Janine tapped a finger against her lips. “You were wearing silver shoes, right? Like the ones that Tom pulled up the flagpole?”
Without sparing another word for Janine, Claire spun and flew up the steps to the top deck. There, on the stern, Tom leaned against the railing, a half-smile on his face. Her heart thumped. Tom TOM tom TOM. Above him, sparkling in the starlight, two silver sandals dangled below the flags snapping in the wind.
What were they? Twelve? Immature adolescents pulled stunts like this to get a girl’s attention. He was a grown man; he shouldn’t be holding her Jimmy Choos hostage. Claire took a few deep breaths as she crossed the deck. She wasn’t going to make a scene. She was going to calmly request that he return her shoes. She was going to be the mature, civilized one here.
“Give me my shoes.”
“Not until you talk to me.”
Tom wasn’t smiling now, she noticed. He had grown tense when she’d come closer, serious when he was usually jovial. “We can’t go on like this.”
“Like what?” she snapped.
“Like tearing each other’s head off and then wanting to tear each other’s clothes off.”
Claire scoffed. “It was a kiss.”
“And we need to talk about it.”
“It wasn’t the first time.”
Tom’s lips stretched thin. “We should probably talk about that too.”
Hell no. “Ancient history, Tom. I’ve moved on.”
“With Hawk?”
Who? Oh yeah. George the best man. Interesting. She shrugged. “We’ve been out. He’s a great guy. And super sexy,” she added, because Tom’s jaw had tightened and it was so rare that he showed any emotion like jealousy. A flash of panic ripped into Claire’s heart. She didn’t want to make Tom jealous. What was she thinking? “You’ve moved on too, Tom. With your L.L.Bean Bible study girls. We need to both forget everything that’s happened between us.”
It was a perfectly reasonable request, but Tom had never been reasonable. “I can’t forget.”
Claire’s breath caught.
“I’ve tried. I can’t forget that night.”
Try, she wanted to say, but the word didn’t form. What came out instead was, “Me neither.” Too much champagne. Too much sun, wind, too much Tom. When he reached out, tentatively, and brushed her cheek, she blamed all of the above when she didn’t retreat but instead moved into him. It was the rocking of the yacht, she’d tell herself later. She tripped; she lost her balance.
They kissed again. They were good at this, at least. Seven years ago, last night, today, their kisses were pockets of perfection dotting an ugly, bitter history. Claire fit into him; their bodies clicked, even if their personalities didn’t. Her lips melted perfectly over his. Tom’s hands were made for the niche above her waist, and her curves settled into his planes.
“Claire…” The murmur of her name was unwelcome. He was breaking the spell and she felt her defenses arise again. For a split second, she wished they could be transported somewhere else, another dimension where he wasn’t Tom Harrington and she wasn’t Claire Portelli, where things could be simple and new and they didn’t have a decade of crap to sort out.
“I don’t want to fight anymore.” He had pulled away from her mouth and the words prickled her skin. There was something heavy in that statement, an implied accusation, like it was she who had perpetrated the bad blood all these years.
She jerked back. “Then don’t steal my shoes.”
Judging from Tom’s jaw twitching again, he had more to say on that, but she felt a buzz in her pocket and saw the notification flash on her phone screen. New email from the agent in Los Angeles. Hallelujah. She’d been working on this project for months, negotiating, wooing, working with advertising and the money people and Hollywood reps, and now the deal was done.
Then the phone was jerked from her hand. In shock, Claire watched as if it were in slow motion, Tom’s strong arm sending her sleek black smart phone up in an elegant, sure arc, and then down, irretrievably, into the Atlantic Ocean.
There was nothing to be done but instinct moved her to the railing anyway, her outstretched arms were ineffectual, her shocked cry couldn’t turn back time, couldn’t erase the damage that Tom had done to her phone, to her day, to her career, to her life.
She hated him. Despised him. Wished there was a man-eating great white waiting in the water and she could toss Tom into its open, bloody jaws.
