The Good Chase (27 page)

“I should be here for you. Shit, shit, shit.” The chair squeaked big-time, like he'd jumped up and the thing had snapped back into a wall or desk. “You know something? I never questioned my travel before. I would head to the airport on a moment's notice, not step foot in my apartment for weeks, and I didn't care. Until I met you. Now I care. I want to be with you tonight and I can't cancel. This timing couldn't be worse.”

He hadn't owed her this information. They hadn't reached that point in their relationship, she told herself over and over and over.

“I understand,” she said automatically.

“I want to see you the second I get back,” he said.

“Yes. Please.” She tried to inject enthusiasm into her voice, but it just came up flat.

She didn't need him with her, but she sure as hell wanted him.

“I should go.” She stood up. “I should call my staff, get some things straightened out. Let them know I likely won't be in to the bar for a while.”

“Shea, I—” He cut himself off, and the world seemed full of all the possible things he could say.

“Yes?”

“I promise I'll come to you when I get back. I promise I'll make it up to you. Call me anytime you need me. Please.”

“Okay.”

But as she hung up, she knew that she was on her own for the next week, telephone calls or not. And maybe, as she considered the hazy images of her future, that's the way it had to be.

21

T
he world was full of numbers.

Seven days gone from the Tits Seen Round the World. The photos had been taken down, but the Internet's memory could string out forever, and there were online caches left that still showed her smiling at Marco's camera—some with black bars slapped over her nipples, some without.

Seven days since she'd stepped foot in the Amber. She'd been in constant contact with Dean to deal with issues and the books and orders and the like. His last email, sent just that morning, read, “Take all the time you need. The gawkers will eventually die down.” Looking at each night's receipts, she could tell that her tables had been consistently full.

She hadn't heard from Douglas Lynch, but that didn't surprise her much. Usually she only heard from him when he had an issue or idea, or wanted to suggest a change. He was being smart by avoiding this whole thing, as well he should. It wasn't public knowledge that he'd backed the Amber from day one and that Shea's marriage to Marco had died shortly thereafter. Who knows what sort of bold and italicized caption could be crafted from that?

Six days since Marco's promised statement, which had been surprisingly conciliatory and regretful and truthful . . . which meant a PR person had written it. Whatever. It was done.

Five days since a phone call from her parents. Her mom had been tearful, her father gruff and embarrassed and disappointed. Both had been shocked—shocked!—to learn that adults behaved like that. All Shea could do was express her anger over the whole thing and make it clear that while she'd willingly taken the pictures at the time, what had happened since was unfortunate. She got the feeling they wanted her to apologize for something.

She wouldn't.

And then she added the whole mess to the list of things they'd never be able to bring up again. The unexpected bonus? She'd been on the line while her father carried out her old wedding photo to the trashcan. The sound of shattering glass had made Shea smile for the first time in what felt like a long while.

Three days since her last email from Byrne. He wasn't the greatest or most enthusiastic typist, so they'd been short. Things along the lines of “Just checking in” and “Hope you're okay” and “Hate that I'm not there.” Her replies had been just as succinct.

If anything, the chopped-up communication served to remind her that she'd never taken a photo of him and wanted one desperately. The random bushy-bearded bagpiper wasn't doing what it should.

More numbers . . . Seven days until the scheduled meeting with Pierce Whitten at Right Hemisphere headquarters. Five days until the Scottish Ball, where she was supposed to make her first public appearance since the scandal. She hadn't canceled either event, but she hadn't made up her mind yet on whether or not she was actually going to show.

“I'm sorry I'm not Byrne.”

The sound of Willa's voice jolted Shea from her sad trombone musings. Shea looked up from where she'd sprawled paperwork from the Amber across her coffee table. Willa had taken over the dining table with a giant sketchpad, a huge laptop, and a colorful array of pencils.

“I'm sorry you aren't, either. My mind started wandering, and you don't exactly have the correct equipment to fulfill what I was thinking about.” She smiled weakly. “I'm kidding. I'm so glad you're here. I needed my friend this week.”

