by Mia Ford
I turned the knob on the dash to pump out more heat. I wasn’t even wearing a coat, just a heavy sweater, jeans, and boots. I ground the gear into first, and wiggled my eyebrows at her. “Hamptons, here we come.”
Katie wrapped her arms around herself and kept quiet as I maneuvered out of the city, finally turning onto the Northern State Parkway toward Long Island. Traffic was fairly light this time of year, so I settled in at sixty-miles an hour, which was top speed for the Bronco. I glanced over to give her a smile.
“You know, you don’t have to worry,” I said. “I’m an excellent driver.”
“That’s what Rain Man said,” she said, rolling her eyes without looking at me. She peeled off the thick gloves and unraveled the scarf from around her neck. “It does have a good heater though, you were right about that.”
“Told you,” I said. “I’ll take us a couple of hours to get to my place. We can stop somewhere for breakfast if you like. Or I can phone ahead and have something prepared. There’s an excellent catering service there. I can have anything you want ready by the time we arrive.”
“I’m okay at this moment,” she said, unbuttoning her coat. I smiled when I saw the familiar red sweater under the coat. “Why don’t we just play it by hour and stop if we get hungry.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “So…”
“So…”
We smiled at each other. I said, “So it really is a small world.”
“It is,” she said. “A very small world.”
“So be honest with me,” I said. “You had no idea on New Year’s Eve who I was?”
“Not a clue,” she said, shaking her head. “Obviously, you’re not as famous as you think you are.”
“Obviously not,” I said. “I’ll have to talk to my PR folks about that.”
“Now, you be honest with me,” she said. “You had no idea who I was?”
I frowned at her, thinking that I had missed something, then she giggled and put her hand on my arm. “I’m just messing with you. I’ve spent my entire life being a nobody. If you had known who I really was it would have creeped me out.”
“You’re not a nobody,” I said seriously. “You’re Yates Hamilton & Booz’s top contract attorney. That’s a pretty big accomplishment given the reputation of the firm.”
“I didn’t mean that I was a nobody,” she said. “I just meant that I’ve always shied away from the limelight. It’s not my thing. I like working behind the scenes. That’s why I went into contract law rather than litigation.”
“A shy Irish lass,” I said playfully. “And yet a spitfire when gotten alone.”
“Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes again. “If I was such a spitfire, why did you sneak off in the middle of the night?”
“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” I asked, my shoulders going up and down. “It was a one-night stand, after all. I thought I’d save you the awkwardness of waking up with me. That whole ‘walk of shame’ thing I mean.”
“Guys don’t do the walk of shame?” she asked.
I grunted a laugh. “Rarely. Only if they wake up with a woman who looks like a dude in drag. And even then, they’ll probably go back for more.” I looked over and winked. “Men are pigs, remember.”
“Oh, I know that for a fact,” she said. “Some men more than others.”
I cut my eyes at her. “Be honest with me. Was that your first one-night stand or do you do that sort of thing all the time?”
She held the gloves between her hands in her lap and picked lint from them. “Honestly, that was the first and only one-night stand I’ve ever had. I had never done anything like that before. It’s really not who I am… I mean… well… you know what I mean.”
“So why did you do it with me?” I asked. “I mean, I was flattered, and boy, did I have a great time. But what made you take me home that night?”
“Are we fishing for compliments, Mr. McGee?” she asked, cocking one eyebrow.
“No, just trying to understand how Mollie the paralegal’s mind works,” I said. “And to see if Katie the lawyer thinks the same way.”
“I’m going away with you for the weekend, aren’t I?” she said shyly. “This is almost like a one-night stand. I mean, I don’t really know you any better now than I did the first night we met.”
“Okay, then let’s get to know each other,” I said, nodding with my eyes on the road.
“And how do you propose we do that?”
“Easy. You ask me a question, I’ll answer it, then it’s my turn to ask you. You can ask anything you want, and the other person has to answer. By the time we arrive at my house we’ll be like old friends. I’ll even let you go first.”
She seemed to like the idea of playing a game. She turned sideways in the seat and tapped one finger to her chin.
“Okay, let’s see, you told me last night you were born in upstate New York. Tell me about your parents.”
“Okay… My dad’s name is Edgar, he is a retired CPA. My mom’s name is Louise, and she is a retired school teacher. They still live in the house I grew up in outside of Rochester.”
“Are you still close with them?”
“I am still very close with them,” I said proudly. “I was the only child and they doted on me. We weren’t rich, so there wasn’t a lot of material spoiling, but lots of hugs and kisses and support. My mom especially. She was very religious, Irish Catholic. She was the one who gave me the old ‘you can be anything you wanna be’ speech, so long as you go to church on Sunday and say your prayers.”
“And do you?”
Do I what?”
“Go to church on Sunday and say your prayers?”
