The Good Chase (21 page)

Because he hadn't wanted to let her go, and he'd known what the two of them could be long before she'd allowed herself to believe the same.

God, she was such a shit. Assuming all men were vindictive and ill-wishing after getting dumped. Assuming that all men had ulterior motives and said one thing while doing another. Assuming all men were like Marco.

“Will you think about it, what I said tonight? Will you try to picture everything I told you?” Pierce pushed his glass toward her, indicating his departure.

What Shea pictured was a possible means to finance buying that farm up in Gleann. All on her own. What she saw was a way to keep bringing in money without having to be in New York to keep an eye on the Amber. What she saw was a reliable source of income while she was building the distillery, and letting the new whiskey age in barrels before it could be sold and actually bring in revenue on its own.

What she saw was her well-earned, clawed-for, respected name being associated with something so tits-and-ass like Whitten's current ventures.

Why couldn't there be a middle ground?

“I will think about it, yes,” she said.

She realized she was staring at the two empty glasses, one with Byrne's thumbprint, when Pierce said his good-byes.

“Huh?” She looked up. “Oh. Sorry. Good-bye.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “Can I just add one more thing before I go?”

She nodded.

He pressed his lips together, and it was an expression of earnest. “There are very few people in this world who I trust.”

She blinked. “Really? That's surprising, considering the size of your company.”

“I mean
really
trust. As in, I know they stand on a good, firm foundation, and if I blow in their direction they aren't going to immediately fall over because I'm the one coming at them. They fight honestly for their position and they hold their ground with enviable strength. Do you understand what I mean?”

She thought of Willa, of course. How her friend had been the only person to stand up for, and next to, Shea when she'd decided to leave Marco. When a world of false friends had left Shea, Willa had remained. “I think so, yes.”

Pierce buttoned his sport coat. “Good. Because you should know that I find Byrne to be one of those people.”

“Because he's good at what he does?”

Pierce shook his head. “Because of that foundation I mentioned. You know that conversation he and I had five years ago? Funny thing about alcohol, it tends to bring out the truth in some people, and let's just say that Byrne and I realized that we are both standing on very similar foundations, if you know what I mean.”

“I'm sorry, I don't think I do.”

Pierce smiled genially. “Maybe you'd like to ask him. I get the feeling he'd tell you, and then you'd know that he didn't come to me with any sort of hidden agenda, because somehow I get the feeling that's what's bugging you. He's not anything like those assholes.” He nudged his chin toward the Amber's main room.

“I know he's not.”

“Good.” He checked his watch. “I should go. Told my wife I'd be home at a reasonable hour, and I appear to be stretching that definition. I'm looking forward to hearing from you, to setting up that meeting.” Then he slid another business card onto the bar and gave it a tap.

She watched him leave. Apparently he'd paid the valet to keep his sleek, black Mercedes sedan parked right at the curb out front.

Dean ambled to her side. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, it is. Oh crap, I forgot to tell you center table's order.” She rattled off the youngsters' desired glasses from memory. “Try to push bottle service when you bring it over. I think they're in for the long haul, and they're good for it.”

“Sure thing.” Dean started to reach for new glasses, setting them on a tray.

She turned once more to the front door, as though Byrne might reappear any second.

“Dean, I think I'm going to head out for the night. You good to close up? The party in back is all done and the check signed, they're just mingling, finishing their drinks. The Corner Pocket is empty, unless our show-offs out there want to pony up.”

Dean laughed through his nose. “I'm all good. The others have got the main floor covered. You sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine. Just want to go talk to somebody.”

Dean smiled knowingly as the first drops of a Kentucky bourbon hit the bottom of a glass. Little got past Dean, but he would never say anything to embarrass Shea or threaten his employment here. He'd told her many times it was the best job he'd ever had or could ever dream of.

“Go,” Dean said. “I got it.”

Shea ran to the office, grabbed her things, and headed out to the curb. The valet whistled for a cab and she gave the driver Byrne's address.

16

T
he phone rang—the one that only the doorman called. Wishful thinking had Byrne shooting off the couch so fast he might've pulled a hamstring. He did some sort of awkward hurtle over the leather ottoman and tripped, stumbling over to the kitchen island, where the small white phone hung on the wall.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Mr. Byrne. Sorry to bother you so late, but I have a Ms. Montgomery downstairs to see you? Should I send her up?”

Byrne pounded a silent fist of victory on the soapstone counter. “Absolutely. Yes. Send her up.”

Hanging up the phone, he swept a glance around his place, making sure there wasn't anything embarrassing lying around. He'd shed his clothes the second he'd returned from the Amber, like they were poisoned and had ruined his whole surprise. Maybe they were, because whenever he wore them, things seemed to go not-so-right when Shea was around. His belt lay in a loop in the hallway, but he'd kicked his pants and the striped shirt into his closet.

