Claiming Cari (The Gilroy Clan Book 2)

by Megyn Ward

  “What time should I pick you up?

  My eyes pop open. “Really?”

  “Really.” Patrick laughs, the sound of it—of him—in my ear, reminds me of last night and I flush, from head to toe.

  He said yes.

  “Reservations are for nine,” I tell him, fighting the grin threatening to take over my face. “At Davino’s.”

  He’s quiet. Quiet enough to dim the smile on my face. I open my mouth to ask him if something is wrong, but he beats me to it.

  “Then I’ll be there to pick you up at eight.”

  “Hey, Legs—open the door.”

  I’m standing at the stove, about to flip my grilled cheese when Conner’s voice pushes its way through the intercom. He sounds irritated. Almost angry.

  Remembering what Tess said—that he’s been driving her crazy all day long—and what Patrick said—that he drove all the way to their office in Seaport, looking to pick a fight with his brother—I debate whether or not I even want to deal with him right now.

  Like he can read my mind, he pushes the intercom again. “The request was just a formality, Legs,” he says, sounding almost bored. “I can bypass this lock in about fifteen seconds, so just—”

  I cut him off by pressing the lock release. Five seconds later, I can hear his work boots pounding up the stairs. I open the door for him before making my way back to the kitchen to tend to my lunch.

  “You seen Tess?”

  I look up to find Con standing just past the threshold, separating the kitchen from the living area. He looks as irritated and angry as he sounds.

  Sliding my sandwich onto a plate, I shrug. “She was here, but she left a few hours ago.” On impulse, I offer him my sandwich. “Hungry?”

  To my surprise, he takes the plate, moving around the kitchen counter to the breakfast bar. “She say where she was going?” he says, setting the plate in front of him before taking off his jacket. Pulling up his sleeves, he sits on a stool.

  “Back to the garage—” I slather two new pieces of bread with butter and set them on top of the stovetop grill Patrick used for steaks last night, layering cheese in between. “she said she had to get back before you strung her up.” I look up at him. “She’s not there?”

  He shakes his head, taking a bite of his grilled cheese, chewing slowly. I know what he’s thinking. Tess is MIA, and so is Declan.

  “Wherever she is, Con—she’s alone,” I tell him. “She probably just needs some time to get her head together.”

  “He’s always been a selfish prick,” he mutters at his sandwich before biting into it. “He does what he wants and doesn’t care who he hurts. Who’s left holding the bag. Never has.”

  From where I’m standing, I can see the new tattoo he’s been trying to keep under wraps. It’s a broken strand of pearls, wrapped around the length of his arm, starting at his wrist and disappearing into the sleeve of his shirt. When I look up, he’s watching me. Caught staring, I turn back to the stove.

  “Do you love him?” Con asks, switching gears on me so fast, I bobble the sandwich I have perched on my spatula, smearing melted cheese all over the grill.

  Him.

  Patrick.

  “Yes,” I say, even though I’m not entirely sure who he is anymore. I scrape burnt cheese off the grill and wait for him to ridicule me. Accuse me of breaking his cousin’s heart. Leaving Tess when she needed me the most.

  “Why can’t you tell him?”

  I look up from what I’m doing to find him watching me, half-eaten sandwich dangling from slack fingers.

  “I don’t know.” The confession comes out on a whisper. “I want to, but...” I shrug, turning away from him, unable to stomach the way he’s looking at me. “I can’t seem to find the right time.” That’s a lie. I’m not sure why I can’t bring myself to say it, but timing has nothing to do with it.

  “The right time passed you by eleven months ago.” Before I can say anything, he shakes his head. “He’s not gonna wait for you.” He drops his half-eaten sandwich and stands, brushing crumbs off his fingers on the seat of his jeans. “He’s different.” Jerking down his sleeves, he shakes his head. “He’s not the guy he was when you left,” he says, shrugging on his jacket. I get the feeling we aren’t talking about Patrick anymore. Not entirely.

