The Good Chase (16 page)

He left. Went back to Sabine.

Shea started shaking. She tried to extricate her hand from Byrne's but he held on, shockingly, and gently tugged her around to face him. She didn't want to know what her face looked like, all scowling and twisted. She was having a hard time keeping her breath under control, a very old fury having resurfaced.

“Hey,” Byrne said, giving her fingers a squeeze. “You okay?”

“That was my ex.”

“Yeah, I kind of got that.” His gaze slid over her shoulder, in the direction Marco had gone, but came immediately back.

“I didn't fuck his friend when we were together. He made it sound like that, but I didn't.”

Byrne gave her a small smile. It was a flicker of the Byrne she knew—the one she liked. “Okay. Doesn't matter, but okay.”

“Jesus, why does he always have to—”

He leaned closer. “Can we get out of here? Let's go somewhere else you love.”

Looking deep into his eyes, she saw that he was still disturbed by something, but that it didn't seem to have to do with Marco.

“That sounds fantastic,” she agreed. “Let me grab the other two.”

Byrne turned to watch the door, and Shea realized the whole thing had to do with that Ren guy Marco mentioned. Marco knew someone at Byrne's company? What were the awful, icky chances of that?

At the bar, Willa threw back a good amount of vodka in shotlike form. Erik said, “A woman after my own heart.”

“We're changing venues,” Shea told them, dragging them back to Byrne.

“Where to?” Willa asked when they were all together.

“How about that terrible corner pub in Hell's Kitchen? The first karaoke place we tried years ago.”

“Sounds lovely,” Erik said.

“Do they have beer?” Byrne asked, already stepping backward toward the door.

“Absolutely,” Shea said. “And not even the good kind. I'm talking light beer. Colored water. In pitchers.”

Byrne circled a finger in the air impatiently. “Let's go. It's calling my name.”

He led the procession toward the door, then stopped so suddenly Shea ran into his back. She struck a solid wall of muscle, clad in an exquisitely fine suit.

“What is it?” She took her time peeling away, enjoying too much the feel of him.

“
Shhhhhit
.” He turned his face to the side, grimacing, then jutted a thumb toward Marco's table where a man of his similar age and a woman who was close to Sabine's were just arriving.

Erik pushed next to Byrne. “Fuck, is that—”

“Yeah.” Byrne did not sound happy. At all.

Just then, Marco pointed over at them, and the newly arrived man—Ren Aaldenberg, presumably—raised a hand. Beckoned them over.

“Way to ruin a perfectly good night.” Erik sighed.

Willa asked, “Who is that with Marco the Asshole?”

Byrne met Shea's eyes as he said, “Our boss. I tried to get us out of here in time, Erik.”

“How does he know Marco?” Willa pressed.

“He's got Marco's portfolio.”

This was not happening. Way too many wires crossing tonight, too many connections Shea found far too thin and shaky to try to balance.

Byrne plastered on his best Bespoke veneer and turned to give the quintessential guy nod to his boss, the kind that was all chin and machismo. Then he said to Shea out of the corner of his strained smile, “I won't make you go over, but we have to have a drink. I'm so sorry. I tried to escape.”

Erik was already on his way over, all teeth and open arms.

“Do what you have to do,” she told Byrne. “It's work. I understand.”

He scratched at his chin. “I do have to. He saw me, their table is on the way out, he's my boss, Erik's already over there . . .
Fuck
. I don't want to. Tonight was supposed to be no work, all about you.”

“It's fine.” She touched his arm. “Really.”

“Come on.” Willa took her elbow. “Let's wait by the door.”

“All right.”

Byrne touched Shea's waist as she walked past. No, not touched.
Took
. Slid his arm around her lower back until his hand grabbed her hip in a way that distinctly reminded her of how he'd worked behind her in that Gleann motel.

“A few minutes. Ten tops,” his lips promised, while his eyes promised something else entirely.

She smiled in return, then avoided Marco's table as she walked out to the lobby, Willa in tow.

But then ten minutes turned to twenty, and twenty turned to thirty, and the little buzz she'd gotten from her dirty martini was slowly ebbing, and her craving for light beer was only getting worse.