Willa grinned. Her phone buzzed where it rested by the sketchpad. She picked it up, looked at it, then tossed it away.

“Go,” Shea ordered, finger pointing to the door. “Go out. Stop ignoring all your admirers and take back your social life. I'm okay now.”

Willa shrugged. “I'm good here. They can wait.”

“You've been here five days. I love you, but come on.”

Willa folded her arms on the table and eyed Shea hard. “They mean nothing to me. You mean everything. And you called me for a reason. When you leave your apartment, I will, too. Besides,” she said, as she picked up a black pencil, “do you even know how much work I've finished here this week? My clients are going to be thrilled. I'll actually beat several deadlines and deliver early. I'm thinking I should start paying you rent. Maybe make this table my permanent office.”

Shea rolled out of the couch that was trying to eat her and wandered over to the table. It was reclaimed wood, and she'd bought it earlier that year because she thought that someday it would look wonderful in a rural farm.

Willa was sketching a logo for some new restaurant opening up near the High Line in the Meatpacking District.

“You're really good,” Shea said. “I know I've told you that a million times, but I love your eye, your style.”

Another phone went off, and this time it was Shea's. She pulled it out of her back pocket and stared at the text next to the little pic of the bagpiper.

Landed. When can I see you?

She flipped the phone around so Willa could see. “It's him. He's back.”

Willa sighed dramatically and looked forlornly at the spread of design work. “And I was getting so much done.” She winked at Shea. “Just kidding, darling. I'll get out of your hair. That is, if you want me to. You're looking a little, I don't know, doubtful?”

Shea stared at the silly bagpiper. “I'm . . .” The suitcase still sat by the front door, the train teetering on top. “I'm excited. I'm nervous. I guess I am a little doubtful. It's been a week. Things were so . . . weird . . . when he left.”

“So you
don't
want to see him? That's the vibe I'm getting.”

“No. I mean, yes. God, yes. I want to see him.” Shea wiggled the phone. “But this whole thing is so strange. Right before he left for South Carolina things were . . .” She sighed. Actually sighed. Like she was in a nineteen-fifties sitcom or something. “And then that shit with his brother and family happened, and then his apartment, and then Marco and the photos, and—”

Willa shoved a hand at Shea. “Stop. Those are nothing. A stutter.”

“A
stutter
?”

“None of those things had anything to do with the two of you.” She tapped a pencil on the table in time with her words. “I wish I could videotape you guys just so you could see the way you are together. Maybe you two could be the first couple in history to skip the whole ‘I don't know how he or she feels' step in a new relationship. You're crazy about each other. End of story.”

“That argument we had after his apartment got broken into was pretty bad. He was really frustrated with me, and I was with him. And then he went to Switzerland without us really talking about it. I could've told you where we stood or what I thought two weeks ago, but now?”

“Oh, for heaven's—” Willa snatched Shea's phone from her grasp.

“Give that back.”

Willa typed something at lightning speed. “There. Done.” She held up the phone. She'd texted:
Now
.

“Why did you—” Shea began over the sound of steam pushing through her ears.

Her phone buzzed. Byrne.

Be there in an hour
.
I have something for you.

Willa gathered up her things, gave Shea a kiss on the cheek, and left.

Fifty-seven minutes later, the sound of his knock on her door made her heart ride a pogo stick. She jumped up from where she'd been sitting, anxious, on the couch. She threw open the door and suddenly there he was.

He'd been wearing a little smile as the light from her apartment fell across his body, but as he took her in, it faded. But in one of those good ways, like what he was feeling was too much for his expression to hold in. She knew exactly what that was like, because she was just standing there, staring at him.

Then his head sagged to one side, his crazy-gorgeous eyes turned to starlight, and he whispered, “Oh. Look at you.”

The sound of his voice lit a fire in her and she reached out, grabbed the front of his shirt—not silk, cotton—and yanked him inside. He kicked the door closed and his big arms came around her. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and, good lord, his scent invaded her, made her dizzy.

