Public Relations (32 page)

He looked straight ahead, glancing neither left nor right, as if keeping his gaze off the empty space next to him might help him forget Georgia’s absence. His heart lurched, and he shoved her name down like a man murdering a memory, holding it underwater. He’d do so until the death throes became too powerful and he lost his grip, allowing the sputtering victim to surface again. Eventually, his target would grow tired, and he’d win. Currently, he counted five minutes without thinking about her a victory. Next month, if he was lucky, it’d be ten. Until then, he just had to put one foot in front of the other, bury himself in work, and survive.

If it weren’t for Christmas, that’s where he’d be—up to his eyeballs in e-mail or maybe on a flight to China. Anything coma inducing would count, and at present jet lag sounded pretty damned sweet. As he keyed open the boathouse door, he braced for the memories stepping over the threshold would bring, and wasn’t disappointed. He paused, clutching blindly for something, anything to make him forget a pair of laughing gray-green eyes.

Remembering his last afternoon here, he breathed deep in a futile effort to ease the ache in his middle. He’d turned up the stereo as he’d packed their bags. Georgia had been visiting with his parents in the house. Joshua Radin’s “I’d Rather Be with You” had come on the radio. As he’d tidied up the loft, he’d hummed the tune.

She’d snuck up on him and twined her arms around his waist. He’d clutched her to him and pulled her into an easy dance. His cheek pressed to the top of her head, he sang the words to the song while Georgia held him close. He should’ve known then he was in trouble. It wasn’t until the next day when he’d returned to his own place that his reality collided with the romance, temporarily shattering the dream.

Water lapped the pylons underneath the boathouse—a sound he normally loved. Tonight, it only reminded him of the emptiness of the place and the hollow inside his heart. Pushing the memories under the surface once more, he gritted his teeth and climbed the loft stairs. In the great room, he dropped his bags. The woodstove was dark, but he didn’t bother to start it. More weary than he could ever remember being, he peeled off his shirt and stumbled toward the bed, exhaustion tugging him under.

His face-plant into the pillows made a soft
whump
. He groaned and rolled over, grabbing a pillow to shove under his arm. Someday, he’d get used to sleeping alone again, but tonight the bedding would have to do. He doubted it minded, and it wasn’t like the goose down would have much competition anytime soon. The idea of talking with, much less touching a member of the opposite sex held little appeal.

Breathing deep, he tried to relax. On the second inhale, he opened his eyes and lifted his head to look at the pillow. It smelled like her. His stomach clenched, and his sinuses filled. Emotion crashed over him, bringing with it a gasp of despair. Knowing if he went too deep he might never return, he threw the pillow across the room and grabbed another, this time from his side of the bed. A tentative sniff brought with it the light scent of her perfume.

“Doesn’t anyone fucking do laundry around here?” he yelled into the silence before bounding from the bed and stalking to the couch.

The afghan smelled like wood smoke, the couch pillows his shampoo. Making a mental note to have every piece of furniture and linen replaced on Monday, he rolled over, and by sheer dint of will, he slept.

* * * *

Dawn turned the sky a lighter shade of black, then pearlescent gray, as Peter watched through the skylights. He’d been awake for at least an hour, he estimated. It had to be a little before seven. Rolling to an upright position, he stretched the crick in his neck. A popping sound accompanied the release of tension. He grabbed his birthday sweater and a white T-shirt, brushed his teeth, dressed, and made his way to the main house with the bag of presents he’d brought.

The kitchen door squeaked as he entered through the back. Coffee and pancakes were in the making, his mother in her robe by the stove. Sweeping up behind her, he placed a kiss on her cheek. She jumped and clapped a hand over her heart as she turned.

“Good Lord, Peter.”

Her expression reminded him of Georgia—he didn’t know why—and he blinked down at her.

“Sorry,” he managed after a minute. “Merry Christmas.”

His mother smiled and kissed him back. “Merry Christmas.”

“I’m going to put these under the tree.” He lifted the bag, indicating the presents, before he slipped out of the room.

