Cross the Line (Boston Love Story #2) (9 page)

“Are you a magician?” I ask, when he somehow maneuvers us out of a conversation with Minerva Dupree, one of the most long-winded women I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting, in under a minute. In that tiny sliver of time, she somehow managed to touch on everything from my brother’s lack of interest in taking over WestTech to my spinsterhood to my father’s decision to develop the Charlestown waterfront from a crime-riddled neighborhood into a stretch of luxury green-energy condos.

Minerva has a knack for locking you into hour-long lectures, if given the chance. But Cormack brushed her off like a piece of lint, shattering Lila’s all-time escape record of five minutes at a Christmas party two years ago — and she had to spill eggnog all over herself to achieve that speedy exit. 

“Nothing so exciting. I work in…” He pauses a beat, smiling to himself. “Let’s call it… investments and trading.” There’s laughter in his voice, but I’m not in on the joke.

“Oh. That’s nice,” I say politely, thinking it sounds terribly boring.

“Though…” He leans closer. “I do have a magic trick or two up my sleeve.”

My mouth gapes at the suggestion in his tone.
He can’t possibly be talking about…

His lips graze my ear. “Maybe I’ll teach you a few of them, sometime.”

Oh. Yep. He’s definitely talking about sex.

I don’t know whether to laugh or choke, so I simply swallow another gulp of champagne. Cormack’s still leaning close, his mouth practically on my ear as he chuckles lowly, when my eyes cut through the crowd and find the one thing I’ve told myself over and over I haven’t been searching for all night.

There’s a man standing by the wall, practically blended into the shadows, his every muscle on high alert and his stare locked on me. His muscular body fills out a pair of dark slacks dangerously well. His biceps strain against the confines of his black button down; his tanned throat is on display with the top buttons of his shirt left undone.

My mouth feels suddenly dry.

Dark eyes meet mine, trapping me in an instant. I’m a deer in headlights, frozen, staring at him across a crowded sea of people. There must be fifty of them, standing in the space between us, but as seconds slip away with our gazes locked, every one of them simply falls away until we’re the only two in the room.

Nate, Nate, Nate.

Every atom in my body starts to sing, totally entranced by his presence. There’s something terrifying about a man who holds that much sway over you. A man who can just look at you — not even with kindness or love, but with a hard-set mouth and cold-burning eyes — and unravel you like a spool of useless thread.

One glance and I’m a goner.

I hear Cormack saying something at my ear but for the life of me, I can’t make out his words. He’s a candle throwing faint light… and Nate’s the sun — eclipsing everything else, pulling me into his orbit.

I’m not breathing, as I look at him. I can’t. Every ounce of control I have over my body is being used up with the effort of keeping my eyes steady on his face. His goddamned beautiful, haunted face. I wonder, if I ever got the chance to trace its harsh lines with my fingertips, to stroke that ever-clenched jaw with gentle hands… would it soften at all beneath my touch? Or would loving Nate be like touching stone?

You hate him. He’s terrible. Stop looking at him.

Those dark eyes burn into mine and I think they’ll never let go, never release me. That I’ll age and wither and die right here, in this spot, because I can’t look away. But then Cormack moves, his hand skimming my arm in a useless call for attention, and those consuming dark eyes shift. Breath whooshes back into my lungs as Nate stares at the man by my side. His eyes flash with something indecipherable, his jaw clenches, and then he’s gone.

Slipping into the crowd like a ghost, until I’ve lost sight of him.

I’m an adult. Just last week,

I purchased a vegetable.

Not on purpose, of course.

Phoebe West, on the meaning of adulthood.

“Phoebe?”

I blink hard and turn to Cormack, wishing it didn’t take such monumental effort to turn my back on the place Nate stood only seconds before.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, meeting my date’s confused eyes and shrugging lightly. “Just spaced out for a second.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.” I try out a smile. It feels wobbly on my lips. “Too much champagne. All those bubbles go straight to my head.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Thankfully, Cormack doesn’t seem to notice. Or, if he does, he’s too much of a gentleman to contradict me.

“What were we talking about?” I ask, in dire need of a subject change.

“I was about to ask what you do for work.” His smile is all easy charm.

“I’m a graphic designer.” Pushing thoughts of Nate from my mind, I instantly feel steadier. “I manage the WestTech website and design promotional marketing materials— brochures, business cards, advertisements, social media campaigns. Stuff like that.”

“And you enjoy it? Working so closely with your father?”

“I love it.” I smile softly. “He’s away a lot, so I don’t see him that often. Which is okay — otherwise, we’d probably drive each other crazy.”

The lie slips from my lips as easy as breathing. I’ve been saying it so long, I almost believe it myself.

