Heart of Ice

by T. B. Markinson

  “I like your attitude, Kennedy. And I think she will, too.”

  Scary rumors or not, having the opportunity to work directly for Laurie Emerson was beyond Jack’s wildest dreams. “Whatever you need. You can count on me.”

  “I’ll send you all the details in the morning.”

  “I’ll be at my desk by seven, sir,” Jack promised, figuring there was no need to mention she’d been stuck with the lowly task of phone duty.

  Andrew gave an approving nod. “Solid work ethic. You really do seem to be the right person for the job.”

  “Laurie Emerson.” Jack let out a long, low whistle once she was alone. She’d really hit the jackpot this time, and she hadn’t needed an old boys club or Ivy League connections to

  do it. No, she’d always had a stronger work ethic than her colleagues, and it had finally paid o .

  When she reached the lobby, Jack’s phone buzzed with the notification that her hotel room was ready. She looked outside, expecting to see snow on the ground already but found the sidewalks dry and the sky clear. As she’d suspected, the storm was a bust. A second text arrived, asking her to respond yes to check in and activate her key.

  Jack hesitated. Staying at a hotel held little appeal. Was it worth checking in right away? If the storm failed to materialize, she could easily sleep in the comfort of her own bed at home and still get in for phone duty by seven.

  Maybe I’ll wait, she thought. I feel like celebrating. Jack tucked her phone back into her pocket without responding.

  She stretched her arms wide as if to embrace the world.

  Considering the fantastic opportunity she’d been given, a drink was most definitely in order. Jack pivoted toward the Irish pub that sat adjacent to the hotel. Perfect. She could always check in after having a drink or two, and if there was still no snow by then, she’d head home.

  She pushed open the double doors, imagining a triumphant entry into a room packed with people from wall to wall. Realistically, she didn’t expect to know more than a few people inside, but it was fun to imagine herself as a regular walking into a real-life Cheers, with everyone calling out her name and congratulating her on her work triumph.

  Instead, the place was as deserted as a ghost town.

  “Where is everyone?” she muttered under her breath.

  Then she remembered. Dry January, those first few weeks at the beginning of each new year when everyone became too virtuous to have a drink. Well, not her. Not tonight. Feeling jovial, Jack made her way to the bartender.

  “Guinness, my good man!”

  She slapped the wood surface and perched on a barstool, taking one of the coasters, and tapping it against her thigh, unable to curtail her need to stay in motion. It was a family trait. Her mother was one of ten children, and when the extended family gathered for a holiday dinner, all of them jiggled their feet so much under the table it wasn’t unusual for a saltshaker to keel over.

  Moments after Jack sat down, a woman settled into the seat directly next to hers. Jack turned her head in annoyance at the intrusion on her personal space, then noticed a jacket on the back of the chair and belatedly realizing that in an otherwise empty bar, she’d chosen to sit inches from the only other patron. Intending to give a quick nod of greeting, Jack found that she couldn’t turn her head away without first taking in every detail of the woman beside her.

  She was taller than Jack by at least three or four inches, and older, too, though by how many years was di cult to determine. Eight or nine, maybe? Enough to be intriguing, to ooze that sexy confidence that came with a little maturity.

  The woman’s skin was radiant, not weighed down by too much makeup as some women approaching forty seemed tempted to do. Her blonde hair sat slightly above shoulder length with a gentle curl that swept across her forehead and a perfection of both color and style that suggested she’d achieved this look at no small expense.

  “Excuse me,” the blonde said to the bartender, seemingly oblivious to Jack’s gaze. Her voice was deep and complex, with the warmth of a finely aged scotch. “Could I get a Guinness, please?”

  A woman after my own heart. Though they had yet to speak, Jack knew then and there she was a goner.

  It was clear she came from money. Everything about the woman screamed class without putting on a show. But there was also something else, something Jack couldn’t put her

  finger on. It might have been that her shoes were a little too sensible for her fashionable suit, or that the silver bracelet poking out from beneath her cu looked remarkably like one with two female symbols joined together that Jack had seen at a booth at last year’s Pride parade in Provincetown.