“You feel amazing,” he said into her hair. “I wish I could've done this for you the day I had to leave.”

That managed to pull out a few of the tears she'd been resisting for a week now, but she sniffled them back before he would know.

Slowly he released her, only to take her face in his hands. His lips parted as if to kiss her, but then he asked, “Anything new? Anything since Marco's statement?”

The call from her parents, but she didn't want to mention that just then. “They took the photos down but the Amber's still swamped, apparently. I haven't gone in. Willa's been keeping me company.”

His thumb grazed her jawline. “I wish it had been me. Can you forgive me for leaving?”

“There's nothing to forgive. It's work. There are things you can't get out of. Believe me, I understand.” But she felt her eyes start to fill up again, and this time he did notice. His face softened and she started to extricate herself from his hold. “I think I need a tissue.”

He let her slide away.

When she came out of the bathroom, he was still standing in that spot by the front door, hands in the pockets of his flat-front gray pants, looking around her place. A small leather airplane bag hung from one shoulder. He looked different. Good different. Amazing different.

“Thank you for that.” She gestured to his arms, stupidly. “I needed it. I don't think I knew just how much.”

He gave her a wonderfully warm smile, not remotely crooked. “Of course.”

She stepped closer, gazing up into his face. “I really wish I could've done that for you, when you came back from South Carolina and found your apartment the way it was. I really wish I could've helped you like that.”

His smile sagged. “Well, you came at me with words, not with arms.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“Oh crap.” Blood drained from his face, his eyes growing wide. “That didn't come out at all the way I wanted. I'm so sorry. That was a shitty thing to say.”

“Yeah, it kind of was. I was trying to read you that day, and you had this barrier up like I probably shouldn't touch you—”

He kissed her. A brief, hard meeting of just their mouths that reminded her of their very first.

“You can always touch me,” he said.

She blinked at him, a little thrown by the sudden change. “I, um—”

He grinned. “Come here.” With a gentle tug on her fingers, he pulled her over to a couch. Right before he sat down, he unhooked the bag from his shoulder and set it on her coffee table. He unzipped it but didn't take anything out. Looking up at her, he patted the cushion next to him.

She sat not because of some outside force, or some invisible magical woo-woo that belonged in a storybook, or because he was gravity, but because she wanted to. Because she'd missed him, and she needed to know about him. About where they stood right now and where they went from here.

He looked bottled up, she just realized. Like he had something he wanted to tell her but couldn't get it out, so she asked, “Any news on your brother?”

“Yeah.” He scratched lightly at the back of his head, but it quickly turned to a rather violent scrubbing, his face all scrunched up. “They caught him hopping a subway turnstile in the Financial District. Dumb shit. Almost like he wanted to get caught. Maybe he did.”

She came to her knees on the cushions. “And your apartment?”

“As soon as they found out it was him, they charged him with—what was it?—burglary, criminal damage to property.”

“Is that something you get sent to jail for?”

Byrne sighed, and it sounded soul deep. “Yeah. Stealing my parents' money isn't going to help him, either.”

“Will you get to see him?” When he didn't answer right away, she amended, “Do you
want
to see him?”

“Yes. And no.”

She nodded, thinking that if she were in his position, she'd think the same thing.

He turned his head to meet her eyes. “Are you going to take that meeting with Whitten?”

The answer lodged in her throat. A hard, small word that felt like a pill swallowed the wrong way.

“Can we just not talk about that right now? I've been not talking about it for a week and it's been great.”

Pressing his lips together, he glanced at his bag. “I have to say, that really doesn't seem like you.”

“What doesn't?”

“Avoidance.”

“Well, I don't
want
to sit here hiding, but I feel like the second I step into the Amber the wrong kind of attention will sprout up. I don't want success from infamy. And I don't want to make any big deals under that ugly umbrella. I'm just a girl from Pennsylvania who wants to live out her dreams. But I'm . . . embarrassed. There. I said it.”