by Julia Kent
Long red light.
“Why didn't you say anything?”
Cutting his eyes to me for a split second before returning to the road, he says, “It would have just caused us both pain. Plus, I'm a moral person, too. I would never ask someone to break their vows, or break my own sense of decency.”
Now I can't breathe at all.
Green light.
He zooms.
The leather offers me solace, my neck tipping back, wind whipping my long, brown hair behind in ribbons. Wisps lash at my shoulders and I close my eyes, the vodka I had at the bar loosening its grip on me, the chilled wind sobering me completely.
“Thank you,” I finally say, sitting up, my hand going to his knee. He looks down at it, then at me, and finally back to the road.
“For what?”
“For being so decent. Because if you'd said something, I'm not sure I could have resisted.”
“You would have. That's why I never did. I don't take rejection well, Hastings. Especially when so much is on the line.”
“What would have been on the line?”
He slows the car down, pulling over and decelerating until the crunch of gravel feels like a throat clearing, the engine quieter as he puts the car in park, turns to me, and takes my hand off his knee, moving it to his chest.
“This. This would have been on the line,” he says fiercely, locking eyes. He laces his fingers with mine, pressing the back of my hand against his heart.
“Ian.”
And then he kisses me until I'm free, so free that I can touch him and let him touch me without any decency.
Not one single shred.
My desire is so intense, it pulsates through my body, until bursts of light start to flash inside my closed lids, and I think I might come right there in my Italian leather seat.
Or… wait. Mid-kiss, I open my eyes. The lights are still flashing, but a lot brighter. My thong is somewhere halfway down my thighs, Ian's erection cupped in my hand as we make out on the side of the road, a mile from my parent's house, like horny high schoolers.
And just like in high school, the cops are out, patrolling.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he says in a low growl, straightening my skirt like a gentleman, chuckling to himself. “Haven't had this happen since high school,” he mutters, echoing my thoughts.
“License and registration, sir,” says a female voice, the flashing lights making it hard to see. The throb between my legs wants to anthropomorphize into the Incredible Hulk, picking up the cop and throwing her as far away as possible, so I can get back to being raunchily defiled.
Hold on. I know that voice.
“Karen?” I ask, craning forward and looking past Ian. Karen Minsky is our next door neighbor's daughter, a police officer in Anderhill. She's in uniform, holding a flashlight half the size of a baseball bat, and her eyes are gleaming at me.
Instinct makes me touch my hair, keeping my hands nice and visible, though the idea that Karen would arrest me is about as foreign to me as my father cheating on my mom.
Never gonna happen.
“Hasty?”
I grit my teeth as Ian looks at me and whispers, “Hasty?” Amusement tinges his voice.
“Hi, Karen. Yes, it's Hastings Monahan. How are you doing?”
“Great. Heard you were back in town and living at home again.” She eyes the Lamborghini. “What kind of work are you in now?” From the way her gaze settles on my skirt, I can tell what she's thinking.
And that my billable hourly rate involves a motel that rents by the hour, too.
“She works for me,” Ian says as Karen looks at his license, eyes widening.
“Ian McCrory? You related to that billionaire guy on the cover of Time Magazine?”
“I am.”
“How?”
“He's me.”
“And what, exactly, do you do for Mr. McCrory, Hast... ings?” she asks me, handing Ian back his license and registration. He sets them in his lap, giving her a patient look. If Burke were pulled over, he'd try to sweet talk the officer into letting us go, and if that didn't work, he’d pull out a phone and threaten to call the DA's office, using his networking muscle.
Ian's manner is different.
More effective.
He doesn't need to throw his weight around. He could do all that, too, but he doesn't. Respecting Karen is how he gets through this.
“I'm a financial analyst with a specialty in international port issues,” I begin to explain, watching the exact moment her eyes glaze over.
“How're your legal problems with that scummy ex of yours?” She leans against the red finish of the car, bent slightly, though the convertible's top is down, so no need to hunch.
“Going well.”
“Yeah? Heard through the grapevine someone's paying for all that.” She eyes Ian. “Must cost a lot.”
“Whatever the expense, Hastings is worth it. When someone like Burke Oonaj scams hundreds – maybe even thousands, as new information comes to light – of investors, violates federal and state laws, and skips out of the country, good people like Hastings need full legal protection. She's cooperated in every way possible with law enforcement and regulatory agencies to make sure people got as much money back as possible, Officer. Hastings Monahan is a hometown hero in this case,” Ian says, nodding as if he's using Jedi mind control tricks to get Karen to agree.
“Sounds like your ex is a giant prick,” she says to me.
Ian grins. “You are more succinct than I could ever be.”
“You two a couple?”
“We work together,” Ian says smoothly. She looks to me for a response, but I just smile.
Silence is the bane of small-town existence. The local gossip mill will be abuzz with the story of disgraced local girl Hasty Monahan tooling around town in a fancy car with billionaire wunderkind Ian McCrory, and found by Karen Minsky, who was worried about her.
If I were a betting woman, I'd lay money down on the majority of folks assuming I'm his escort.
“Why were you two pulled over? Car problems?”