  Whatever it was, something told her that maybe, if she started to flirt with the woman, Jack might stand a chance.

  Do I want to flirt? The way her pulse quickened at the prospect told her that yes, she really did.

  The bartender set Jack’s Guinness to the side, two-thirds full, letting it settle before topping it o . He started the other woman’s pint. After topping o the first glass, he slid it in front of Jack. Immediately, she scooted it in front of the intriguing blonde, happy to sacrifice her drink for a reason to speak. “Please, have this one.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t. You ordered first.” On the surface, it was a refusal, but the woman’s tone invited negotiation, something Jack couldn’t resist.

  “I insist.”

  The woman fixed her with an appraising stare, as if trying to decide whether accepting Jack’s o er put her at a tactical disadvantage. “Only if you let me pay.”

  “For this round, sure. But only if you let me get the next round.” Jack emphasized the word only to make the contract clear.

  The woman tapped her short, manicured nails against her glass. She refrained from taking a sip, but a slight crinkling at the corners of her eyes hinted that she was amused by Jack’s countero er. “You’re assuming I plan to indulge in another.”

  Jack pressed her lips together, taming a smile. “I’m quite certain you will.”

  The woman arched one perfectly penciled eyebrow.

  “How’s that?”

  “A proper Irish stout is like a potato chip. No one can eat just one.”

  The woman let out a low, throaty chuckle. The sound was even sexier than her voice and set Jack’s whole body tingling.

  “I’ll take you up on that challenge.”

  The bartender set the second Guinness down. Jack raised it and said, “Sláinte,” with her natural Boston Irish accent, the one she tried to curb at work, but which made its appearance now and again, often when she least wanted it to and almost always when Guinness was involved.

  The woman repeated the traditional toast, tapping her glass to Jack’s before taking a lustful tug of beer that was not at all in keeping with her very proper and buttoned-up appearance. It raised a whole host of questions Jack hoped to discover the answers to, but as she should have scored the opportunity to continue the banter between them, the sound of a vibrating phone drew her companion’s attention.

  The silence became agonizing as the seconds ticked past.

  Jack’s mind returned repeatedly to the woman sitting at the bar, who was so engaged with reading something on her phone that she seemed to have forgotten Jack’s existence.

  Instead of being discouraged, it was like being dismissed so casually had lit a fire inside her. If Jack had to stay in Boston for the night, she might as well do her best to make it interesting. She was dying to know whether chugging a Guinness was the extent of the stranger’s ability to cut loose, or if she could push her to loosen a few more buttons, metaphorically or otherwise. Not like Jack thought she actually had a chance to go home with this woman, but she sure looked forward to giving it her best shot, maybe get a phone number or something.

  The blonde took another pull from her beer, not as exuberant, but still not in the dainty category. Time to make a

  move. If only she could, well, think of one. Jack’s stomach rumbled, momentarily distract
ing her from her quest.

  “Hey, Mack?” Jack called out, but as she did, the bartender slipped through the door into the kitchen without hearing her.

  “What did you say?” The woman turned her head with a regal slowness, fixing Jack with an I’m not used to peasants addressing me so uncouthly stare.

  Jack’s cheeks caught fire. “I was trying to get the bartender to bring me a menu.”

  “Are all bartenders in Irish bars named Mack, or is that actually his name?”

  Jack squirmed under the woman’s gaze, uncertain if she was being playful or was seriously intending to chastise her for assigning a stranger a random Irish name like she was some kind of racist. “It’s his name.”

  “You’re a regular, then?” Whether the woman thought this was a good thing or not was impossible to discern.

  Jack shook her head. “Only when I’m staying at the hotel next door. It’s been awhile since I’ve been in. It’s been completely renovated since the last time. Very…modern.”

  The woman glanced over her shoulder, taking in the surroundings. “What did it look like before?”