His mother had already turned on the Christmas lights. A pitcher of orange juice and champagne glasses formed the makings of holiday mimosas. Probably the champagne chilled in the fridge. Along with the pancakes, his mother would produce an obscene amount of food—enough to feed that proverbial army, or her sons, whom she liked to claim could outeat a platoon.

On automatic pilot, Peter reached into the paper shopping bag he held and withdrew the topmost package. He placed it under the tree and stood to grab the next. As he did so, his head brushed a tree branch, setting the ornaments into a dangerous bob. He grasped the jiggling limb and froze as he recognized the first ornament Georgia had hung. The one he’d shown her how to place on the tree.

She’d never decorated a Christmas tree. Would have been so thrilled to see his family gathered around it, opening presents and trying to outdo one another for the tackiest gift award. One gag gift for each member whose name they pulled out of a hat at Thanksgiving. A sort of Secret Santa gone wrong. She would’ve loved it.

“Oh bullshit,” he said out loud.

That woe-is-me story about her neglected childhood had been no more real than anything else about her. In fact, he was surprised her tits hadn’t been fake. With little care or attention, he tossed the rest of the gifts from his bag under the tree and hightailed it from the room. He took his seat, cup of coffee clutched in his hands, as Niall wandered into the kitchen yawning. Catching sight of Peter, he snapped his mouth shut and glared. Peter saluted him with his coffee, sarcasm tainting his thoughts.

Turning to their mother, Niall brushed a kiss on her cheek with his own “Merry Christmas.”

“Take the cinnamon rolls into the living room,” she said absentmindedly.

Niall swooped up the plate and balanced it on his fingertips, lifting it over his head like a waiter as he swept from the room.

“Show-off,” Peter muttered into his mug.

And why hadn’t Ma asked him to take the plate in there when he’d gone a minute ago? He slouched in his chair and took another sip of coffee. Niall looked around, expectant, as he reentered, then frowned.

“Where’s Georgia?” he asked.

“I expect she’s still getting ready,” their mother answered.

Oh. Fuck.

“She’s not coming,” Peter said.

Hands on her hips, lips pressed into a firm line, his mother stared him down. Peter took a deep breath and gave Niall a look that dared him to make light of what he was about to say. “She was the gossip columnist.”

His mother dropped the spatula. Even Niall didn’t seem to breathe for a handful of seconds. Visibly shaking himself from whatever internal thoughts clogged his questionable brain, Niall frowned. “Are you sure, dude?”

Was that real concern in his brother’s tone?

“Yes. I’m sure.” Peter hadn’t meant to snap, but the return of Niall’s stony stare said he had anyway.

A chime sounded. Niall looked toward the door, as did Peter.

“Who in the world?” Ma went to the kitchen door and peeked out. “Peter? Would you get that? It appears to be a delivery man.”

Glad to escape the inquisition that would’ve normally followed an admission of the magnitude he’d just made, Peter went to the front door. Outside, a delivery man held at least six boxes, some small and some medium-sized, along with an electronic signature tablet.

“Peter Wells?” the guy asked. Damn, he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

Peter nodded. “That’s me.”

“Delivery. Sign here.” He held out the tablet.

“Don’t they give you guys holidays?” Peter asked, taking the tablet.

“I’ll sleep on New Year’s.” The guy grinned wide. “After I’m done making a pile of cash in overtime.”

Peter signed his name and exchanged the tablet for the packages. “Thanks. Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah. You too.” The guy waved and bounded down the steps to his delivery van.

A glance at the brown wrapped packages showed no address, but an envelope was taped to the outside of the largest one. Peter ripped it off and brought it to the kitchen after placing the boxes under the tree with the rest of the presents.

“What’s that?” Niall nodded to the envelope.

Peter gave him a “beats me” shrug and sat as he slid his finger under the flap. Wow. A whole spate of communication where they hadn’t sniped at one another. It might’ve been a world record.

The card had a picture of snowy egrets on the front. It looked like one of those free cards from a wildlife organization; they always sent them hoping you’d feel guilty enough to give them a donation. Peter frowned and flipped the card over. Sure enough, the organization’s name and the plea for funds were stamped on the back. He opened the card, expecting to be underwhelmed by the sender’s missive.