  “Who’s Henley?” It comes out of my mouth before I have a chance to think about what I’m asking. What I’m potentially starting.

  Con’s mouth twists in a bitter smile. “She’s no one.” I watch as he yanks his sleeve down, through the cuffs of his jacket, completely hiding his tattoo. “Not anymore.” He circles the counter, intent on leaving. “If you see Tess—”

  “What happened?” I switch off the stove and turn toward him. “What happened while I was gone?”

  My question stopped his retreat. He’s standing in the middle of the room like he’s stuck there. Like he wants to leave but he can’t. “Shit got fuck up, all the way around,” he says without looking at me. “If you see Tess, tell her I need to talk to her.”

  Before I can press him for more, he’s gone—the door banging shut behind him.

  Forty-six

  Patrick

  As soon as I submit the paperwork for the permits, I turn off my computer and pull on my jacket. It’s just after one o’clock. That gives me six hours to go back to my apartment and grab a few hours sleep before I have to get ready and make it back to our place to pick Cari up at eight.

  My new place is in Backbay, usually a 45-minute commute from our office in Seaport. Hopping on the 93, light traffic cut’s my drive in half, and I’m home ahead of schedule. Deciding to use the extra time wisely, I set the alarm on my phone for six o’clock before stretching out on the couch and close my eyes.

  Instead of sleeping, I think.

  When she called, I’d had every intention of telling her that, despite what I told her last night over the phone, I wasn’t coming over tonight. That I needed some room to breathe. Get my head straight. We both did.

  Last night was a mistake. I let myself slip, and I can’t do it again. She’s either going to admit that she loves me or I’m moving on because I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep touching her and fucking her because every time I do, I sink a little bit deeper. Lose a little bit more of the ground I’d gained while she was gone.

  That’s what I told myself I was going to say. I was going to tell her no.

  Because in one, five-word text, Declan summed up my entire 48-hours since Cari’s been back.

  I don’t think I can.

  I can’t stay away from her. And that’s a problem because it completely contradicts everything I know and want. I spent the last eleven months thinking long and hard about what that is. What I’d be willing to settle for if she came back and the answers are clear.

  I want everything, and I’m not willing to settle for anything less.

  That’s what I had every intention of saying when she called me this morning.

  But then she asked me to dinner, and she sounded so nervous, so unsure of herself that I caved. I said yes, even though I know it’s a horrendously bad idea. Even though I know exactly where we’ll end up at that end of the night.

  Because no matter what I want, no matter what I know is right, I can’t say no to her.

  I never could.

  My alarm goes off, and I come off the couch like a shot, eyes wide, instantly awake. I’m not sure when I finally managed to fall asleep, but I feel marginally more human than I did when I closed my eyes. I stumble into the bathroom and crank on the shower, giving myself a few minutes under the hot water, letting the water pressure pound out the aches and pains that sleeping on the torture device I call a couch caused.

  Afterward, I towel off, wrapping it around my waist on my way to my closet. Pulling the dry-cleaning bag off my black suit, I pick a tie before hanging them both on the back of my closet door.

  Davino’s is a nice place—Declan and I are frequent fliers these days—the owner is a friend.
I briefly consider calling him and letting him know I’m coming in tonight but after a five-second debate, decide against it. I want a simple, quiet dinner. Exactly what I won’t get if I call Davey. The best I can hope for is that he won’t be in the kitchen on a Thursday night.

  Shaving, I take a quick inventory. The few hours sleep did me some good. Finished, I wipe my face clean and slap a little aftershave on my cheeks before getting dressed. Strapping on my watch, I turn my wrist to check the time. It’s just past seven.

  My first instinct is to call her, but I fight it off. Somewhere between my trying to sleep and not think about how well and truly I’ve fucked everything up again, and accepting the fact that I’m probably never going to get this right, I realize that by asking me to go to dinner with her, Cari’s given me an opportunity to do just that.

  To get it right.