Truth is, there’s no such thing as seeing Milo West
too often
or working with him
too closely
. I took a job at WestTech not because it was the only option open to me — I had plenty of offers, when I graduated from MIT at the top of my class — but because I knew it was the only guarantee I’d have of ever crossing paths with the man who raised me.

Well…
raised
is a bit of a stretch.

Parker raised me. He was my big brother, but he did all the work — making sure my homework was done, that I’d eaten dinner, that no one at school was messing with me. He gave up being a kid the day our mom died, and stepped into the void she’d left behind.

My dad certainly wasn’t going to.

Milo had more of a
consultant
role in my rearing. Sure, he’d get involved with whatever daily drama was boiling over in his children’s lives — if he happened to be around that day. As a kid, the only sure way of seeing him was when Parker and I would beg our nanny to drive us to the WestTech tower, a soaring high-rise in the South End, where we were welcomed with the grudging patience of a man who loves his children… just not as much as his empire.

We didn’t ask often. Eventually we stopped asking altogether.

“I’m sure he values your work very much.” Cormack’s voice shatters my reverie. “He’s a lucky man, to have a daughter like you.”

I smile up at him thinking, even if his words aren’t remotely true, it’s nice to hear them.

Before I can respond, a tinkling feminine laugh accosts my ears. A second later, a body slams into mine and arms wind around my frame.

“You’re here!” Gemma squeals, grabbing me by the shoulders and peering into my face. Her grin is a mile wide. Her hair — the same shade as mine but longer — is twined up in a modern French twist, and she’s wearing a killer boho-chic blue dress that matches the exact shade of her eyes. She’s stunning.

“Wouldn’t miss it.” I grin back at her, feeling her exuberance infect me like an airborne contagion. “It’s amazing, Gemma. Seriously, you’ve outdone yourself.”

She waves away my words. “I barely did any of this. Have you met my friends? My boyfriend? Total control freaks, the lot of them. For some reason, they all seem to think everything I touch turns into a disaster.”

This, from the girl who breaks approximately one iPhone per week.

I bury a grin. “I’m sure they just wanted to help.”

She expels a gust of air. “It’s a miracle they even let me pick the flowers.”

“I see you ousted those
macabre
calla lilies in favor of peonies,” I say with only a small amount of teasing in my voice, glancing around the gallery space where white, puffy blooms float in water crystal vases and saturate the air with sweet, fresh perfume.

“When in doubt, stick with the classics.” Gemma smiles. “Chase knows they’re my favorite. I think he buys them by the truckload.”

I can confirm this — I’ve been to their penthouse. Practically every surface holds a vase full of the colorful blooms.

“Where is he?”

“Oh, off in a corner somewhere brooding, no doubt. He’s not exactly a social butterfly in the best of times, and everyone here wants to talk to him about a partnership with Croft Industries.” Her eyes go soft as she talks about him. “I wouldn’t have been able to pull any of this together without him. None of these people would’ve shown up for just me.”

I grab her hand and squeeze. “I would have.”

Something warm flashes in her eyes. “I’m so happy you’re here. Chase keeps making me
talk
to these snooty people, like I’m required to make nice just so they’ll buy art. I’ve told him, like, a million times — it’s a gallery, not a social hour. Does he listen? Nope. Overbearing caveman.”

I hear a muffled chuckle from Cormack’s direction. Gemma looks at him abruptly, seeming to notice him for the first time, then glances back at me with raised brows.

“Date?”

I nod.

Her happy expression crumbles and I know it’s because of her dreams for my happily-ever-after with a certain someone. I don’t have the heart to tell her that life isn’t a fairy tale.

Not
my
life, anyway.

She quickly recovers, offering him a dazzling smile. “Well, hi there. I’m Gemma Summers. Phoebe’s… friend.” 

Her beat of hesitation makes my heart skip a beat.

Aren’t we friends?

I take another sip of champagne and try not to dwell.

“I’m Cormack.” My date steps forward, hand outstretched. “You have a gorgeous gallery.”

Gemma’s eyebrows go up, up, up as she listens to his introduction. She shakes his hand politely, then leans close to me and whispers in my ear.

“Holy shit. That
accent?!
”

“I
know
,” I whisper back.

We’re both laughing as we pull apart. Cormack stares at us, amusement flickering across his face.

“You two wouldn’t be joking at my expense now, would you?” he asks.

“Absolutely not,” I deny immediately

“Oh, definitely,” Gemma confirms at the same time.

We look at each other and dissolve into laughter again.

“Thanks for clearing that up,” Cormack says, his voice wry.

When we’ve stopped giggling, Gemma grabs me in another tight embrace. “I suppose I have to go
mingle
.” She says it like a dirty word. “But let’s plan lunch sometime this week, okay?”

“Of course,” I agree, hugging her back.

