by Vivian Wood
But now that he’s here, suited to perfection and smiling in my direction, I have no defenses, no brain cells left to help me speak…and no earthly idea what he’s doing here.
“Elsie didn’t tell me you’d be here tonight either.” I clear my throat. “I thought…” I stumble over my words, sounding drunker than I feel. “I thought you were heading back to Los Angeles.”
He offers the seat beside him, pulling the back of it against his broad body. “I was.” I sit, feeling shaky. He smiles sadly, his brown eyes flashing with something enigmatic. “I’m here for Marilyn, of course.” His voice turns hoarse. “But then I got roped in by this one,” he notes, motioning towards Brett, “into an ‘emergency beer meeting.’”
He smiles with hard, unmoving eyes, shrugging. “I may not know jack-shit about emergencies…but I know a whole hell of a lot about beer.”
His smile—even sad, like it is now—is enough to make the inside of my panties sing a song, and I take my first sip of the whisky, wishing it could chase away the burn I feel every time Heath Sparrow—AKA the worst person in the world—steps anywhere near me.
HEATH
I have never wished to be as fucked as I am now. Literally.
Elsie and Violet sidle up beside Brett and me, joining the small pity party, happening in our barely-lit corner. Watching Brett, my best friend and trusted business partner, with his fiancée is a show I don’t get to witness often enough since I packed up and moved to LA and I find myself enjoying every minute.
Despite the chaos happening in their famously busy lives, I can’t help but watch. Elsie’s mascara-lined brown eyes are excited, her energy contagious. She claps her hands after twenty minutes of conversation, subconsciously seducing both the bar locals and the few bold fans into a captivated submission with the flick of her manicured hands.
A quintessential and literal star in every sense, Elsie captures almost every eye in the small Irish bar we used to frequent, soaking in every bystander’s attention. Except mine.
My eyes are reserved for the woman sitting in our small corner.
Every sexy business-suited inch of her.
A year has done nothing to soften the severity of Violet Keats’ ruby-colored locks—or my attraction to her, for that matter, and I watch her face closely as Elsie tries her best to beat away the hulking elephant in the room. Hell, the several that are waiting to crash into our night and wipe the whole damned thing out with the drama surrounding Brett’s dad’s case. Not to mention the car accident that nearly took away half of my family.
The car accident that still might.
“Okay,” Elsie beams at first me, then Violet. “It’s settled. Heath…” She glances at my disapproving face. “You’ll be best man. Violet, you’ll be a bridesmaid. I want this affair low-key, away from the cameras.”
I raise one pointed eyebrow. “You’d have to have it on Mars to achieve that.”
“We’ll keep the wedding a secret,” Elsie counters. “No plus-ones. Just all of our Day-Ones.”
She smiles in Brett’s direction, and I observe as he melts under a self-satisfied grin. They snuggle closer together, every bit of the sickeningly-sweet couple that the TV cameras have shown them as, but there’s nothing “sick” about it.
Theirs is a love that’s genuine. Long-awaited and rare.
If it weren’t for the fact that I know them so intimately, I’d think a love like that was impossible, but my tattooed, television show-producing business partner is nothing but proof of that. Proof that some parts of life are ethereal. Inexplicable.
They work because the universe somehow ordained it.
Violet frowns, her auburn brows lowering as she stares at the singing blonde pop star and soon-to-be-bride, crossing her tiny suit-covered arms.
“I’ll gladly be a bridesmaid, Elsie…just as long as you don’t make us wear any of those putrid green dresses that the latest Instyle thinks is so ‘in’ right now.”
Elsie gapes, her hand flying to her buxom chest. Mock outrage shines through her gleaming eyes. She scoffs. “Putrid green? I would never.”
Violet exhales, reaching for her whisky to take a sip. “Thank you so much.”
“I’m thinking more of a muddy brown.”
Violet’s powder blue eyes go wide. “Elsie, no…”
“Or what about sickly salmon color? I hear that tuna look is very in this season.”