“What's the holdup?” Willa snarled as she tapped something out on her phone. “Want me to go find out?”

“No, I'll go.”

Shea had to fight the crowd as she made her way back into the auditorium. Bodies pressed around the table Marco and Ren had commandeered. Erik and Byrne were smashed into the back of the booth listening to Ren talk, who was red-faced and using gestures worthy of opera.

Someone—probably Marco—had gotten bottle service, and the half-empty bottle of vodka sat in the center of the table. The party wouldn't be going anywhere for a while, especially if Marco was intent on using Ren to keep Byrne from hooking up with Shea that night.

For a moment it looked like Byrne was trying to sidle out of the booth, but then Ren clamped a hand on his shoulder and pressed him back down. Bespoke Byrne let out a short burst of forced laughter. Shea turned away.

She took out her phone and texted him the address of the Hell's Kitchen karaoke bar.

Dying here
, Byrne texted back.
Meet you there
ASAP
.

“No guys?” Willa asked as Shea returned to the lobby.

“Doesn't seem like it.”

“You okay with that?”

“Sure.” Shea shrugged. “It's not like it's a date or anything. He got trapped. It's happened to all of us. Let's go. He'll meet us there.”

She ignored Willa's sympathetic expression as they went out to the street and hailed a cab.

She hoped Byrne could extricate himself soon and they could turn their not-a-date into something more. She hoped and hoped and hoped.

But at midnight, after she and Willa had drunk their share of a terrible beer pitcher and sang all the good songs in the terrible bar's terrible karaoke catalog, Byrne still hadn't shown up.

12

S
hea was sitting on a bench in Washington Square Park, picking at a takeout Cobb salad, when her phone rang. The sound and vibration jolted her out of a daydream so deep she might have actually been asleep. The plastic fork flew from her hand and landed in a pile of what she guessed to be dog hair.

“Hello,” she snapped into the phone, not looking at the number calling but instead sneering at the befouled, only means with which to eat her lunch.

“Ah, shit.” Byrne sighed. “I deserve that.”

His voice sounded like his throat had been stuffed with hot coals. It unnerved her how attractive she found that.

“No, no. The phone surprised me and now my fork is lying in what I think is the remnants of a Bernese mountain dog.”

He laughed. “What?”

“Never mind.”

He took a deep breath. “Shea, I'm sorry about last night. I really am.”

Setting aside the plastic salad container, she leaned into the bench and let the dappled sun coming through the trees flicker across her upturned face. “You don't owe me an apology. It wasn't a date. You ran into your boss.”

“But I told you; I didn't
want
to be with him. Not after work hours, not when I hadn't prepared to be
that guy
. That bespoke guy you talked about before. And I definitely didn't want to be with
Marco
. What a fucker. I can say that, right?”

A tingle spread through her. “Yes, absolutely. Did he talk your ear off?”

“Didn't talk to me at all. Talked around me. But stared at me.”

“I know that look. What did you do?”

“I stared back.”

“Good boy.”

“Shea.” Another sigh, her name sounding like a ragged breath that reminded her all too well of how he'd sounded when he'd been inside her. “I wanted to be with you last night. A lot. I wanted to drink bad beer and laugh some more. I wanted to talk, have a great time.”

“Huh. And I was just looking for sex.”

“God, you're incredible.” He cut himself off. “By the time my boss had gotten so wasted and his girlfriend—or mistress, or whatever they're calling those things these days—had to carry his ass out, it was almost one a.m. It was like the worst fucking movie that wouldn't end and I couldn't leave the theater. I wanted to meet you, but it was late and I wasn't sure if you'd still be out or up or—”

“You sound like you had a rough one.”

“Feeling like it, too. I'm almost too old for this.”

She crossed her legs, considering how to respond. “Willa and I had a good time. You missed out.”

“I should've called or texted or something. I feel like shit for doing that to you.”

“You're calling now, aren't you?”

“I am. And I'm sorry.”

Secretly, she was ecstatic he was apologizing. She was thrilled to hear the regret in his voice, the honesty in his feelings.

“When can I see you again?” he asked. “Just you and me. Or do I need to go through another test?”

“You don't.” She smiled, having to look into her lap because the sun on her face suddenly got too bright. “You passed loooong before Marco popped in.”

