Spooning Leads to Forking (Hot in the Kitchen Book 2)

by Kilby Blades

  “Funny how only one of the people looking for me went to the extreme of finding me, even when I told the courts that I didn’t want to be found. How’d you manage that?”

  Keenan hid behind the same controlled veneer: straight, whitened teeth, ice blue eyes, and a perma-smile that Shea thought now to look slightly menacing.

  “A little birdie told me he ran into you. Imagine my surprise to hear you were staying up here, borrowing a friend’s house to do some writing. I guess you forgot to mention Kendrick was staying up here with you, too.”

  “Actually, it’s my house,” Kendrick informed Keenan with a satisfied smile.

  “You mean Don Jr.?” Shea cut in, making a show of frowning at Keenan a little. “He hardly wanted to talk about me. He went on and on about you helping him with a referral to some kind of fixer.”

  “They were demolition experts, babe,” Kendrick interrupted and threw her a wink.

  “Asset retention specialists,” Keenan corrected irritably. “And I’m not here to talk about Don Packard—I came here to speak to my wife.”

  Kendrick’s smile disappeared and he rose from his seat. Even Shea held her breath, waiting to see what Kendrick would do. Kendrick wasn’t taller than Keenan, but he had a certain gravitas that outclassed Keenan’s bluster. There wasn’t a lot of inner power to Keenan once you scratched beneath the surface.

  “I’ll just take Butters for a walk.” Kendrick glared Keenan up one side and down the other as he walked around where Keenan still stood, untied Butters from the railing and began a walk toward the end of the patio with Shea’s dog. Butters didn’t growl at Keenan—but she made no move to lick or play with him either. It brought Shea a measure of satisfaction, knowing that even the world’s friendliest dog wouldn’t give the time of day to her ex.

  Keenan sat, uninvited. Shea just shook her head, feeling all confidence to have this conversation now that she’d gotten over her initial jitters. Keenan was the same—pompous and predictable and with way too much time to chase after his estranged wife.

  “Seriously, Keenan. What are you doing here?”

  “Elle…”

  Shea bristled again at the use of her given name, having somehow forgotten to expect that he would call her this. The farther removed from it she was, the more Elle West felt as if it had always, only, ever been a lie--the more she regretted ever having ceased to have been Shea Summers.

  “You leaving annihilated me. It’s hard when someone you love just disappears—here today, gone tomorrow—with no logic or explanation. It left me feeling betrayed—like everything I gave to the relationship was nothing; like all I was to you, was trash.”

  Keenan didn’t want an explanation, of course. He hadn’t come all that way for them to talk—he’d come all that way for her to hear. Some grand soliloquy was exactly what she’d expected. Far be it from him to traverse the country in the name of actually wanting to work things out. He wanted to do all the talking himself.

  “We agreed to talk through our attorneys,” Shea said in a calm, disarming tone. “You really shouldn’t be here.”

  “I didn’t agree to anything.” A harder edge crept into his voice. “You made the decision without consulting me, then expected me to fall in line.”

  “Sound familiar?” Shea wanted to know.

  Keenan leaned in closer. “I gave you everything,” he hissed. She could see his anger mount—could hear the precious narrative he was so invested in begin to come out. Keenan always liked to make it about what she owed him. Never mind that he had owed her equality—not just some crazy, twisted convoluted version of love.

  “You didn’t give me everything.” Remaining calm was proving difficult. Something about her could no longer endure his lies—his willful ignorance of what was plain to see. “You gave me financial stability at a time when I had none of my own. I contributed other things to this marriage. And instead of giving me an ounce of credit for any of those, you focused on the money and lorded it over me ever since.”

  Keenan wasn’t used to her talking back to him, not that she’d been some shrinking violet, but she had never been this direct. It hadn’t been worth the sulky moods he walked around with for weeks in the aftermath. It was clearer and clearer to her now: his gaslighting and emotional manipulation was a form of abuse.