But yelling at him wouldn’t help. Calling him names wouldn’t change anything. Physical violence would only result in her looking awkward and ridiculous. He had said he wanted to talk.
So she walked away from Tom Harrington, even though rage raced through every fiber, hair, and vein of her body. She would not talk to him. Never again.
Chapter 8
Tom usually was able to drive right into Virtue Cove’s gates. As Bits Ramsey’s local veterinarian, he was a well-known face around the compound, but today he had to wait behind five delivery trucks. Flowers, caterers—he didn’t think he even wanted to know what that black armored van was delivering. As soon as he got out of his truck, he was met with the familiar wagging tail of Reba, one of Bits’ Labrador Retrievers. “Hey, girl.” He gave Reba a scratch behind the ears then they both dodged some guys bearing some heavy-duty sound equipment. The wedding of Laurel Ramsey was clearly going to be an Event with a capital E, which was why it took him (and Reba) so long to find Laurel, in the cellar storage room among the bulk supplies for the property.
She looked up at him with wide eyes when he opened the door. “Who sent you?”
Tom nudged the door closed with his heel and lifted his hands. “No one. What’s going on?”
Laurel sank back down into an old kitchen chair and fondled Reba’s ears when the dog approached her eagerly. “I’m hiding.”
“Why?”
“Officially, I’m supposed to be getting a massage.” She held up a finger and mimed shooting a gun at her temple. “I can’t relax. All I want to do is eat. And I can’t eat, because I spent seven months eating salad and going to Soul Cycle so I could fit into a couture Nicola Stanton gown tomorrow.”
The mention of Nicola Stanton made Tom’s neck tight. “Claire, huh?”
“She was right. She’s always right. The dress is beautiful. You could bounce quarters off my ass and my skin is glowing from all the kale, but…” Laurel’s shoulders drooped. “I would kill you for a cupcake right now.”
“You want me to sneak you one?”
Laurel sighed. “No, because then Claire would have another reason to kill you.”
The stiffness in his neck seized his shoulders. “She told you.”
Laurel held up a hand. “Just an outline. She didn’t want to cause me more stress.”
Tom felt like crap. Wednesday night, he’d decided to talk to Claire to work things out so that their issues wouldn’t impact the wedding. But yesterday on the Stolen Virtue, he’d gone a little insane. Claire in her dress, those shoes, that cell phone. She’d been back in his life for all of five minutes and he was turning into a jealous, petty man. Heady with her presence, he had been willing to do anything to get her to pay attention. To him.
Laurel was giving him a despairing look. “Her phone, Tom? Really? She’s been working on that endorsement deal for months.”
“I’m going to apologize to her.” It was why he’d come to Virtue Cove this morning. First, to talk to Laurel, suss out the situation. Then, once forewarned and forearmed, talk to Claire.
“Honestly, just don’t bother.” She shook her head. “I’ve always wanted you two to get along. But I think it’s clear that whatever is between you guys is not going away.”
Tom ran a finger along jars of blueberry jam, probably put up at some point by Helen, the Ramseys’ cook. Laurel didn’t know how right she was. The “whatever” between him and Claire was going to last as long as those jars, in this cold, dry cellar. The idea was disturbing. Kissing Claire—hell, fighting Claire—had made him r
ealize that the “whatever” couldn’t stay locked up anymore. It had to be aired out before it rotted them both.
He took a deep breath. “Seven years ago, Claire and I spent the night together.”
Laurel froze for long seconds before she said, “Well, that got my mind off cupcakes.”
“I guess she never told you.”
She shook her head slowly and he filled in what she was trying to piece together.
“It was the night before graduation. You and I had broken up the semester before. I think you might have already been seeing Tyler.”
Laurel took a sharp breath and put her hand to her mouth, as if realizing…everything. Tom went to her and knelt in front of her chair, taking her hands, but she spoke before he could. “You always liked her, didn’t you?”
“She was a bitch to me.”
A sad smile touched Laurel’s lips. “Because she always liked you.”