“So good to know. I'm yours, you know, for whatever kind of date you have in mind. You could take me to a bagpipe convention if you wanted and I wouldn't put up any kind of fight.”

“Wellllll . . .”

“I was kidding.”

“There's this thing next month that the Scottish Society puts on, their big formal ball. I've volunteered to do the whisky tasting during the cocktail hour, but afterward there'll be dinner and music. They cut a haggis, and everyone is in formal Highland dress.”

Absolutely no sound filled the pause that followed. “What exactly is ‘formal Highland dress'?”

“A really smart kilt on the bottom, black tie up top. It's very elegant, very sexy on a man. I love it.”

Another few seconds passed before he cleared his throat. “Okay. If that's what you want. I gave you my word.”

She burst out laughing, could barely speak. “I'm kidding. Clearly it's not your thing. I wouldn't do that to you.”

“Oh.” Now he was laughing, but in more of a thank-God way than a ha-ha way. “So what's your schedule look like this week?”

She didn't have to glance at her phone to know. “Tonight, a big private event at Amber. Tomorrow I'm headed out of town. Be back Monday.”

“Someplace fun, I hope?”

The slight note of disappointment in his voice wasn't supposed to give her a little flutter of delight, but it did.

“Should be fun, yes. I'm visiting my parents. Sort of an annual tradition, this weekend. I'm looking forward to seeing them, spending a couple of days hanging out. Should be nice and quiet. You?”

“I was hoping you'd be available, because George is dragging the team to yet another bagpipe fest over the weekend. I don't know if I'll go. I may just stay in the city.”

Shea sat up, the Cobb salad sliding off the bench to join her fork in the dog hair. “Not the Highland Games near Philadelphia.”

Another big pause. “Yeah. Why?”

“Because that's where I'll be. I grew up outside the city. The Montgomerys never miss those games. We have our own tent and everything. Granddad would turn over in his grave if we didn't show. I won't be working or anything, just watching and seeing family, but I'll be there.”

“Well now.” She adored the throaty, hoarse quality to his chuckle, the way she could picture that freakishly handsome smile cocking to one side. “Suddenly I have the urge to be surrounded by bagpipes.”

*   *   *

M
anhattan Rugby didn't have a chance in hell of winning this match—and the Philadelphia team they were playing now wouldn't ever let them live it down—but Byrne ran, ball clutched tight to his body, as though there was still a possibility.

The warm wind pushed past him. No, he pushed past it. His legs were on fire. All sorts of new bruises and strains that should have slowed him down only made him feel more alive. He wove around the Philadelphia players decked out in green, thinking he had a clear shot to make a try, but then he got taken out. Tackled from the left side. His knees hit the ground and he released the ball.

Erik snatched it up, leaped over the top of Byrne's body, and rolled in for the five-point try.

The final whistle blew, and the Philadelphia team whooped up their win. Erik came over to help Byrne up.

“Wish that would've been for the win,” Erik said, breathing hard. “You don't care, do you?”

Byrne lifted up his shirt to wipe his face. “Nah. Felt amazing. Good and hot, too, just the way I like it.”

“That wouldn't have anything to do with your audience, would it?”

Byrne didn't have to turn in the direction Erik indicated to know who was standing on the sidelines, but he did anyway because he loved the way Shea looked that afternoon. He loved that she'd come to watch; it made him play that much better.

He grabbed a water bottle and headed across the grass.

She was wearing this long blue dress that fit tight across her chest and waist and skimmed her ass so well he wondered if she could wear underwear with it. They didn't manage to connect last night. He'd arrived late with the team, and she was busy with extended family. But now . . . now she was all his.

“Did I just see you lick your lips?” he teased as he went up to her.

“No.”

He shrugged exaggeratedly. “I'm pretty disgusting right now, so I thought you and Rugby Byrne could—”

With a roll of her eyes she peeled away, but not before he caught the twinge of a smile. He laughed and jogged to catch up with her. She let him catch her quite easily, which was good because his quads were just about done.

“How'd I do this game, coach?” he asked.

She shaded her eyes from the sun. “You know very well how you did. For the millionth time, you should find a better team.”