Violet laughs, a sound that sends a stirring to my groin. I notice the twinkle in her smoky blues, a laughter I’d often forgot was there. She shakes her head, making strawberry-colored strands of her spin.
“You must not want bridesmaids after all.”
Elsie nudges her with her elbow. “I’m only kidding. Only the best for my bridesmaids.” She smirks. “It’s settled.” Her cell phone rings and she reaches for it, her eyes lighting up from within.
“That’s my cue.” She hops up from her barstool, all platinum gold hair and smiles. “Late night voice-over session for the show.” She hugs me, leaning into my ear. “Be nice, alright?” she hisses.
I smile, but the expression almost hurts. “Always.” I let her go. “Now go kick some TV show ass.”
She kisses Violet’s cheek, apologizing quickly. Brett departs after her with a fist-bump to me, adding a second kiss to Violet’s cheek.
With a last swig of his beer, he’s off—right after his fiancée, and they walk hand-in-hand together out of the pub, clutching their expensive television-funded trench coats against the cold.
Violet’s and my eyes follow their every movement until they both disappear out the door. My skin starts to hum as the silence between us stretches, and the sultry redhead turns to me first, her blue eyes darting back and forth across the surface of the bar. She sighs—a sound so heavy that I almost feel it, closing her eyes before opening them up once more.
“Am I the only one here who thinks that quick exit was on purpose?” Her laugh is light.
I grin in agreement, unable to do anything else. The scotch I ordered myself no longer burns, but whatever bullshit my long day of travel has piled on me is washed away in a wave of whisky-amber liquid, the silky saxophone music playing in the bar’s background catching my ear and keeping it.
I can’t stop staring at Violet, stop soaking in every detail of her face. I remember studying her face as she lay between my sheets just a year ago, finding a new detail every second that she slept. In my bed, I discovered ninety new features to marvel at in the after-glow of our all-night fucking, and I can’t help but notice a few of them now, her button nose, red lips and glossy hair making everything below my belt start to stir.
My stare raises back to her eyes, and I blink, the liquor thrumming through me.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Wow,” she exhales. “Not listening. Something new for Heath Sparrow,” she declares with a roll to her dark blue eyes. I tilt my head at her.
“Hey,” I lift my glass to my mouth, drinking the dark liquor. “It’s been a long day. Besides…” I trail off. “I was paying attention to something more important.”
“I know.” The look in her eyes says she’s sorry. “I’m really sorry about what happened to Marilyn. And your dad.”
I shrug. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.” I point towards her drink. “Except maybe the vintage of that whisky. I hear it’s the worst.”
She suppresses a smile, the corners of her lush lips turning upwards. They fall just as fast as she starts to stand again.
“Well, what you didn’t hear was me saying that I’m calling a cab to get out of here. I’ve got a lot of work to do, and I’ve been in Chicago on extended leave, so…” She reaches for her purse, and I put a hand on hers, shoving her wallet away. I take mine out and place it on the tabletop, my eyes never leaving her face, taking note of the frown hidden behind her eyes. I probe.
“Chicago?” I ask, watching Violet bristle from the question. “What’s in Chicago?”
“Something I don’t want to ta
lk about.” Her shoulders slump. “Especially with you.”
Her gaze swings in my direction, and they travel to my hand still perched on hers, the skin beneath my fingers just as soft as velvet. And as tempting to touch. I remove my hand.
“I see you haven’t forgotten much, have you?”
The beautiful redhead blinks. “I’ve forgotten it all. All except the part where I wish you’d never been born. I remember that part very vividly.”
“As do I.” I smile. “Along with the shoe you threw at my head.”
Her blue eyes flash, humor hinting in their oceanic depths. She raises one red eyebrow. “That was an accident.”
“‘Accident?’” I lift my own eyebrows, letting them practically hit my hairline. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
“Heath…” she says my name, her tone turning serious. “You might be a liar. But I’m not. And I didn’t plan on coming here tonight, knowing you would be too.” She closes her eyes briefly. “I never told anyone about us.”