I shrugged. “I only go to church when I go back home, and probably don’t pray as much as I should. I’m more like my old man. He was the one who gave me the ‘work your ass off to get ahead’ speech.”
“Ah, I’ve heard that one,” she said, head bobbing. “Our parents sound a lot alike.”
“Okay, my turn,” I said. “You’re from South Boston. I assume from a large Irish family?”
“Irish… South Boston… do the math.”
“Tell me about your family.”
“Well, let’s see, my dad’s name is Sean, and he owns an Irish pub in Southie.”
“Shocker! An Irishman named Sean who owns an Irish pub,” I said. “Let me guess, it’s called Sean’s Bar. Or Sean’s Place. Something like that.”
“No, smart ass,” she said, poking a finger into my arm. “It’s called O’Hara’s. My grandfather called it that when he opened the place back in the fifties.”
“Ah, so your dad is a second-generation bar man,” I said. “Tell me about Sean O’Hara.”
“Sean O’Hara is your stereotypical Boston Irish Mick,” she said with an air of pride. She loved her old man. It was easy to tell by the lilt in her voice. “He is a big, barrel-chested, bear of a man, nose broken half a dozen times in street fights when he was a kid. He loves his friends and hates his enemies, and thinks Donald Trump is the Lord’s gift to mankind.”
“Ouch, and how do you feel about that?”
“Don’t get me started,” she said, making a sour face. “Anyway, his grandparents came off the boat from Dublin at the turn of the century and settled in Southie. He still lives in the same house my grandfather bought when he was just a boy. He had three brothers, all cops, and four sisters who married cops. He was a cop himself for a while, but took over my grandfather’s bar when he got sick, and never left.”
“I assume O’Hara’s is a cop’s bar.”
“You would assume correctly,” she said. “I grew up around cops. They were all like uncles to me. I thought about joining the force myself, then realized that dealing with assholes all day was not my idea of fun.”
“So, you became a lawyer,” I said. “Where you…”
“Yes, deal with assholes all day. Ironic, huh.”
“What about your mom?”
“My mom’s name was Lanie. She pas
sed away several years ago. Cancer.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, putting my hand on her knee for a moment. I gave her knee a pat and pulled my hand back. It was too soon to start getting handsy. “What kind of cancer?”
“Liver,” she said. “It was a horrible death, but she was strong for her family. She smiled whenever we were around. Never complained.”
“She sounds like an amazing woman.”
“Yes, she was.”
“What about siblings?” I asked, shifting gears away from her dead mother. “Let me guess, you’re the youngest—and only daughter—with a dozen older brothers, all cops, who would gut me like a deer if they ever caught me looking at you.”
She giggled. “Jesus, I am a walking stereotype, aren’t I?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Actually, I have six brothers, not twelve, all older than me. Three are cops, one works at the bar with my dad, one is a fireman, and one is a history teacher at a high school in Southie. And all are very protective. They wouldn’t gut you like a deer. They’d just cram you into a garbage can full of cement and drop you in the harbor”
“Is that why you’re living in New York?” I asked. “To get away from your overprotective brothers?”
“Not really,” she said. “I’m not one of those girls who saw the need to run away from home.”
“So, you moved here for work?”
“Yep, pretty much. Yates Hamilton & Booz made me an offer right out of law school. My Uncle Allen was here, so I moved here and never looked back.”
“Do you go home much? To Southie?”
“I go home for Thanksgiving and Christmas,” she said. “And of course, for St. Patrick’s Day. After the resurrection of Christ, that’s the biggest holiday at my house.”
“I’ll bet. Are you going home for St. Patrick’s Day this year?”
“Of course. My dad would have a stroke if I didn’t come home to celebrate at the bar. It’s like a family reunion. We’ll all be there.”
“That sounds like fun,” I said.
“Okay, it’s my turn to as you a question,” she said, giving me the serious eye. “What’s going on between you and Cassandra Leone?”
“How is that relevant to our game?” I asked.
“Hey, you said we could ask anything we wanted,” she said. “So, I’m asking you about Cassandra Leone.”
“Okay, well, Cass and I are friends.”
“And?”
I frowned at her. “And what?”
“And what else?” She shook her finger in the air. “I Googled you last night.”
I put on a horrified face. “OMG, please, don’t say that I’ve been Googled!”
She grinned. “You’ve had quite the colorful life, Mr. McGee,” she said. “So many news reports of your exploits in the business world. And so many images of your… other interests, shall we say… from TMZ and The New York Times. It turns out, you’re a regular on the gossip pages. I feel so silly for not realizing that I was in the presence of a celebrity.”
“Oh, I’m a celebrity, all right,” I said, playing it off. “What would I find if I Googled you, Miss O’Hara?”