  “It was kind of a dive, lots of shamrocks and vintage Guinness ads framed on the walls. You would’ve hated it.”

  “Is that so?” Her tone remained bland, but the woman’s penetrating blue eyes twinkled in veiled challenge. “Why do you think that?”

  Jack’s eyes swept from the top of the woman’s perfectly styled blonde head to the tips of her slightly too sensible for a straight woman but still very expensive shoes. She lifted her eyebrows in a way that said, oh please, I know a rich lady when I see one, and you’re all alike, then gave a slight shrug.

  “Call it a hunch.”

  As her snark hit its target, the woman’s eyes sparked. “I love old Guinness ads. As it happens, I have several framed originals at home. Some quite rare.”

  “I’m sure they were a very good investment,” was Jack’s retort.

  She held back a laugh as steam nearly came pouring out of her companion’s ears. Man, she really doesn’t like it when I call attention to her wealth. Even as she filed this discovery away in her arsenal in case she needed it again, Jack couldn’t help but wonder if it was true. After all, a woman who appreciated the brilliant humor of old Guinness ads couldn’t be a complete bitch, even if she did seem a little too obsessed with her phone. Very self-absorbed of her. Why did Jack always have to go for the aloof ones? Glutton for punishment?

  The woman’s head swiveled toward the kitchen door, and she called out to Mack, who had reemerged and was heading toward the bar. “Could we have a couple of menus, please?”

  Jack snapped to attention. Requesting not one but two menus was a level of thoughtfulness that didn’t quite mesh with the mental picture she’d formed of her companion.

  Even more surprising was that it implied they’d be having dinner together, at least if sitting side by side at a bar counted.

  Mack handed them each thick, leather bound books that were a far cry from the single laminated page Jack remembered from her last visit. She scanned the menu with a groan. “Oh, man. I’d heard rumors this place had turned gastropub, but I didn’t want to believe it.”

  “Gastropub?”

  “It’s all the rage in Ireland now, but do they really have to ruin the Irish pubs in America with the trend?” Her eyes scanned the options with increasing dismay. “Bu alo brussels sprouts, sea salt and sesame pretzels, chipotle

  citrus wings with blue cheese… What on earth is a salmon poke?”

  “I don’t know, but I love salmon, so I’ll get that.” The woman set her menu down and looked up at the bartender like she didn’t even care how much Jack was silently judging her for her selection. Mack nodded and then looked expectantly at Jack.

  “What happened to the nachos you used to have?”

  “Afraid they were a little too low-brow for the typical downtown clientele, but if you want nachos, I can make it happen.” He pu ed out his chest and held up a fist. Jack gave it a bump in solidarity. “We working sti s gotta fight for what’s right.”

  “You got it, Mack. Eat the rich, isn’t that right?” Jack treated her rich as fuck seat mate to a saucy wink as she grabbed the woman’s empty pint glass and pushed it, along with her own, toward the bartender. “How about another round for while we wait?”

  C H A P T E R T H R E E

  LAURIE SLID THE PAIR OF CHOPSTICKS OUT OF THEIR PAPER WRAPPER

  and stared at the bowl of salmon, rice, and assorted bits of—

  stu —the bartender had placed in front of her. She cracked the chopsticks apart, rubbing the former joints together to rid it of possible splinters, all while the smell of onions, salsa, and melted cheese mocked her from a few feet away.

  There was a loud crunch as Laurie’s companion chomped into a loaded chip, smearing sour cream on her chin in the process.

  Thanks to the aroma of hot nachos, Laurie’s stomach had woken up from its grief-induced apathy and was gnawing at itself with a vengeance. I know why it’s called a poke, Laurie thought as the seconds ticked past and her mouth remained empty. Try as she might, the closest she could get to eating the overly virtuous conglomeration of vegetables and raw fish in front of her was to poke at it with her bamboo sticks while fervently wishing she’d ordered something else. Like nachos.