  I’m going to take Cari on the best goddamned date of her life. I’m going to be a gentleman. I’m going to open her door and pull out her chair. I’ll help her with her coat and walk her up the stairs. I’m going to kiss the hell out of her. Until she’s weak-kneed and trembling.

  And then I’m going to leave.

  Because this is it. She’s either going to give me what I want or this—whatever this is between us—is over.

  Forty-seven

  Cari

  The buzzer sounds, promptly at eight. As soon as I hear it, I want to throw-up.

  Which is stupid.

  “It’s Patrick,” I whisper to myself. “It’s just Patrick.”

  Because I don’t trust myself not to say it out loud, I buzz him up without pressing the intercom before standing inside the laundry room, listening to him come up the stairs. Asking him to come with me was stupid. I knew Davino’s was fancy, but after checking out their website, I know that fancy is the wrong describer.

  Sophisticated. Classy. Elegant.

  Completely out of my league.

  Even these words don’t accurately describe what I saw online. The prices alone made me sick to my stomach. Patrick is a simple guy. He likes simple things. Benny’s and baseball. Pizza and beer.

  He knocks on the door. I stand there, staring at it. I can practically see him on the other side of it. Nice pair of Khakis. The white-button down he wore the first night we...

  Oh, god. What if he thinks I expect him to pay?

  Maybe I should call Chase and tell him we can’t make it. We can go grab some pizza or try to find that taco truck I’ve been dreaming about ever since—

  “Cari...” his voice comes through the door, so close it startles me. “Are you going to open the door?”

  Shit. Of course, he knows I’m standing here like an idiot.

  Squaring my shoulders, I push a smile onto my face and open the door. “Sorry,” I say, ready to make some sort of lame excuse about why I’m standing in front of the door, staring at it, instead of opening it like a normal person but every word I planned on saying flies away, leaving me dumbstruck and wide-eyed.

  Patrick is not wearing Khakis.

  “Holy shit,” I breathe softly, taking in the sight of him. Beautifully cut suit. Designer tie. Hand-tailored shirt. What look like ruby and platinum cufflinks. My eyes travel upward, taking it all in. His gorgeous, clean-shaven face. Subtlety styled hair. Clear green eyes.

  I look down at the dress I’m wearing. I bought it off the rack at an outlet years ago. My shoes are so old they could be considered vintage. I feel like a complete—

  “My thoughts exactly,” he says, flashing me a quick, dimpled smile before leaning in to press a lingering kiss to my cheek. He smells fantastic. “You’re beautiful,” he says, and I have to bite my tongue to keep myself from saying, you too.

  When he pulls back, his lips grazing the corner my mouth. “These are for you.”

  Still feeling a little off balance, I look down. He’s holding a bouquet of tulips.

  “You brought me tulips?” Not roses. Not lilies. He brought me tulips.

  Orange ones.

  “I did.” One of his eyebrows inches upward while his mouth twitches under the weight of a suppressed smile.

  Now I’m grinning like an idiot. “They’re my favorite.”

  “I know.” The smile he’s fighting is gaining ground, his dimple digging a little deeper into his cheek.

  Of course, he knows. This is Patrick. He knows what kind of yogurt I like and what brand shampoo I use. He knows I love olives on my pizza and what horrible taste I have in television. He’s seen me ugly cry and covered in paint.

  “No one’s ever brought me flowers before,” I say, and as soon as it comes out of my mouth, I want to slap a hand over it.

  Jesus. Why can’t I stop saying stupid things?

  Before he can comment on how absolutely pathetic my life is, I take the flowers out of his hand. “I’ll put these in some water,” I say, carrying them into the kitchen and rifle through the cabinets until I find a tall glass. Filling it with water, I take a few seconds to arrange them.

  Patrick brought me flowers.