Now he wore cotton drawstring pants and a T-shirt from the last Rugby World Cup he'd bought online. He plucked at it, thinking how Shea would love it. How it wasn't poisoned.

When he heard the shush of footsteps outside his door, and saw a wink of shadow in the light that came under the crack, he jogged across the foyer and stretched for the knob. He threw open the door, unable to hide his happiness. His relief.

Shea stood in the hall, arms folded loosely at her waist, shoulders curved in, her expression unreadable.

Okay. Not what he expected. Or hoped for.

“What a nice surprise.” He opened the door wide. “Not like mine earlier. I'm really sorry for that.”

“I took a chance that you wouldn't be in bed.”

He glanced at his arm that never wore a watch. “It's not midnight yet. Wouldn't even consider it.”

That got her lips to twitch. “Can I come in?”

“No, you have to stand out there and we can pass notes underneath the door.” He stepped to the side, and liked how she glanced up at him as she passed.

She entered tentatively. It wasn't the first time she'd been here, but she was acting like it, looking all around, moving slowly, not stepping on the area rugs. He closed the door.

“When I saw those guys,” he said to her back, and she turned around, “the ones at the table when I was leaving, I realized what you have to face there at the bar. What you fight. I didn't lump myself into that category.” He went to where she was standing motionless next to the kitchen island. The lights were low in the apartment, and the artificial stars of the city created a gorgeous backdrop for her.

“How we were in Philadelphia got me energized,” he went on, “and then I was gone for what felt like forever and I was missing you. And, well, I got cocky. I couldn't wait until tomorrow to see you, and the Amber seemed like a good idea. I thought if I showed up you'd, I don't know, give me a pass or something. I assumed I was different from all those others, and you know what they say about assuming.”

“You are different.” Her arms dropped to her sides, her eyes meeting his. “You surprised me, is all.”

“But if you encourage one guy like me, who seems to think he's better and different than all the others, then I see how it takes down your entire wall. You told me that before, but now I've seen it with my own eyes, and I'm sorry for putting you in that position.”

She slipped her purse onto a bar stool, which meant she was staying, giving him a jolt of anticipation.

“It's okay,” she said. “I was looking forward to seeing you, too. I was torn when I looked up and saw you there. Really, really torn. I wanted to climb onto your lap and kick you out, all in the same second.”

He nodded.

She added, “I'm sorry for pushing the expensive drink on you.”

He shrugged and then realized how callous and egotistical that might have looked.

“I'm sorry for being aloof,” she said.

That surprised him. “You don't owe me any kind of apology.”

Though she nodded, there were still questions behind her eyes, and he didn't know if he was in the doghouse or not.

“So Whitten said something odd to me after you left.” She peeled away from the kitchen island and wandered into the main room, the L-shaped couch set up to enjoy the amazing western view. She trailed a hand over the back of his favorite chair.

He curved around the opposite direction, going to sit on the far end of the couch closest to the windows. The leather cushion let out a
whoof
as he dropped into it. “He did?”

“He said something about trusting you. How he had faith in you because you guys had the same foundation or something like that.”

A little ball of nerves in his stomach grew spikes and started to roll around. “That's what he said?”

“Yes.” She fondled the edge of a blanket draped over the back of the armchair.

“He told me he wants you to work for him.”

The lines across her forehead deepened. “He does. He wants to build me into a brand. Writing articles and a travel series and a bunch of other stuff. He asked once before and I turned him down. He came back to beg for a meeting.”

Byrne sat up, scooting to the edge of the cushion. “Wow. That's really exciting. A huge opportunity, Shea.”

“It is. A huge amount of money, too.”

Byrne could only imagine.

“You weren't thinking about that, about me possibly working with him, when you told him about me, were you?”

“No, not at all. You'd just shot me down—again—but it didn't make me think any less of you. Just the opposite, in fact. I ran into him shortly thereafter and realized he'd probably get a kick out of you.”

That seemed to relax her a bit, though he couldn't say why.

“What're you thinking?” he asked.

She sighed. “I am . . . intrigued by his new proposal, but I have a lot of doubt about the products his company puts out, what sort of image he's selling.”

“Ah. Of course.” Byrne rubbed his hands together.

“This is going to sound terrible, but the second I heard that you'd introduced us, I had images of you two making some sort of cigar- and booze-filled deals in the back of a strip club about me—”

“Shea, my God. I would never—”

“I know.” She held up a hand. “I know that now, and I feel shitty for ever thinking that.”

Suddenly he understood the sadness and doubt etched into her face. “Marco really fucked with your head,” he said.

“He did. I'm just cautious now. And maybe a little paranoid.”

“Not every guy, or business deal, is like that, you know.”

“I'm slowly learning that, but I've been burned so badly before.” She draped one thigh over the arm of the chair and settled her weight onto it. “Pierce knows my doubts surrounding the other things his company does and made mention that he is willing to branch me out under a new umbrella, taking that into consideration.”