Neither one of us answers. Karen clearly becomes suspicious.
“I'm going back to my cruiser, and I'll follow you home, Hastings. You're going home, right?”
Ian's taken aback. “Officer, I assure you, that won't be necessary. We were just–”
“Mr. McCrory, around here, we take care of our own.” She looks past him at me. “After what happened with Mallory a couple years ago, on that porn set, I just want to make sure you're okay.”
“Porn set?” Ian chokes out.
“She didn't tell you about her sister becoming a fluffer on a porn set?” Karen says, the words rolling out of her mouth with a satisfaction only a local gossiphound can truly understand, like the first drag on a cigarette for a nicotine addict. “You Monahan girls get yourselves into some interesting situations, don't you?” She smacks the side of the door next to Ian. “How much does one of these cost, anyhow?”
“Karen,” I say slowly. “We're fine. Ian can drop me off at home without a police escort. You know my mom and dad will worry if they see you pull up.”
She shrugs, giving me a tight smile. “I'm headed to my parents' house anyhow. Mom got a case of Mountain Dew at Costco for me. No bother at all. Just follow the speed limit, Mr. McCrory. Wouldn't want to have to issue you a speeding ticket.”
Two smacks of the car later, she walks away.
Ian's eyebrow rises. “What the hell was that?”
“Small-town cop. See why I moved away from this place? Small town, small minds.”
“No. Not her. She's just doing her job, and I think it's fine for locals to watch out for their own. I mean the porn set. Your sister is a fluffer? Will never mentioned that.”
I deflect. “How do you and Will know each other, by the way?”
“Real estate deal from a couple of years ago. Helen and Larry are really nice people. Will, too. It's the kind of friendship where you go long stretches with no co
ntact, but when you connect, it's like you're picking up a conversation from the day before.”
“Low maintenance.”
“Exactly.”
Honk!
Karen flashes her lights at us. Ian starts the car and pulls out.
“Turn left here,” I explain, realizing we'll be at my house in under three minutes.
“Hastings? I mean, Hasty.” He laughs. “I'm learning so much about you.”
“Is that why you keep appearing everywhere?”
His hand goes to my knee and squeezes. “Yes.”
“Turn right,” I tell him, suddenly overwhelmed. We abandoned my sister's bachelorette party and Mom will have a million questions.
Especially when I arrive home in a red Lamborghini, followed by a police car.
“Here.” I point to the house. He parks in front of it. Karen pulls past us, turning into her parents' driveway, waving as she walks in.
“So weird,” he says.
“Small towns.”
“No, I understand small towns. I was brought up in one, in Wisconsin.”
“Then what's weird?”
“You won't answer my fluffer question.”
“You don't know what that is?”
“I know what a fluffer does, Hastings.” He moves in for a kiss, nuzzling my neck.
“You watch porn?”
“Is this really the conversation you want to have right now?”
“No. But I can't exactly invite you in, so I have to deflect somehow.”
“Why can't you invite me in?”
“I live with my parents, sleep on a twin bed, and a Lisa Frank poster bears witness to my poor taste in the 1990s.”
“I have a hotel room in Boston–”
Blue and red lights flash three times in quick succession.
“Public indecency is still a crime in Anderhill,” Karen says from a loudspeaker attached to her cruiser.
Porch lights pop on like fireworks all over the neighborhood, including my house. Instantly, Dad opens the door and looks out.
I kiss Ian on the cheek and open the car door.
“You’re really not going to invite me in? Meet your parents?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
“So there’s a yet?”
Bzzzzz
Ian's phone lights up. He ignores it. Three times in a row, it buzzes. Mom, in her bathrobe, is now on the porch with Dad.
“Sounds urgent.” I point to the phone in his lap.
“It is.” He moves the phone to reveal something even more urgent.
“I meant your phone call.”
“You're my priority.”
“This is not how I want you to meet my parents.”
“Then how?”
My mind races to find something, anything, that will make this better.
“Be my date.”
“Date?”
“For Mallory's wedding.”
Bzzzzz
Ring!
His phone is going insane.
“I'm already in the wedding, Hastings. We're paired together.”
“I know. But that's not the same as being someone's date. Being public.”
“You want to be public about this?”
“Yes. Whatever 'this' is.”
“You need a definition?”
“Just say yes, Ian!”
“I need to think for a minute. Usually I'm the one asking women out. This is quite the role reversal.”
“Welcome to the twenty-first century. We have horseless carriages and everything here. Pocket phones with more power than a 1970s supercomputer that we use to order four-dollar coffees.”
He just stares at me as the neighborhood chatter grows.
“Are you begging?” he finally asks, stretching back in his seat.
“What? No! Why does that matter?”
He just grins, ignoring his crazy phone.
“If you don't want to go as my date, just–”
He grabs my wrist, pulling me to him, our lips brushing together with a wild frenzy that makes my knees weak. Then he finally looks down at his phone, his entire demeanor going cold.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please come with me to the wedding. Be my date.”
“I will.”
And with that, he starts the car and disappears into the night, taillights two small red pinpoints, leaving more questions than answers.
And a big, red throb between my legs.