Tom got up, took a step back. “I’m not so sure about that.”
But Laurel was brightening as she followed him. “Oh, Tom. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s where all your bickering came from. You both liked each other but you and I were together so you couldn’t tell her how you felt. Gosh, this is romantic.”
Was she kidding? “But you and I were dating.”
She waved her hand. “But we were never, like, serious. You even said so when we broke up. We were best friends, more than anything.”
She wasn’t wrong, but this was a little awkward. How was this supposed to be done? Admitting that your college girlfriend had been a great pal—and that you’d secretly had a thing for her best friend.
“So you’re…okay with this?” Tom asked carefully. Who knew with women?
But Laurel’s eyes practically sparkled in the dim basement light as she came toward him and surprised him with a hug. A hug that was, admittedly, sisterly. “I’m so happy for you both,” she said.
Whoa. He stepped back. “Claire currently wants to see me die a violent and messy death. Not sure why you’re happy about that.”
“She secretly loves you. And you love her. And my best friends are going to finally get together, at my wedding!”
This was not going in the way—in any way—that he had ever planned. Not only was Laurel fine with all that he’d revealed, but now she thought Claire loved him?
“I don’t…” He tripped over the rest of the words. “I mean, Claire is just…”
Laurel stared expectantly. “Of course you love her.”
Something about her matter-of-fact tone rubbed Tom the wrong way. Laurel did not just get to erase all the years of smart-assery he’d endured. Laurel did not get to decide his feelings—for anyone—even if she was currently in happy-happy-true-love wedding mode.
“I just want to apologize to Claire. Make sure you have peace at your wedding. You and Tyler deserve that,” he finished gruffly.
That seemed to put a damper on Laurel’s enthusiasm, but she needed to be brought back to reality. Making peace with Claire and their history was one thing. Love? That was quite another.
“Fine,” she said with a resigned sigh. “Claire is probably in the sunroom. That’s where a bunch of deliveries went this morning.”
Tom thanked her and left before Laurel could say anything more disturbing than she already had.
He had been in the sunroom at the back of the huge, rambling house many times before. With its walls of paned glass and concrete tile floors, Bits used it often to house rescue dogs and puppy litters, and even now, Reba went straight to a favorite sunny spot and flopped down to rest after her arduous journey through the mansion. Today the room was piled with boxes and wedding supplies in a clearly organized but incomprehensible fashion. Claire was nowhere to be seen. He stood in the doorway, with a mix of relief and disappointment when he heard the sniffle coming from behind a tower of boxes marked “candles.”
Tom followed the sound, came around the tower, and there was Claire, on the floor next to three open cartons marked “live animals.”
“Claire?”
She hastily wiped her eyes, but it was clear she’d been crying, hard. He went to the ground next to her and saw that her lap was filled with smaller white boxes.
“What’s going on?”
Claire’s red-rimmed eyes were filled with anguish and fury. “I will never forgive her for this.”
“Who?”
“Janine.” She handed him a small white box. Inside was a dead butterfly. “I gave her one job. To order twenty-five pounds of dehydrated rose petals to toss after the reception. Instead she…” Claire took a shuddering breath, fighting back her emotion. “She decided to order two hundred and fifty dead butterflies instead.”
The vulnerability in her voice made his chest ache, and he, too, was filled with a sudden rage against the sister of the bride who had caused this destruction. Of course he knew Janine hadn’t ordered dead butterflies. But she had been thoughtless, and negligent in selecting a vendor, and Claire, despite her faults and prickly veneer, was a good person inside.
Tom had a crazy impulse. He pictured himself wrapping his arms around her, kissing her brow for comfort.
No. Now was not the time for that. But he could do something else. Without thinking about it too deeply, he started to pack up all the individual cartons back into the larger boxes. Reba came forward to sniff at the items and Claire scrambled off the floor, her dress now dusty and wrinkled. “What are you doing?” she demanded halfheartedly as she and Reba followed him out the screen door onto the lawn.