“That's good. That's a start.”

“After you left he made these cryptic remarks about how I shouldn't judge his proposal based on the fact that you made the introductions. That's where the foundation thing came in. He said you guys bonded over something, and what he learned about you made him label you one of the good guys. That he trusted you when he trusted so few people.”

Oh boy.

“Can I ask you about that?”

Byrne blew out a breath and had to look away from her. Of course his gaze hit the green toy train engine straightaway, and it made his heart hurt. “You really want to know?”

“I do. I'm curious, Byrne. I'm curious about you.”

“You are?”

“Yes.” She rolled her eyes exasperatedly, but it had shades of the fun Shea he knew and adored. “We've spent so much time talking about me, I feel like, and so little time talking about you.”

Foundations. That's how Pierce had put it, huh? If what the two of them had had could actually be considered foundations. And Pierce had thrown it out to Shea as part of his sales pitch, it seemed, pulling Byrne into it. Pierce saw no shame in that, but Byrne was mightily uncomfortable. He scrubbed his face with dry hands.

When he pulled his hands away, there was the train engine again, filling his vision.

Really no other way around this situation than to just say it. Shea had told him all about Marco and the divorce and the partner involved with the Amber. She'd told him about Scotland and her start with whisky, and had even brought him to meet her parents. And he'd, what, busted on a few rugby guys out on the pitch for her? Made a few jokes and got her naked? Ogled her while she sang karaoke?

As she slid from the arm of the chair into the seat, he knew that if he wanted her in his life, if he wanted
more
from her,
more
between them—he'd have to tell her. If he wanted to give himself to her, he couldn't do it piecemeal.

Boom. So here he went.

“When Pierce said that we—he and I—had the same foundations,” Byrne began, “he meant that we both grew up poor.”

Shea's head tilted a little, but she said nothing. Did not recoil or make an otherwise disgusted face.

Inhale, Byrne. Exhale.

“And when I say poor, I don't mean like we clipped coupons and shopped at Walmart and couldn't go out to eat that much. I mean like, we got our clothes through church donations and at the Goodwill if we were lucky. My family ate at the homeless shelter once a week, showered there, too. Until I got to junior high and I could shower at school, which I did in secret until I got caught one day by the wrong kid with the worst mouth. Speaking of school, I got free lunches and all other sorts of stuff that made for a couple of really awful years. Kids can be evil, and it's hard to rise above shame and embarrassment at that age.”

There. That was the expression Byrne had been waiting to see on Shea's face. That openmouthed shock that straddled the line between pity and “I totally see you differently now.” The expression he dreaded so much growing up that he'd trained himself not to look into people's eyes so he didn't have to see their reaction to his hygiene or clothing or free lunches.

But he was on a roll, and if she wanted to hear it all, then he was going to dump it all at her feet.

“We lived in a train car, Shea. An abandoned, rusted train car sitting on an old set of tracks that ran through a tobacco field. Me and my younger sister and brother, my mom and dad. We lived in a fucking rotting piece of metal in the middle of a field because my parents had had me when they were in high school and got kicked out of their homes. They never finished school and had seasonal jobs at the tobacco farm because we didn't have a car and couldn't drive anywhere.”

Her eyes immediately traveled to the green engine in the center of the coffee table. And then over to the red coal car on the bookcase in the corner.

“Reminders,” he said, following her gaze. “Where I came from, and all that.”

“What about family services?” she asked, her voice quiet.

He stared at the engine. “My parents avoided that for a really long time. They wanted to keep us all together, to make us the best family they could, to not give up. They were good parents. It may sound strange to say, but they were. They are.”

The couch cushions dipped, startling him out of his daydream. Shea had moved next to him. He blinked over at her. He was waiting for her disgust to show. The pity. The recoil. Except that she'd moved
closer
to him.

“Where?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, where was this? Where did you grow up?”

“South Carolina.”

She gave him the tiniest of smiles. “What happened to your accent?”

“Lost it. On purpose. After I got out of there and went to college, I let it all go.”

“Byrne, I—” She cut herself off, her eyes ablaze with something he didn't know how to name. “Wow. And you got into college on that football scholarship. Full ride, you said.”

“Yep.” Absently, he rubbed his knee that tended to ache whenever he thought about this point in his life. “The second I left South Carolina, I realized I'd been given a fresh start. I could make up my whole past life, lie about my childhood. So I did. No one knew. I learned how to leave it all behind and become someone new. I learned how to push forward and never stop.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I learned how to talk to girls. How to talk to people, period. How to look them in the eye.”

“And then Wharton.”

He nodded. “More scholarships. Financial aid. Jobs out the ass. I had absolutely no life.”

She pressed fingers to her lips and whispered, “Oh my God, Byrne.”

She scooted closer. Now their thighs touched. He was starting to get a little dizzy from the proximity, combined with the feeling like he was bleeding out from the mouth, his gut empty but his heart fluttery and full.