My eyes narrow. “And neither did I.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” She tightens her hold on her purse, turning away.
Without thinking, I grab the crook of her elbow, hooking my hand around its curve, and I’m shocked when I feel Violet shudder, her curvy body trembling beneath my touch. Her skin feels warm beneath my hand—hot even.
I stand to my full height, feeling powerless despite my size. Lost for words.
But Violet’s eyes speak volumes as she stares at me, and her willingness to walk away without another word is a like a twist to my gut, a stab I hadn’t expected quite to hurt as much.
And who was I to talk hurt?
I was the one who walked away. Flew, in fact.
Three thousand miles and twelve months couldn’t lessen the lust that flared every time I saw the tantalizing attorney, and I’m still slammed in the solar plexus as I lay eyes on her, every ounce of my body desperate for another second. I motion to her expensive drink, still sitting there—lonely—on the mahogany bar. I nod towards it, inhaling harshly through my nose.
“You going to let that go to waste?”
She glances over at the glass with a shrug. “Drink it, if it suits you. Fucking snort it. Inhale it. Do with it what you want.”
“We’re still going to have to see each other.”
“Up until Marilyn gets better. Or you fly back out of town. Whichever comes first.”
The dig stings, and I try to shake it off, the comment piercing a fragile piece of me I didn’t know existed. I tighten my hold on her.
“Marilyn is counting on all of us to pull it together for her. I know my sister. I don’t know about you…but I wouldn’t want the wrath of Marilyn Sparrow on my ass. I’ve seen my sister break people down till there’s nothing left but their balls.”
Violet flashes a dry smile. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t have a set of balls.” She turns once more.
“You’re really going to do this, Keats?” I call out as she slips from my grasp. “Keep up this wall?”
She turns, stopping several feet down the bar. “You built up this wall, Heath. I’m just reinforcing it.” She shakes her head, letting strawberry strands of hair swing. “Have a good time in New York while you’re here, Heath. Don’t make this any worse. Or do. I don’t care.” She blinks, raising her face to me, her chin set in resistance. “But I do care about your sister.” She inhales. “And I know you do, too. If we give two fucks about her, we’ll keep the focus on her…” She hesitates. “And not each other.”
My stomach sinks with each passing second, reality setting like an ice-cold blanket of New York snow.
But Violet Keats isn’t what I came back for.
I’m here for my family only. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I’m reminded when I pick up her discarded glass, draining the entire drink. The taste is smoother than I thought, the bite nuanced. It’s not as bad as I predicted, but I know the few days will be…
As soon as I tell Violet why we can’t stay apart from each other—a fact that’s entirely out of my hands and in my father’s. A fact his lawyers made damned sure I can’t fight.
Chapter Six
VIOLET
Saturday afternoon
The next morning, I have the worst hangover of my entire life.
Except it has nothing do with alcohol and everything to do with Marilyn’s brother, a bastard I can’t seem to get out of my head.
It’s a Heath hangover. And I wish it would go away.
I try to sleep it away at night, try to run it away at the rising dawn. I try to freeze it away on my frigid fifteen block walk to Marilyn’s hospital room. And I try to shop it out my system two hours after I leave the beautiful brunette’s bedside.
Times Square is stuffed to the gills on this cold Saturday afternoon, packed to capacity with traveling tourists. Christmas has come and blanketed its cheer all over the city. The air shimmers with excitement and lights, and as I amble over to Rockefeller Center, shopping bags in hand, I marvel at all the city has given me…
And taken away.
The tourist-filled streets outside my personal bubble of space seem peaceful somehow—a quiet chaos. Metal and brick behemoth buildings cast a shadow over me as I now wander aimlessly, and with each slowly moving block, I watch the streets come alive with this year’s crop of fresh holiday decorations, my gaze dancing along all the dangling glitter that stretches as far as the eye can see.