Peter,

I think Georgia forgot she left these at my place. I wasn’t sure what to do with them. She tells me you have a woodstove. My guess is you’ll burn them, but hey, I had to do what my normally questionable conscience told me was right.

Also? She loves you. You can take that to the bank. I know how much you love banks.

S. Deloitte

She loved him? For a moment those were the only words on the card that mattered. Then he remembered the gossip column. The lies. His humiliation. Her wanton disregard for other people’s livelihoods. Damned right he was going to burn whatever was in those boxes.

He stood from the table with a shove to the chair that sent it rocking, and strode into the living room. Kevin and Liam sat on the floor cross-legged, poring over the packages, counting up how many they each had. Da already sat in his armchair, one of the brown boxes on his lap. Peter stumbled to a halt in front of his father. It wasn’t like he could snatch the thing out of the man’s hand.

“Are these from Georgia?” Liam asked, holding up a box.

“Yes.” The word sounded strangled. “She isn’t here.”

“Oh. Bummer.” Liam shook the box, but it didn’t rattle.

Peter clenched his fists against the impulse to grab the package and throw it against the wall. Fuck Sid for invading his family’s holiday this way, and fuck Georgia for not getting the hell out of his life and his memories. The thing he hated about her the most had nothing to do with her and everything to do with him. He hated himself for loving her. For continuing to love her despite what he knew. Never before had he felt so weak and powerless. So helpless in the face of his emotions.

His cell buzzed in his back pocket, and he took the opportunity to answer the call in order to get away from what promised to be the most sucktastic hour of his day—watching his family ooh and ah over presents from his ex.

“Wells,” he snapped as he realized he’d never had to use that term before—
ex
. Not and have it mean something.

“Peter.” Carl cleared his throat on the other end of the call.

Peter closed his eyes and sighed. No matter what had happened with Georgia, he knew eventually he’d forgive Carl. The man had meant well. He’d explained his reasoning in not telling Peter immediately when he’d figured out Georgia’s identity. Peter believed him. He had no reason not to, and truth be told, he wanted to.

“Yeah, Carl. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

Heavy silence fell between them, palpable even from a distance of over a hundred miles. He waited Carl out, knowing after how he’d handled the termination of the man’s contract yesterday that he owed him more than a curt response.

Carl cleared his throat again, and the sound of a blender whirred in the background. “I have something I…I wanted to say.”

“Okay.”

“I told Georgia I would.”

Peter clutched his cell hard enough to crack the plastic case. The little popping sound made him loosen his hold.

“It doesn’t really make a difference now, and I’m not sure if it ever did,” Carl went on. “But I want you to know.”

The man made no sense whatsoever, but Peter held his tongue.

“You want rum or vodka?” a male voice said in the background.

Sid?
What the hell?

A muffled “Vodka. I’m going to need it after this” reached Peter’s ears, though Carl must’ve covered the phone with his hand.

“So look, yeah.” Carl spoke clearly into the receiver once more. “I lied to you.”

Peter’s stomach threatened to crawl up his esophagus and make an escape for the lake. “Look. I can’t…”

“Hear me out. Please? It’s not what you think.” Carl’s plea was filled with desperation. “I need you to know.”

Swallowing down bile and probably giving himself the start of an ulcer, Peter nodded, then realized Carl couldn’t see him. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Carl blew out a breath that whooshed across the tiny speaker, making momentary static. “I…I lied about my client list, but… Shit. That’s not what I called to tell you.”

He’d lied about his client list? Was he working for the competition? Peter must’ve voiced the question aloud, because Carl’s next words would only make sense if he had.

“No. I haven’t worked for anyone but Wells Industries in the last four years.”

Silence fell. Peter absorbed the implications. Carl was out of a job. As the pieces fell into place—how Carl had been available anytime, anywhere Peter needed him, even in the middle of the night and on holidays—a rush of gratitude tangled with more confused emotion. He should hire him back. It was the holidays. But he needed some time. It was Peter’s turn to blow out a breath.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

“I know. But it’s not why I called you. Not really.”

“Then why?”

“The thing is… The thing is…”

“Just tell him you’re gay so we can eat the French toast!” Sid hollered from what had to be the next room.