Behind him, the official's whistle chirps called the next two teams to take the pitch. The new teams were going through their chants and songs, voices rising, pumping themselves up. In the distance another pipe band started to play, the punch of the drums filtering over to them.

“I'm really glad we're both here this weekend,” he said. “Away from the city.”

“Me, too. It's my last games of the summer, and I'm a little sad. I've got that black-tie ball back in the city next month, but it's not the same.” She scanned the grounds and breathed deeply. “Want to walk around?”

“If you're not embarrassed to be seen with me before a shower.”

“Not one bit.”

They meandered around the Highland Games, which were larger than Gleann's and much more fun and laid-back than Long Island's. They stopped by the heavy athletic field, where Shea described the hammer toss and the caber toss and scads of other throwing events. Byrne had never known the rules, so he hadn't appreciated the strength and skill involved, but as he watched the athletes now, he was greatly impressed.

They watched black-and-white border collies corral sheep, and Byrne noticed Shea's trancelike smile. He recalled what she'd told him once about wanting to see a dog on that farm up north.

Moving back toward the rugby field, there was a long alley of smaller tents dedicated to various Scottish clans. They were draped with flags and banners, their tables laden with big books where you could look up your heritage.

“Didn't you say your family had a tent here?” he asked.

“Yeah, down at the end. My dad'll sit there all day, but my mom—”

“Is right here, honey.”

An older woman with Shea's coloring but not her height, wearing a shapeless dress and huge straw hat, was coming toward them from the direction of the rugby field.

“Oh,” Shea said. “Hi. Mom.”

Shea Montgomery, the woman who could throw a wasted Dan out of her bar with a stern look and a few carefully placed words, was now tossing awkward glances between him and her mother.

“You said you'd be watching rugby,” her mother said, “and I wanted to come find you to tell you I'm getting a ride home from Ingrid now so I can start dinner.”

“You could've just texted me,” Shea said.

Her mom waved an elegant hand. “The walk around was nice. Never watched the rugby before. It's very violent, isn't it?”

Byrne took his cue. “It can be. Hi, I'm Byrne.” He stuck out his hand, hoping it wasn't too dirty. “I'm only violent on the field.” He smiled.

“I'm Peg. Shea's mother.” When Peg smiled in return, he saw where Shea's came from.

Shea pressed fingertips to her forehead. “Right. Sorry, Mom. This is Byrne. He plays rugby.”

Byrne laughed. “Yes, ma'am. I do. I'm also friends with your daughter.”

Recalling what she'd said about having conservative parents, he hoped he'd said the right thing.

“Yes,” Shea added quickly. “Old friends.”

Technically that could be true, since “We Fucked Once and Are Really Into Each Other” wasn't exactly a description either of them could give her mother.

“How nice.” Peg waved to someone behind Byrne and mouthed, “I'm coming.” Then, to her daughter, “Okay, I'm off. See you back at the house?” She started to walk away then turned back. “Oh, Byrne?”

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Would you like to come for dinner? Any friend of Shea's is a friend of ours.”

Byrne looked to Shea, searching for a clue on how to answer. She lifted her shoulders as if to say,
It's up to you
, so he responded to Peg with an “I'd love to.”

“Fantastic! We're having lamb.” Then she walked away toward the waiting Ingrid, who was sawing at the air with a hand fan.

He watched Peg go. “She's very nice,” he told Shea.

Shea was grinning proudly. “That she is.” The smile faltered. “You
sure
you want to come?”

“The team is just grabbing burgers later, and Dan is here, so I really don't want to be responsible for him tonight. I'd rather be with you.”

“But at my
parents
'
house? We haven't even had a date yet.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “As long as we can make out on the couch after they go to bed.”

She laughed, but there was wide-eyed panic behind it.

“Why don't I head back to the hotel with the team,” he added, “and take a shower, change clothes and all that, and you can pick me up when you're ready?”

“All right. Sounds fine.” But she still looked a little spooked.

“I'm serious about just wanting to spend time with you,” he said. “Unless you think it's going to go badly? Is your dad a horrible monster or something?”

“No, not at all. He's great, actually. I guess I just . . . I mean I'd like to . . .”