  When was the last time she’d eaten nachos? Or any type of comfort food? For years, she’d avoided overindulging out of a misplaced fear of getting fat. Then Bonnie had gotten sick and mostly existed on protein shakes, so Laurie had switched to those to show support. When Bonnie had died,

  Laurie had stopped caring about food at all. But now? Hunger roared back. Not only for food but for life and for everything she’d been missing in her self-imposed exile in her big, empty house on the other side of the river.

  She stole a glance at the woman beside her, who continued to plow through her bazillion-calorie concoction with the reckless abandon of youth. How old was the little pixie, anyway, all of twenty?

  “Do you eat everything with such vigor?” Laurie muttered, not managing to keep the thought in her own head but speaking quietly enough that only she would hear. She’d meant food, of course, but the racy image that formed in her head was so very much not suitable for a public location that, at first, Laurie feared the fever that engulfed her was the start of one of those hot flashes she’d rather die than admit to having.

  “Wouldn’t you like to find out?” came the woman’s whispered response.

  Heat gave way to icy cold as Laurie froze in her seat. Oh shit. Not only had the woman overheard her, she’d caught the double entendre, too, and was toying with her. Play it cool. Pretend you didn’t hear.

  Laurie studied her meal as if it was the most interesting thing on earth. It was one of her strengths, ignoring people in a way that made them feel insignificant. She wasn’t being malicious about it, at least not in this particular case. It was more of a defense mechanism, a way of keeping the situation firmly in her control. By the way the woman beside her was fidgeting, Laurie assumed it was working.

  Only after several minutes did she allow her eyes to dart stealthily in the direction of her neighbor, taking in every detail she could in a fraction of a second. She was older than twenty, though her short, dark hair and delicate features were deceiving. But Laurie detected certain signs of maturity

  that suggested she was at least a bit older than her first impression had suggested.

  The biggest clue was the woman’s attire. She wore a suit jacket and matching trousers that were high enough quality they’d probably come from one of the nicer department stores. The fact the outfit wasn’t the solid black or blue of a typical interview suit but a deep chocolate plaid suggested this wasn’t the only suit she owned. Besides, she’d mentioned she was staying at the hotel next door, a top-rated establishment frequented almost exclusively by business travelers.

  Laurie pulled together the puzzle pieces in her head. All signs pointed to this myster
ious stranger having a decent job in finance. That took a while, so she had to be in her mid-thirties. Still too young, the voice of societal judgement whispered in her head. True, Bonnie had been twenty years her senior, but that was a special case. Once in a lifetime.

  She’d never find a connection like that again.

  “That looks… good.” The woman was craning her neck for a better look at Laurie’s plate, the expression on her face speaking volumes.

  Laurie sti ened as the woman spoke. Somehow, what had been intended as no more than a glance had turned into a good, long stare. Laurie’s stomach tightened. No matter the exact age di erence, Laurie was technically old enough to be her mother. This poor young woman had to be totally creeped out by now, thinking Laurie had been ogling her like some pervy escapee from the local old folks home.

  Suppressing a sigh, Laurie sampled the salmon. It tasted exactly as bland and uninspiring as it looked. After another bite or two, Laurie’s eyes wandered back to the plate of gooey nachos. This time, she gazed with a level of lust that would have been totally inappropriate if directed at the

  woman instead of her dinner, and she was unable to hold in her sigh.

  “Where are my manners?” The brunette wiped her fingers on a napkin. At first, Laurie thought she was going to o er her a bite and had already begun wrestling with herself whether it would be okay to accept. But to her stomach’s dismay, her companion simply reached for a fork before continuing to chow down. “I can almost hear my mother screaming at me all the way from the Emerald Isle that a lady should never eat with her fingers.”

  Laurie set down her chopsticks, unable to bear the thought of even one more bite of raw fish. She put her hand to her throat. “This is a disaster.”

  “Oh, shit.” Her companion’s mesmerizing blue eyes tripled in size. “Will I have to jab a needle into your thigh? I totally will, if you need me to.”

  “What?” Laurie scooted to the far end of her barstool in alarm. “Why would you need to do that?”