“Jessica—and no, she’s not the reason.” Okay, forget partial truth. This time he needed to employ a bald-faced lie. “Things didn’t work out, but we parted friends.”
Although maintaining a friendship with his brain-injured ex-girlfriend now residing in an expensive, long-term care facility bordered on impossible.
“You got another job lined up?” West walked to the sliding doors and tugged the drapes closed. “Back in LA?”
“I’ve got a couple offers to think about.” His nose would shoot out five inches any second.
“I’m assuming you’re going to stay after the evening’s drama?”
“Drama doesn’t worry me, and Shaye had good reason to be offended. She’ll come around; it’s not as if I’ll be permanently stepping on her toes.”
“She’ll come around?” West gave him a grim smile. “Have you forgotten what the Harland women are like?” He shook his head and stared out the window. “Man, I still can’t believe you’re here.”
“I still can’t believe you eat frozen pizza.” Del kept his tone light. “Now piss off, so I can have a shower.”
West laughed. “You’ll believe it after you taste Piper’s home-made version.” He swaggered out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
Del stared after his brother a moment longer, his accumulated travel grime making him feel less dirty than the half-truths he’d told. He wasn’t being completely honest about his motivations in helping out with the family business, but he’d still work his ass off training up Ms. Harland and getting Due South on track.
For the short term.
***
Holly, Shaye’s bestie since forever, flung open the door to her second floor apartment. “What did he do, and how much are we gonna hurt him?”
Shaye, still in her shopping clothes, which looked worse for wear with sweat stains soaked through the fine cotton fabric of her shirt, stood on Holly’s doorstep. She’d taken off like a competitive speed walker after leaving Due South, heading non-stop to Holly’s place.
“You’ve heard about him already?”
“Him who? Spill.” Holly fisted a hand on her bare waist. Above her tight skinny jeans, the wink of her belly button ring sparkled in the last rays of sunlight. “Because I know it’s a guy. You’ve got that I’m gonna set fire to someone’s balls look on your face.”
“I have?” Shaye blinked.
Oh, right. She’d little ability to mask her emotions, like, say, Piper, who often cleaned up on the poker nights they gate-crashed with the guys.
“Damn. I guess I have. Well, Del Westlake is who I’m talking about. The jerk.”
“Del Westlake?” Holly parroted but stepped back. “You’d better come in. I’m assuming you want chocolate.”
“Yes to the power of hell, yeah.” Shaye toed off her shoes and followed her friend inside, wrinkling her nose at the chemicals drifting out of the tiny spare bedroom Holly used to cut hair. “Am I interrupting?”
Holly crossed the floor of her family room/kitchen-dining area and perched on the arm of an over-stuffed orange and yellow floral couch. She patted the hideous sunflower-patterned cushion in a sit-down gesture. “Nah, Mrs. Taylor just left after her rinse and set. It’s definitely wine and chocolate o’clock.”
“Hold the wine, break open the emergency chocolate.” Shaye curled up on the couch, tucking her feet under her and smoothing her skirt.
Holly’s gaze zipped to Shaye’s bare legs. “What happened to your knees? Is that why you’re pissed at Westlake junior? And what on earth is he doing back in Oban a month before West’s wedding?”
Shaye held up a palm. “Whoa, Hol. One question at a time.”
“Fine.” Holly got up and went into her tiny kitchen. She flung open the door of her fridge. “White, milk, or dark—what’s your poison?”
“Definitely a night for all three.”
“That bad?” Holly dragged out a plastic container with a cross taped to the lid. “But not bad enough for a glass of Hol’s remedy for big dumb males?” She fished out a wine bottle and waved it encouragingly. “Take the edge off?”
Shaye arched an eyebrow and said nothing. Holly flashed an unrepentant grin and put the wine back into the fridge, grabbing two Dr. Pepper’s, instead. “I’ve been saving these. This Del Westlake story better be worth it.”
“Oh. It’s worth it, Hol. The arrogant, insufferable jerk.”