15
Always a bridesmaid, never a bride is a phrase I thought I'd escaped years ago, when I married Burke.
But now that I know we were never truly married, was I ever truly a bride?
The dress Mallory settled on long ago is from Ahern's, the “fancy” wedding and formal gown shop in town. For three years in high school, this was where I came for my homecoming and prom dresses, and now they've delivered the bride’s and bridesmaids’ dresses to the wedding and reception location.
Mallory and Will decided to get married in the place where the word twee was invented.
My back teeth ache just from being here, the castle part of a larger farm that's been preserved as conservation land, registered as a historic place here in Massachusetts. Once land and buildings get that designation, two things happen: The price of repairs goes up astronomically, and you instantly have a photogenic venue.
Castle Celtic is on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and that is wedding crack for people like Mallory and my mom.
It's an outdoor wedding, but the eccentric person who owned this place and shipped an entire small castle over here from Ireland also left an obscene amount of money in a trust for ongoing maintenance. Some smart trustees built a large, open-air barn that easily seats two hundred people, the wooden folding chairs now adorned with bows and fresh flowers that match Mallory's colors.
My contribution?
Cheese, of course.
“Hastings? Have you been in a wedding before? You were sick for the rehearsal,” Dancy asks. Mallory told me a while ago that the little gnome-like man from the dance studio was the officiant, but I didn't quite believe her.
“Hi, Dancy. Yes, I have. I know the drill. Smile until your face feels like it'll crack in half and drink loads of cocktails so you can make it through the best man’s toast without dissociating.”
He pats my hand with sympathy. “You're a pro.”
“That was the most jaded description of a bridesmaid’s role I've ever heard,” Perky says, offering me a bottled water. I accept it gratefully.
“But I'm not wrong.”
“No,” she says with a smile. “You're not.”
“Am I finally going to meet Paul?” I ask her as I look behind the final row of chairs to see Parker and Fletch chatting with my dad. Ian isn't here yet. Maybe he's with Will?
“He's on his way. You heard about Chaz? He had to pull out at the last minute. His wife had an ovarian cyst? Something like that. Surgery back in St. Louis.”
“I heard. That doesn't sound good.” Mom's talking with Dad now, whispering in his ear. Both of them look behind me, at the long rows of chairs.
“And you know about his replacement?” Perky winks.
“Of course. It's Ian.”
Her eye flit over my shoulder, halt, then widen.
Parker, Dad, and Fletch all turn and look the same way.
A warm hand surprises me on my shoulder, the very familiar scent of a man's custom-blend aftershave tickling my nose.
“Hi, there,” he says, right by my ear, making it impossible to hold back a delicious shiver.
A man in a tuxedo is always a sight to behold, but Ian McCrory in a bespoke tux is a god. The colors white and black bow before him in supplication, grateful for the opportunity to be draped along the lines of his body. The cloth worships him.
His hair is newly cut, face covered with three day's growth but carefully trimmed, and he smells like Ian, a crisp scent of fine wool, pressed cotton, cherry, burnt oak, and spices too mysterious to name.
If
wide-open spaces had a scent, it would be Ian.
“You're not dressed yet,” he says. “And I normally pick up my date at her home.” A gentle, obviously public kiss on my lips makes Mom's eyebrows shoot up.
Dad grins.
“This isn't a normal date.”
“No.” Something in him flickers. “And I need to talk to you in private.”
“What about? Personal or business?”
“Both.”
“Are you going to introduce us?” Dad interrupts, still smiling. “Unless my daughter has suddenly developed a habit of letting strange men in tuxedos kiss her?”
“I hope not, sir. I'm Ian McCrory. Nice to meet you,” he says, pivoting to do the manly handshake thing with Dad.
“Roy Monahan.”
Ian studies Dad for a moment. “I see the resemblance.” He looks at me, smiling through his eyes.
“And I'm Sharon,” Mom pipes up, offering her hand. “Thank you so much for everything you've done for our daughter. The legal bills, the consultants, her job...”
Now I feel like a charity case. Not his date.
“My pleasure, Mrs. Monahan.”
“Oh, please. It's Sharon.” But his politeness pleases her.
“Sharon.”
“Yes,” Dad says, stepping next to Mom, putting his hand on her shoulder. They share a glance, the kind of look you can only have with someone you're entwined with. “We really appreciate it.”
“It's the least I could do.”
I can't thank him yet again. I just can't. It feels weird now, awkward and unclear, the fuzzy line between our last kiss in his car and this moment too blurred for me to know what to say.
Or feel.
“And now the focus is on Mallory and Will,” Ian says fluidly, with confidence. He’s obviously accustomed to using charm to transition away from tension and awkwardness.
Which he senses in me.
“Absolutely. It's my sister's special day,” I say, standing. “And it's time for me to change out of yoga pants and into my dress.”
Ian leans in, hand on my hip. “I like you in whatever you're wearing. Or nothing at all.”
Thankfully, Mom and Dad have started to move away, so the comment goes unheard.
“Are you hitting on me, Mr. McCrory?”
“If you have to ask, I clearly didn't do it well, so let me try again. This time, I won't fail to communicate exactly what I mean.”