He wasn’t sure exactly what his plan was. He followed his instinct down the stone steps to the beach, Reba and Claire at his heels.
The day was mild, the breeze was gentle, and when Tom unfolded the top of a white box, he could see the silver inscription in the sunlight: Laurel and Tyler. It was such a waste, but there was nothing else to be done. He upended the box and the featherweight body of a monarch butterfly fluttered into the shallow water pushing up the sand. The water retreated, taking the butterfly with it, and silently Claire opened another box and slid the second butterfly into the waves.
Two hundred and forty-seven boxes later, Claire released the last butterfly and then sat on the sand next to Tom and Reba, who happily nudged up against Claire’s elbow until Claire got the message and stroked the top of the lab’s head.
It was now or never. “I’m sorry,” Tom said. “For the shoes, for the phone, for the butterflies.”
“The butterflies weren’t your fault.”
“No.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for everything.”
Claire kept her eyes on the Atlantic. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Tom tore his gaze from her and looked at the view. “It is.”
“You were lucky to grow up here,” she said. “My hometown wasn’t so pretty.”
He heard an edge in her voice and was surprised that she even mentioned her hometown. Where was it—someplace in Pennsylvania? Tom couldn’t remember her talking about it. “At least you’ve become a New Yorker.”
“I have to live there. It’s where my job is.”
Tom thought about that for a moment.
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Have to live in New York? Do you have to do anything, really?”
Her expression was half confused, half amused. “Are we philosophizing?”
He brushed sand off his pant leg. “The Claire Portelli I know takes charge of things, makes decisions, runs the world. Doesn’t seem right that she has to do anything she doesn’t want to.”
She was silent for what seemed to be a long time until she said, in a voice that was barely audible above the ocean breeze, “I don’t want to fight anymore either.”
Just like that.
Tom swallowed hard. The next step seemed huge. A rocky cliff into a swirling, deep morass. What came next after a decade of trying to convince yourself that you hated someone?
Forgiveness? Could that happen? Did she f
orgive all the sly digs and tongue-in-cheek jokes? Did he forgive all that she had done to him?
Or did they…what? Move on? Find closure? God, he didn’t know. He was a veterinarian, not a freaking therapist. And the only therapist he knew was Tyler’s sister, who seemed a little kooky.
So he said the first thing that came to his mind. “What can I do? With the wedding,” he clarified, like the coward he was. No need to get into anything too deep right now.
Claire bent her head and wrapped her arms around Reba’s neck. He felt a strange tenderness at that gesture, filing it away for unknown future purposes. She took a deep breath before she answered. “We’ll need something else for after the ceremony, to throw at Laurel and Tyler.”
Tom couldn’t help but chuckle at the image. “It’s a strange tradition, isn’t it? Chucking objects at the bride and groom?”
Claire’s smile was directed at Reba’s lolling doggy grin, but he felt the impact of it just the same. “Depends on what level of Bridezilla we’re talking about.”
“What’s Laurel’s average?”
She met his gaze then, more open and friendly than he’d ever seen—except that one night. “Three,” she answered after taking a moment to think. “She’s been way obsessed with Soul Cycle.”
Something passed between them, the quiet acknowledgment of a truce, the understanding of a shared history, a cautious ray of optimism.
“I’ll come up with something,” Tom promised Claire.
Chapter 9
The jerk was late.
Late! It was the wedding rehearsal. Everyone else had managed to be on time. The bride and groom, of course, all of the parents and siblings and four bridesmaids and the officiant and one…two…three groomsmen. Everyone except Tom Harrington was gathered in the beautiful and historic white-planked church, ready to practice walking down the plank. Um, aisle.
Claire had started to walk toward the door again when Laurel put a hand on her arm. “It’s okay,” Laurel said. Normally, Claire would have dismissed her friend’s Pollyanna reassurances, but not today. It wasn’t because Laurel was the sweet, excited, blushing bride. It was because Laurel’s manic, eager smile made Claire suspicious.
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