“Ouch.” Holly pried off the container lid. “While I’m fixing our emergency rations, start at the beginning.”
Reaching up to adjust her ponytail, which had somehow gone feral on the march to her friend’s, Shaye gave a quick recount of the evening.
Holly carried over a plate loaded with broken chunks of chocolate and the two cans of soda.
“Let me get this straight,” Holly said after Shaye lunged for the soda and cracked open the tab. “Del, whom no one in Oban except his bro has seen for thirteen years, has rocked back into town.”
“Yep.”
“And he’s going to be head chef at Due South for the next few weeks.”
“Over my dead body.” Shaye gulped, and the soda fizzed up her nose making her cough.
Which reminded her of the humiliating ferry debacle.
God. Maybe Hol would mistake the heat glowing in her cheeks as being righteously indignant. Which Shaye totally was.
How could Bill and West think Del could do a better job as head chef? She jammed a chunk of dark chocolate into her mouth and sucked greedily. It’d go straight to her butt, but what the hell. Being thwarted by that man warranted something other than her usual cup of diet hot chocolate.
“Sweets, weren’t you complaining the other day how overworked and understaffed you guys are with Bill sick?”
Shaye had a mouthful of chocolate, so she could only glare and stab a finger at Holly’s slightly smug expression.
“Yes, I know that’s not the point, and he’s a horrible, despicable bastard who should be fed to the Great Whites.” Holly leaned over from the other end of the couch and selected a chunk of white chocolate.
“You knew Due South needed another chef, and fast.”
Shaye swiped the tip of her tongue around her mouth and gusted out a sigh. “Yessss—but I thought I’d help choose a chef. That I’d be in charge.”
“Ah. The in-charge, everything has to be perfect thing.”
What was wrong with aiming for perfection—or close to it? “Del thinks because he’s worked sous in LA, he knows how to run this kitchen. Dammit, Due South’s mine—” She squeezed her fingers around the can. “Well, technically it’s Bill and West’s, and you know how territorial Bill is, but…”
“But you hoped someday it’d be yours?”
“Yeah. Look, none of us ever expected Del to come back. Bill never talks about him—he’s practically disowned the man—and any time he mentioned the future of Due South he talked about me taking over, not Del.”
“Well, maybe Due South still will be yours, sweets. Just not today,” her friend said gently. “Like it or not, if Bill’s decided Del’s going to be head chef for a while, you bitching about it won’t change his mind. Bill’s a Taurus, stubborn as they come. Besides, if Del’s been working in Hollywood, he can’t be a totally incompetent ass.”
Actually, she imagined Del was very good at his job. Being a bigger person and all, she wished him to drown in success and accolades for his work—just not in her kitchen!
“I can’t work with that man.”
Holly cocked her head, twisting a hank of dyed hair around her finger—this week’s color choice, apple green.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take such an instant dislike to someone. What aren’t you telling me?”
Shaye drooped farther into the couch. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Just the kind of story I love.”
Without moving from her supine position, Shaye wriggled her fingers in the direction of the chocolate. “More sustenance first. This ranks up ther
e with the whole Derek-gate disaster last year.”
Holly passed her a piece of milk chocolate. “Oh dear God, what did you do?”
By the time Shaye told her about the panties and handcuff incident, Holly had fallen off the couch and lay on the rug clutching her stomach and drumming her heels, tears spilling down her face.
From the floorboards came three sharp bangs. “Quiet down, girls, I can’t hear myself think.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Dixon,” Holly bellowed to the rug and the elderly widow who lived in the downstairs apartment.
Mrs. Dixon and the broom-handle-tattoo were a familiar sound when visiting Holly, but Hol wouldn’t move, claiming Mrs. Dixon, who owned the house, couldn’t live alone if not for Holly upstairs.
Shaye jabbed Holly’s leg with her big toe. “One more ‘bwahahaha’ out of you and I’ll kick your ass. It wasn’t funny, it was mortifying—and don’t you dare tell my sister!”