That’s the thing about Manhattan.
Its shiny surface hides the multitudes of sin that lie beneath. No sin as deadly as the deceptively sexy sight of Heath Sparrow back in my city, his mere presence a punishment I hadn’t quite expected.
I’m still thinking of all that sexy sin when I slam headfirst into a wall of lilac scent and hair, my bags bumbling out of my hands and towards the icy sidewalk. I stumble, almost seeing my Maker as the slippery ground beneath me almost causes me to lose my footing.
Bending over to pick up the scattered bags, I see a pair of manicured hands reach into help. I’m almost bowled over again when I notice that they belong to a familiar face. I gasp softly as she grins.
“Emily.” I stolidly take my bags from her hands as she passes them to me, my face frozen as I try to find additional words. I stare at my office secretary, surprised to see her on this side of town. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
She smiles, as if I’ve asked the stupidest question in the world. She motions upwards into the air, catching a few snowflakes in her bare hands. She inclines her head towards the sky.
“What everyone else is doing here, of course. Enjoying Christmastime in the city.”
I almost catch myself cursing out loud. Of fucking course.
“I love this time of the year,” she inhales, breathing soundly through a set of small nostrils. “You can smell the holiday spirit in the air.”
I lift one eyebrow. “Sure that isn’t the city sewage?”
She giggles. “You joke…but this is the greatest season in New York. A season of change. Of new beginnings. When everybody puts the bullshit of the year behind them and starts fresh.”
The words strike a small chord within me. “Starting fresh” sounds better than ever in a year of so much tumult, but I’m starting to think that “starting fresh” is just an illusion. At least, for me.
It’s hard to kick off a beginning in the midst of so much rotten. And I’ve had enough rotten experiences—especially during holidays—in the last two years to “spoil” me for a lifetime. I nod as if I understand Emily’s enthusiasm, my small smirk wilting as I stand.
I blow out a cold breath that looks like smoke. “Well…” I start. “It was nice seeing you. Take care.”
Emily reaches for my arm, her tiny hands wrapped around my wool coat. Her eyes go as wide as saucers.
“Wait,” she utters. “You’re not going to stay?”
I glance around. “For what?”
“For the ice-skating, of course.” She glances towards the rink I hadn’t noticed. Until now. Her hazel gaze glows from within. “You can’t miss this. It only comes around this time of year.” She huffs laughingly. “What kind of New Yorker are you?”
“Uh, the sane kind?” I ask, my gaze scanning over the several screaming kids and adults on the ice. “Em… I’m just saying. I really like my ass. And I would prefer it not be broken by ice right now.”
“Are you saying you can’t skate?”
“Of course I can. I’m not ten. It’s just…”
“What?” She presses. “What is ‘just’?”
I raise my shopping bags towards her face. “I’m not big on holidays anymore…” I puff out. “Besides, I have nowhere to put my items.”
“They have lockers for that sort of stuff.”
“I don’t have the time. I’ve gotta work.”
“It’s Saturday,” she mentions. “What obligations could be that important to take away from your weekend?”
“I just got back in town,” I exhale, running out of excuses. “I have to unpack and get my clothes in order.”
“Yes.” She nods. “Because if you don’t, the clothes will get up out of your suitcase and run away.”
She grins, letting her sandy brown eye brows rise towards the sky. Her stare slants. “You need this. And you know it. The look on your face yesterday when you came in said it all. And you stayed in your office all day. Never coming out for a bathroom break, for crying out loud.”
She was right. I know that she’s right.
But it doesn’t make it any harder to let loose. And I stand there, rigid as a statue until she takes the bags from my hands and heads in the direction of the rink, her stride long and purposeful as I rush after her, trying to avoid another pedestrian-accident as people rush excitedly by me on their way to whatever tourist attraction awaits.
I slip and slide over the snowy path leading to the skaters, stopping only when Emily does. She hands a twenty over to an attendant who hands her a key. She passes it to me.