  “I saw your letter.” he said.

  That was another thing: his lightning-fast subject changes whenever she hit too close to home. He was a master deflector. Now he was talking about Kent—the farewell letter she’d written in The Times.

  “You don’t know how many times I read it…” Keenan continued to play the victim. “…lying in our bed, jealous of your fucking fans because at least you gave them an explanation.”

  Of course he would be jealous of Kent’s goodbye to her fans. Him turning every ounce of blame around on her triggered her latent anger.

  “I came to you,” Shea practically growled through gritted teeth. “Dozens of times over the years, I told you I was unhappy. You didn’t listen.”

  “Because what we have means something to me,” he argued. “You treat this…” He motioned between them. “…like there’s nothing to be salvaged.”

  “Uh-uh…” Shea shook her head. “You had your chance. I begged you to come to couples therapy. When you wouldn’t, I begged you to go to therapy alone. Do you remember what you said?”

  “Elle—”

  “I do.” She cut him off. “You said, “Why the hell would I need to go when you’re the one who’s crazy?””

  Shea gave that memory a minute to sink in. Her arms were crossed in front of her and she’d had just about her fill. “So can we finally agree this is done?”

  “No. I’m not done.” His voice softened in a way that told her exactly what he would say. This was the part of the conversation where he turned maudlin. Inevitably, his self-aggrandizing speeches were always followed directly by professions of his deepest love.

  “What you’d hear me telling you if you’d only listen…” Keenan’s expression turned pleading. “…is that, no matter how bad you hurt me, I’m still in love with you. And, even after what you did to me, I love you so much, I want you back.”

  Surprising even herself, hot tears sprang to Shea’s eyes—tears of fatigue and frustration. How many times would he force her to ride this train? Blaming her for everything wrong with their marriage in one breath and reaffirming his love for her in the next?

  “Elle…I love you.” He misunderstood her tears and tried to take her hands. She pulled them away from him before he could. “I’ll drop the charges about you stealing the money, baby. I was never gonna let you go to jail…as long as you come to your senses and drop the idea of this stupid divorce.”

  Shea glared over at him. “Or, you could drop the charges about the money because you know I didn’t really steal it. I took it because you kept me from money I earned. And I wouldn’t have even been able to get my hands on it if you weren’t doing things you shouldn’t with all your company business accounts. You put my name on shell companies I didn’t even know about and forged my signature for half of them. Your business practices are shady as hell.”

  “My shady business practices…” Keenan lowered his voice. “…are why you went from sharing an apartment with three other girls in Alphabet City to marrying me and picking out any penthouse you wanted on Park. You should be thankful you’re married to someone whose accountant is smart enough not to get caught.”

  Keenan had the nerve to look satisfied with himself—smug and self-congratulatory.

  “Are you even serious right now? Did you ever think maybe I might want to distance myself from someone who could get me in trouble with the law?”

  “You’re the only one in trouble with the law right now, Peaches. I’m the one giving you a chance to make it right.”

  “This is the last time I’m saying it, Keenan. Drop the damned charges. Forget me and everything you think you know about who I am.”

  “I’
ll drop the charges as soon as you come home.”

  “’Scuse me…” Shea had been so deep inside of sparring with Keenan, she didn’t hear Janice’s approach. Keenan looked up in confusion. She wore a summer blouse, had on a creamy plumb lipstick and looked absolutely nothing like a waitress. She pointed to Shea but kept her eyes on Keenan. “You blackmailing this girl?”

  “This is a private conversation.” Keenan glared and waved his hand as if to shoo Janice away. Shea bristled at the disgusting gesture.

  “That sound like blackmail to anyone?” Janice turned around, addressing her question to other people in the area.

  Delilah stood up and turned around and looked right down at Keenan. “Sure sounded like blackmail to me.”

  Cornered from the outside, Keenan pressed himself back into his chair, as if doing so would give him distance from the madding crowd.

  “Did I hear something about him coming here to find her, even though they’re s’posed to be talking through their attorneys?”