With a smile for me and a wink for Cormack, she’s gone again, winding into the crowd and disappearing.

“Another childhood friend?” Cormack asks, stepping into the space she left behind.

“Actually, we just met about a month ago.”

His eyebrows lift in surprise.

I can’t blame him for being skeptical. Sometimes, I have to remind myself I barely know Gemma. There’s just something about her that makes me feel totally at ease. Like I’ve known her forever, could tell her anything. I can’t really explain it, so I just shrug lightly, wrap my arm through his, and lead us toward the canvas on our left, making sure my eyes never wander to the shadowy corners of the room.

Dark-eyed ghosts have a tendency to lurk there.

***

An hour later, I’m several grand poorer and the proud owner of a gorgeous new pastel abstract by Sartre. Lila and Padraic have joined us again and, judging by the faint hickey blooming on Lila’s neck, it’s not hard to guess what they’ve been up to in our absence.

I’m on my fourth glass of champagne for the evening — at this point, mustering enough indignation to scold her about necking like a teenager in the back hallway of Gemma’s black-tie event seems a daunting task. I watch Lila lean into Padraic’s arm, watch his mouth twist into a knowing smirk as he whispers secret nothings into her ear and a giddy smile blooms on her lips, and feel a pang of sadness sweep through me.

I can’t help wishing that at any point in my life, even for an instant, I’d felt that way. Happy and carefree and in love with nothing but the moment.

As handsome as the man standing beside me is, I know we’ll never have that.

I’ll never have it with anyone. 

“Another champagne, Phoebe?” Cormack asks politely, as a waiter passes by. I notice he doesn’t grab a glass for himself. In fact, he hasn’t been drinking at all.

“I’ve had plenty.” I rub at my temple. “I’m actually starting to get a headache. I’m going to step out on the back terrace, for a minute. Get some fresh air.”

He looks at me with concern. “Want company?”

“No, I’m all right.”

“We can leave,” he offers, my own personal knight-in-tailored-Hugo-Boss-suit.  “I’ll take you wherever you’d like to go, just name the place.”

God, he’s nice. And charming. And good looking.

He’s everything I could ever need in a man. 

He’s just not the one I want.

He’s not…

Nate.

The mere thought of him is ruining the first good date I’ve had in… maybe ever. I hate that he has this hold over me. Bloodlust stirs inside me again, needing an outlet, but this time it’s tinged with a sense of hopelessness.

If a man like Cormack can’t make me forget Nate, I doubt any man on earth can.

I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t scream. Or cry.

“That’s very sweet.” I smile up at Cormack. “I’ll be back in bit, okay?”

“Phoebe…” His gorgeous face wrinkles in worry, his hand grazes my lower back in a way that should have me doing victory cartwheels around the room.  All I feel is tired. Empty. And frustrated that I can’t stop wishing it were someone else’s hand pulling me close, offering me comfort.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him, voice falsely bright. “I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.”

“Are you sure? I’d be happy to accompany—”

“No,” I say too sharply. “I just need a minute,” I add, my voice softer.

I’m not trying to be rude but I’m suddenly desperate to be out of this room, away from the lights and the noise. All the things I want to say — scream — to Nate have formed a lump in my throat so thick, I can barely breathe around it.

I feel abruptly very alone, in this crowd of people. Despite my date, despite Lila and Gemma and all the people who claim to adore the West family… I’m overcome by that feeling again. The one that whispers at the back of my mind that I could just evaporate into thin air without causing so much as a ripple in the party going on around me.

Poof! Gone.

I make sure to grab a fresh glass of champagne as I cut through the crowd and head for the French doors that lead to freedom.

***

The terrace is deserted. It’s not quite summer in Boston and there’s still a crisp chill on May nights, especially by the water. I lean against the railing, press my eyes closed, and pull a deep breath through my nose. Sometimes just the act of pulling oxygen into your lungs can feel like the hardest thing in the world.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

The voice hits me like a wave, rolling over fragile limbs of sand, threatening to erode my very existence. Deep, gritty, and detached of all emotion.

Nate
.

Abruptly, I’m covered in goosebumps that have absolutely nothing to do with the cold. I force my eyes to open, but don’t turn to face him.

“West?” His voice is closer, lower.

I fight a shiver.

I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.

There’s no heat to my internal chant — only resigned sadness.

“You hear me?” Closer still, and this time the iron in his tone is undeniable. He wants an answer.

I sigh and turn my head to look over one shoulder at him.

“I heard you,” I echo softly, my eyes meeting his.

Something flashes across his face —
concern? surprise?
— when he catches sight of my expression and hears the exhaustion in my tone, but he doesn’t comment. I watch his jaw tighten as his eyes roam my features.

He’s devastatingly handsome, even in the dark.

It’s pretty annoying.