Holly swiped at her wet cheeks and sat up. “Oh, she won’t hear it from me. But don’t you think Del might let something slip?”
Shaye groaned. “Guys don’t talk about that sort of stuff, do they?”
“Not unless they’re close.”
“Pretty sure West and Del aren’t close. Not like West and Ben.”
“Or Ford and Harley.”
Shaye cocked her head. Something about the way Holly said Ford’s name. A little gasp-ish, as if she’d forgotten to breathe.
“Del’s birthday is at the end of March, isn’t it? Or maybe April?” asked Holly.
Shaye slid away from her previous train of thought into oh no, star signs. Here we go again...
“His birthday? Not sure—beginning of April, I think.”
“He’s an Aries. That’s why there’s friction. You being a Cancer almost guarantees you’ll clash—professionally and personally.”
Aries her butt. “I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s a gigantic, fat jerk.”
“Del’s gotten fat?” Holly wrapped her arms around her knees, leaning forward with her gleeful gossip face on.
“No, not literally fat—he’s not fat at all. About the same build as his brother. Y’know, athletic—with a few muscles.”
“Buff.”
“Guess he’s quite buff.”
“And kinda hot.”
“Yeah, he’s kinda—wait.” Shaye poked Holly with her toe again. “I see what you’re doing.”
Holly shuffled backward, out of reach of Shaye’s toes. “Ooh, the ram and the crab, burning it up in Due South’s kitchen. Pity Aries and Cancer are like oil and water.”
A pair of ice blue eyes and a slightly crooked yet sexy smile floated to the surface of Shaye’s mind. Ignoring the tingle skittering down her spine, she placed her soda can on the coffee table. “I’m thinking of quitting.”
Holly rolled her eyes. “You are not. Where would you go? Manning the grill or making cappuccino’s at Erin’s?”
Damn. Holly knew her too well. “It’s a possibility.”
“You’d hate it. Plus, you and Erin would kill each other within a week.”
“Hey, we’re friends.”
“You wouldn’t be for long if you worked together.” Holly sighed and snatched up another chocolate piece. “Last one, I swear.” She nibbled and then paused, her expression concerned. “There’s nowhere else you could work as a chef but off Island. You wouldn’t leave Oban, would you?”
Shaye thought of the responsibilities of being the youngest daughter, a loving crutch to buoy her mother’s spirits since her father had drowned nine years ago.
“You’re the glue, Shaye,” her family often told her. “You’re the one who keeps this family together.”
Most of the time, she loved being the glue, but some days…alone in her room with Masterchef, or on those occasions when she got a selfie from a friend blowing her a kiss with the Eiffel Tower in the background…
Some days, she wanted to cut those sticky strands free.
Then she thought of all her friends, her family, her pet projects and her position at Due South.
Sous today, head tomorrow. She could endure the man’s jerk-tastic-ness for a few weeks. She’d pretend she was a contestant on Survivor—Outwit, Outplay, Outlast. And she’d win, too. Holly was right. Harlands never quit.
She smiled. “Of course not, Hol.”
It was Del Westlake who’d be running back to Hollywood. The other thing Harlands were good at was being a pain in the ass until they got their own way.
Later, alone in her bed at Due South, Shaye blinked rapidly, the words on her e-reader blurring after hours of determined distraction. She just couldn’t seem to fall asleep. She flipped back the covers and padded over to the window. Parting the drapes, she leaned a hip on the sill and stared out into the night.
The position of her room at the side of the hotel gave her a partial view of low waves curling around the wharf’s pylons and surging ashore on an empty stretch of beach. Midnight fell quietly in Oban, especially on a Monday night when the pub closed early and locals kept to their own homes for entertainment in the wee hours. Sea breezes stirred the trees, the odd cry of a small owl hunting split the heavy silence, and the tides scouring the land hissed endlessly. She was home, even if the peace she wanted was out of reach.
A glowing pool moved on the sidewalk above the beach and a rangy form appeared, running along the deserted road. The man stopped opposite Russell’s grocery store, the building dark since Murray and Caroline had shut up shop hours ago.
