sons-in-law. Waste not, want not, as the old adage went.

Swallowing a sigh, she forced a smile—even though with him ogling her boobs, he probably didn’t notice the strained quality of it. Still, it wasn’t his fault that she’d rather be anywhere else than attending the Christmas party her parents hosted every year in their home. Cheer, joy, blah, blah, blah. When a ragged, gaping hole remained where a person’s heart used to reside, well, that kinda sucked all the yuletide glow out of things.

“Thank you, um…”
Hell, what was his name
? “And thanks for coming out to celebrate tonight. I know my parents are happy to have you and your uncle here.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have missed it,” he raved, grinning as he pushed his glasses further up his nose. He actually had a nice smile. Too bad he couldn’t keep his eyes above sea level. “Their parties are legendary.”

Her eyebrows shot up. Legendary?
O-kay
.

“Well, glad you could make it,” she said, and skirted around him, making a beeline for the refreshments table. More specifically, the wine. To make it through this evening, she might need her personal vineyard.

Oh, God, shut up, you freakin’ killjoy
.

This time, she didn’t contain her sigh. Damn, it was bad when she was sick of herself. All around her, people talked and laughed, enjoying the company, food, and drink. And why shouldn’t they? Her parents had gone all out for the party. A huge Douglas fir stood in the corner of the living room, sparkling with white lights and battery operated candles. Green boughs decorated with big red and gold ribbons and pine cones twisted around the stair railings, hung over doorways, and graced the mantelpiece above the roaring fireplace. A Charles Dickens’ novel come to life.

Two days before Christmas, they had every reason to be joyful. They were with friends and most likely had family waiting for them at home. The person they were in love with hadn’t rejected them then disappeared without a word. Again.

Oh no
. She topped off her glass with the bottle of chilling champagne. More wine. More wine and less thinking about him. About Niall.

“Khloe, you don’t think you’ve had enough to drink? Especially with it being so early in the evening.”
Translation: Don’t embarrass me in front of my friends by getting sloppy drunk.

Turning to her mother, she didn’t immediately reply, but finished a long sip of the crisp alcohol.

“No, Mom, I’m not over imbibing. Just celebrating. Besides, if I did become a little tipsy, I think Professor Jensen’s nephew over there would jump at the opportunity to be my designated driver.” She frowned, swirling the wine in her glass. “What is his name, by the way? For some reason I just can’t seem to remember it.”

“His name is Gordon,” Rosaline bit out, though still maintain a smile in case anyone glanced their way. “And he is a very nice young man, if you’d give him a chance. He told your father how lovely you looked tonight.”

Both of her parents had been taken aback by Khloe’s makeover. Rosalind’s eyes had nearly mated with her hairline when Khloe had removed her coat earlier, revealing the same green dress she’d worn to Bennett’s dinner party—the dress Niall had personally selected for her. God, she was a masochist. Though surprised, both had complimented her. They probably wouldn’t have been so kind if they knew her transformation was courtesy of Niall.

Pain radiated through her chest, and she lifted her glass, sipping deeply.
God, not the “N” word.

Khloe shrugged and lifted her glass. “Well, that’s sweet of him. I wonder if he was referring to my breasts. When we were talking he didn’t seem able to stop staring at them.”

“Khloe Susannah Richardson.” Her lips rolled in until her mouth resembled a pink slash. “I don’t know what has gotten into you. I blame this change on that Hunter boy. You weren’t like this before he came back.”

Again with the “N” word. Just the reference to Niall caused butterflies to take frantic flight in her belly. Caused the hurt she’d successfully preempted from making a full-fledged appearance to tug at its constraints.

“Let it go, Mom,” she rasped, her grip tightening around the stem of her glass. “I’m not discussing him with—
Oh my God
.”

She blinked. Blinked again.

But no. Her desperate mind wasn’t playing tricks on her.

Niall.

Standing in the entrance of her parents’ living room.

Shock stole all moisture from her mouth. It robbed all mobility from her limbs, pilfered every thought from her brain. But, her heart—the same heart she’d thought incapable of feeling anything except pain—pounded against her rib cage, pumping a potent mix of alarm, uncertainty, traitorous desire, and pitiable hope. With one hand still wrapped around her champagne, she steadied herself with the other, pressing it to the table.

Oh, Jesus. I have so little pride left. Please don’t let me lose even that by fainting.

“What is he doing here?” Rosalind hissed in Khloe’s ear. She heard the question as if from a great distance, the roaring in her head too loud. But when her mother stepped forward, Khloe set her drink down and latched onto her mother’s wrist.

“Wait, Mom,” she breathed. “Please.”

Maybe her mother saw the heartache in her eyes or heard the quiet desperation in her voice. Or maybe she just reconsidered causing a scene in front of her suddenly silent guests. Whichever reason persuaded her to remain by Khloe’s side, she was just thankful.