  Shea turned around to hear Trudy’s voice. Pushing gently past Trudy, Buffalo Bill sauntered right up to Keenan.

  “A woman tells you to keep your distance, you leave her alone.”

  “What is this?” Keenan looked at Shea, his face a strange mixture of anger and pleading for help.

  Bev Alexander pushed through. “It’s what happens when you come in here and mess with one of ours. She wants a divorce, you give her one.”

  Keenan took out his phone. “I’m calling the police.”

  “Be sure to identify yourself,” Laura chimed in. “Let them know you’re friends with Don Packard Jr.. It sounds like you might know the asset retention specialists he worked with, which could really help Sheriff Duffy with the case. He’s currently under arrest for several crimes.”

  “Doesn’t arson carry one of the heaviest sentences?” Janice Brewster asked.

  Keenan didn’t dial.

  “Up to thirty-two years,” Dev finally chimed in, displacing Delilah until he was right behind Keenan. “And Colorado’s not kind to accomplices. You’ll do hard time for aiding and abetting.”

  By then, every single person who’d been sitting on the patio was gathered around the table. Kendrick had even arrived back from what turned out to be a short walk.

  “Elle.” Keenan turned back to her with genuine fear in his eyes. “These people are obviously crazy. Just…come home with me now.”

  Dev stepped even closer, his hulking form tall over a cowering Keenan.

  “She is home.”

  37

  The Finger

  Dev

  Dev had left Duff to the business of making sure Keenan left town—not a real police escort but a follow up the mountain in a marked car. She’d done Dev the courtesy of confirming to him when Keenan was blades up. On any other day, Dev might have liked to escort Keenan himself. But today didn’t feel like Dev’s lucky day. It felt like a day when he was trying to keep everything else together even though he was falling apart.

  He needed to tell Delilah and Evie. He needed to talk to Shea. He needed to sleep for a week. He didn’t know in what order any of those should happen. In his fantasies, the latter two would somehow combine. There hadn’t been a day in his life he’d loved waking up better than the morning he’d woken up to Shea.

  “Gentlemen…” Dev’s voice dripped with irritation as he glared down at the three men sitting at the conference table in Cliff’s office. After The Spoon, he and the EDC had driven to a meeting at number one. “It is my pleasure to inform you that there’s been a break in the investigation. Donald Packard Jr. has been charged with a litany of offenses in relation to these crimes. Deputy Brody can tell you more.”

  Dev looked up at the deputy, who stood menacing and on guard behind all three of the other Packard executives, as if he would pounce on any of them who moved.

  “Can you recite the list of charges for these gentlemen, please?” Dev asked.

  “Which list are you referring to?” Brody asked for the benefit of the men. “We brought up charges based on multiple firsthand reports. Seems like your boy’s been stirring up trouble all over town.”

  Dev could see it in his eyes—Brody had been waiting for this moment. He could see it in Cliff’s eyes, too. This was the moment they’d take things back—the moment when the whole house would come down.

  “Why don’t you start with the ones that don’t involve the mills?” Laura chimed in from where she stood on the circle of people who surrounded them. Cliff’s office was massive, but the space was rather full, with the three Packard executives, deputy Brody and all five members of the EDC.

  “Public intoxication, disturbing the peace, and giving alcohol to a minor are the three misdemeanors,” Brody began. “Contributing to the delinquency of a minor is a class four felony. Witnesses reported he had some young girls up to his place on Elk Mountain. Do the three of you know anything about that?”

  Dev shook his head in disgust as all three men remained silent. One of them who Dev knew to be some sort of attorney gave a sidelong glance toward the other two in a way that told Dev he might not be involved. The one on the other end sat stony-face and the one in the middle was sweating profusely.

  “Why don’t you tell ‘em about the other charges?” Dev asked when nobody answered. “The ones related to the explosions?”