  Forty-eight

  Patrick

  The flowers were an impulse. Driving through Fenway, I spotted a flower shop, just getting ready to roll down its doors for the night. Thankfully, I was able to sweet talk the owner into letting me in. When I pointed to the orange tulips in the cold case, she looked like she was going to try to talk me out of them, and into something more traditional, like roses, but stopped herself to look me up and down. “You look like the kind of young man who knows what he wants,” she said with a nod, pulling the tulips out of the case.

  Damn right, I do.

  And she’s standing right in front of me in a sexy black dress—the dress. My dress—that hugs every perfect curve of her, making it hard for me to remember my own name.

  I lift her coat off the hook and follow her into the kitchen. Maybe if I get her coat on, I’ll have a fighting chance at re-routing the blood flow currently coursing its way through my veins, straight to my cock.

  She’s standing at the counter, fussing over the tulips, a soft smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. It makes me want to bring her flowers, every day, for the rest of her life. “We should probably get going if we’re going to make the reservation.”

  She looks up and blushes. “Of course,” she says, heat creeping across my chest. Setting the flowers on the counter, she comes toward me, letting me help her into her coat. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispers, looking up at me.

  Not I love you.

  I’m glad you’re here.

  “Me too,” I tell her, forcing a smile. Taking her keys out of her hand, I lead her out the door and lock up, before ushering her downstairs and onto the street.

  On the sidewalk, I pocket her keys, switching them out with my own. “This is me,” I tell her when she starts down the sidewalk, toward Gilroy’s parking lot.

  She looks at the car in front of her, confused. I don’t blame her. The Audi R8 coup I’m driving is a far cry from my beat-up Ford. “Where’s your truck?”

  “At the office.” I laugh, hitting the fob in my hand, unlocking the door before opening it for her. “If I showed up at Davino’s in my work truck, Declan would string me up. This is his idea of a company car.”

  She looks up at me. Confusion has slid into trepidation. Like she’s not sure who she’s about to get into a car with. “You’ve been there before?”

  “Once or twice.” I give her a one shoulder shrug. “No big deal,” I say, nodding at the open car door. “But they don’t hold reservations so...”

  She gives me a tight smile before sliding into the seat. Shutting her door, I hurry around to my side of the car with the distinct feeling that, despite the fact that she asked me to come with her and she chose the restaurant, Cari is about five minutes away from calling this whole thing off.

  Forty-nine

  Cari

  He’s different.

  He’s not the same guy he was when you left.

  That’s what Co
n said to me this afternoon, brooding over his grilled cheese. I thought he was being dramatic. Trying to get a rise out of me. Manipulate me into doing what he thinks is right—and maybe he was. But he was also telling the truth.

  It’s not just the suit or the car.

  Patrick is different.

  More confident. Sure of himself. What he wants. Who he is. Last night, watching him make dinner, I thought the same thing. Felt the difference in him. It was disconcerting then. Tonight, it’s intimidating.

  “Is everything okay?”

  I look up to find him standing close, face angled toward mine and clouded with concern. He has his hand on the small of my back, the other poised to pull Davino’s heavy glass door open on its hinges. The contact is familiar. Intimate, even. Like last night, I feel like I’m looking at a total stranger.

  “Yes.” I smile up at him, trying to calm the ridiculous flutter of nerves in my belly. “Just nervous, I guess,” I say.

  Instead of asking me why he leans close and presses a quick kiss to my forehead. “That’s why you brought me, remember?” he murmurs in my ear. Beneath the expensive aftershave I can smell him. The real him. He smells like himself—sawdust and sunlight—like my Patrick and I hold the smell of him in my lungs. Let it calm me while he opens the door to the restaurant and ushers me inside.

  The calm is short-lived.

  The hostess, a gorgeous brunette in a slinky red dress, sees us. Coming out from behind the podium, she approaches Patrick like they’re old friends. “Patrick,” she purrs, tilting her cheek expectantly. “It’s been too long—and without calling first.” Her pewter-colored eyes flash affection and humor. “You must be punished.”

  Patrick laughs. “Do whatever you want to me—just don’t tell Davey I’m here,” he says before pressing a quick kiss to her cheek.