The cool glow of Oban’s few streetlights cast the shadows from the man’s face, and her heart rate skittered into a fast trot. It was Del.
Leaning against the wooden handrail that spanned part of the beachfront, he switched off his head torch and tugged up his white tee to swipe his brow. He let the shirt drop and braced his hands on his thighs.
Shaye moved closer to the window, straining to catch a glimpse of his expression. Why on earth was he jogging after midnight?
He paused, going still, like a nocturnal creature that’d suddenly heard footsteps nearby. His spine straightened, and his head turned toward Due South. Shaye sucked in a breath and held it. He couldn’t see her—no way he’d know she was watching. Yet, across the distance she sensed a connection, felt a tiny part of the darkness in him.
Del Westlake was alone.
He must’ve chosen to run solo because West would’ve insisted on going for a jog too, if he’d known his little brother was heading out.
Del was alone, and he looked so damn lonely.
Shaye scrubbed the heel of her palm between her breasts, rubbing away the dull ache of empathy. She didn’t dare return to her bed for fear he’d spot her movement, so she stayed, in breathless tension, until the little head torch came on again and bobbed down the road out of sight.
Chapter 4
Early the next morning Shaye took her frustrations out on a batch of cinnamon rolls in Due South’s kitchen.
“You know.” West blasted through the swinging doors, addressing her as if they were already in the middle of a conversation. “It would’ve frickin’ helped if I’d known you wanted to be head chef.”
Shaye continued to knead the dough on a floured board without glancing around. “Would it’ve made any difference?”
“It would’ve made me feel less of a jackass for not giving you a heads up first.” He crossed to stand beside her at the counter and leaned his jean-covered butt against the edge.
One raised brow was all it took to make him move two steps away.
She dug her fingers into the dough again. “Because it’s all about you not feeling like a jackass.”
He grinned, the patented West charm switching on full power. “You love me even when I am being a jackass.”
“No. That’s my sister.” She stabbed a finger at him. “Next time, a little warning would be nice.”
“Well. I really am sorry for the way it went down.” West gave her his best poor-bad-doggy grimace. “But Del is—”
West retreated another step and showed her his palms. “Gotcha, my favorite soon-to-be-sister-in-law.”
“You don’t have to baby me. Bill’s made a decision, and I’ve dealt with it.”
Outwit, outplay, outlast, she reminded herself. Until she had the pleasure of snuffing out his torch and sending him off her damn island. She pounded the dough some more.
“So, we’re good?” West said after a long pause punctuated by her frequent thumps. “You’ll put up with Del being here for a couple of months?”
Shaye’s shoulders prickled with cold fire. Did West really think his brother would stick that long?
“Sure, but when it comes time to hire someone else, I’d like a say in it.”
West darted in and kissed her cheek, then moved out of her orbit again just as quickly. “Of course.”
“No kissing, it’s unhygienic and unprofessional.” Her mouth curled into a small smile.
Staying mad at West was impossible, especially since their relationship had always been more like sister-brother than traditional employer-employee.
“Dad and I will make it up to you, Shaye-Shaye.”
“Whatever.” She lifted the dough into a prepared bowl, and covered it with a clean dishtowel. “Putting aside my feelings for the moment, how do you feel about Del being back?”
“I’m rapt that’s he’s home.”
“I don’t think he considers Stewart Island home anymore.”
West’s forehead crinkled. “Noticed that, eh? You picked up on the bad mojo between him and Dad too?”
“Kinda hard to miss.” She crossed to the sink with the floured board. “I’ve always wondered why Bill never made more of an effort to stay in touch with Del—though it’s none of my business, I guess.”
“Dad did make an effort, at least, for the first year or so. He got up at three a.m. every Sunday to catch Del on Saturday morning, LA time. I’d hear Dad trying to get him to talk on the phone, but you know—” West shrugged. “Teenage boy. Angry and hurt teenage boy. Not much conversation went on from Del’s end that wasn’t in monosyllables.”
Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3) Page 5