  “All of those charges are felonies.” Brody said it a bit louder and leaned down toward them as he did, going a bit farther than he strictly needed to. This time, Dev wanted him to lay it on thick.

  “Conspiracy. Criminal solicitation. Accessory to a crime. Obstruction of justice. Insurance fraud. And those are just the ones that pertain directly to him. The person, or people, who actually set the explosives will be charged with arson and manslaughter. And those are just the criminal cases.”

  “The civil cases,” Laura chimed back in, “relate to the people in this town who have been effected. Apart from seeking damages from the company, anyone who was injured or impacted by these crimes, physically or mentally, may want to file suit.”

  Cliff cut in next. “And don’t be surprised to see a class action suit from all of the hard-working people who lost their jobs.”

  “It’ll be years of litigation,” Dev concluded.

  “You can’t threaten us,” the stony-faced one said. “And if I’m not being charged with anything, I’d like to be released.”

  “That isn’t a threat—it’s a promise,” Brody cut in.

  Janice rolled her eyes.

  “Interesting…” Dev trailed off. “We called you here for a business meeting and the place your mind went is that we think you played a role in some of these crimes.”

  “If this is a business meeting, what is your business?” asked the attorney type—clearly the smartest of all three—looking around the room before his gaze landed on Dev.

  “That, regardless of any criminal proceedings, Cliff here still has a business to run. There are still employees who are out of a job who this company is answerable to, and we haven’t gotten a single straight answer from you about how and when you plan to reopen the mills.”

  “If you plan to reopen them at all,” Brody accused.

  “As the Economic Development Council for this town,” Laura began, “we are asking you to disclose your intentions and to involve local leadership and this municipality in discussing your plans. It’s considered a standard business courtesy when the jobs that a company provides are tied to the livelihood of a town to actually work with the local government.”

  Laura’s lecture might have hit its mark. Two of the three men had the decency to seem chagrined. But Dev was still loading his guns. Negotiating a more equitable demise wasn’t the real goal.

  “Or,” Dev threw out there. “…you could consider an alternative that might sound a lot more attractive to you: unwind whatever it is you were planning and sell the mills to the town.”

  When three pair of eyes widened in surprise, it made Dev want to r
oll his. They would have known about all of this a month ago had anyone taken his calls.

  “No one in this room is authorized to make that decision,” the lawyer-type said.

  “Alright.” Dev responded. “Then you take this message back to whoever is: no riverfront development project is worth the bad press and other trouble we’ll rain down on Packard Industries if you proceed. If you think you’re dealing with an amateur on this, think again. Community redevelopment is what I do best. And if you need any proof of that, google me to find out just how good I am at my job.”

  “But you’re a small-town sheriff.” The sweaty one finally spoke, looking hopeful for the first time, something in his eyes just as arrogant as his statement.

  “And you’re an idiot,” Cliff spat. “Don’t you come here lookin’ down on us, treating us like some yokels who don’t know shit. I know how to run ten sawmills and take care of the employees who work for this company. What the fuck do you know how to do?”

  “This meeting is over,” the attorney-type said, pushing his chair back a little as if to stand. He glared up and behind his shoulder as he did. Brody was still glaring down.

  “No middlemen,” Dev continued. “We need a meeting with the final decision maker within twenty-four hours.”

  “You just put the final decision-maker in jail,” the stony-faced one growled.

  Dev smirked. “Then you all are in worse trouble than I thought if that’s whose making your decisions.”

  “Don Jr. is no longer in charge of this operation,” boomed an authoritative voice from the door.

  “I’m sorry—” Cliff looked as irritated as ever. “But who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m Donovan Packard. And this used to be my office.”

  The room around him might have fallen silent. Dev honestly didn’t know. Something happened in that moment to bend reality and slow time. Never—not once in his life—had Dev ever looked at a person and felt he was looking in the mirror. The man had cut into the circle on the opposite side of Dev and they stood facing each other, head-on. Staring at Don Packard felt like getting a sneak preview of his future self.