“You’d discover that you were with the most boring person in New York City.”
“Come on, I don’t believe that.”
She sighed and spread out her hands. “You’d find me listed on the Yates Hamilton & Booz website, and on a Facebook page that hasn’t been updated in months because I’ve had nothing to tell. Like I said, I’m probably the most boring woman in New York City.”
“And yet, here you are with a notorious celebrity like me.”
That made her smiled. She put a hand on my arm and gave it a squeeze. “Seriously, tell me about you and Cassandra Leone. According to Google, you two have been an item for years. I found an engagement announcement from like five years ago, but you never married that I could find. Why no wedding bells?”
“We just never took that plunge,” I said honestly. “Cass is not the marrying kind.”
“Ah, so she’s the one.”
“Yes, believe it or not, she is the one. I’ve proposed to her several times. She does not believe in monogamy. She would gladly marry me if it was just in name only, but she is not ready to settle down, at least not with me.”
“That’s… sad,” she said, squeezing my arm again. “But you’re still friendly?”
“Oh yeah, we’ve known each other since college,” I said. “We hang out, we go to dinner, we… hang out…”
“Enough said.” She settled back in the seat and turned her eyes toward the road. “She’s very beautiful, but also very intelligent, isn’t she?”
“Cass has one of the sharpest business minds of our time,” I said. “It’s just packaged in a stripper’s body.”
“She was coming on to my Uncle last night,” she said, eyes straight ahead. “Was that just her being flirty, or did you put her up to that?”
“A little of both,” I said. “I asked her to occupy Allen, so I could sass out this hot shot attorney he was bringing to dinner. Of course, that was before I realized that the hot shot attorney was you.”
“I see,” she said tentatively.
“But it worked out well,” I said. “It gave you and I time to get reacquainted.”
“I’ll let you know how well it worked out,” she said, glancing over with a smile. “After the weekend is over.”
Chapter 17: Katie
The trip from my apartment in Manhattan to Conner’s house in the Hamptons on Long Island took about three hours, which was an hour longer than it should have taken.
The traffic wasn’t the issue, as it would have been in the summer. It was February and freezing outside. Nobody in their right mind was heading to the Hamptons for a long weekend. The streets in the town would be deserted, as would the beaches, until the middle of spring.
The trip took so long because of the old clunker Conner decided to pick me up in. The darn thing would barely do the speed limit. He said it was a classic Ford something or other that once belonged to his dad. I just thought it was a piece of crap, although it did have a great heater, thank the Lord.
If he was trying to impress me by downplaying his wealth, he missed the mark. I would have much preferred to travel in the back of a nice, comfy limousine. However, if he was trying to impress me with the sentimentality he held for his folks, he more than succeeded. It was nice to see that there was more to Conner McGee than the man I’d read about on Google. He was what my brothers would call a ‘rich, pussy hound’, but he seemed like a nice guy underneath. Of course, the pussy he was hounding for was mine, so I was probably more than a little biased.
After an hour and a half, we whipped through a McDonald’s drive through for some breakfast; an Egg McMuffin and Diet Coke for me, a McGriddle and large coffee for him. He swore to me that he had not had fast food in years, and had never set foot in a McDonald’s. His condescension quickly disappeared when he got a whiff of the strong coffee and a bite of the syrupy McGriddle. The way he devoured the McGriddle made me smile; like a little kid who had discovered a new form of candy.
We made it to his house on the north end of the island just before noon. I’m not sure what I was expecting, a sprawling mansion, I suppose, but it turned out that his place was a quaint Plantation style house off the main road with a wrap-around porch and its own private beach. Conner said the house was only 6,000 square feet—only, he said—with seven bedrooms and seven baths, a gourmet kitchen, a media room, a gym, a sauna, and a large that looked over the ocean. The nearest house was a hundred yards away.
“It’s beautiful,” I said as I climbed out of the truck and looked around. “Have you owned it long?”
“Only about a year,” he said as he pulled my overnight case and his duffel from the back of the truck. “It was in pretty bad shape when I bought it. I’ve been renovating it for about six months now.”
“You’ve been renovating it?” I looked him up and down with a snarky smil
e. “You do not look like you’d know which end of a hammer to hold.”
He gave me a sheepish smile. “Fine, I’ve been paying to have it renovated,” he said. “I’m not the handiest man in town.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “At least not when it comes to house remodeling.” He nodded toward the wide steps that led up to the front porch. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
Conner dropped our bags in the master bedroom, then gave me the grand tour. About half of the place had been redone. It was modestly decorated, with overstuffed furniture, masculine colors, and a TV hanging over the fireplace that wouldn’t have fit through my apartment’s front door. The rest of the house was covered in tarps and dust, paint cans and tools everywhere, with plastic hanging over the doors to keep the construction mess contained.
He led me out onto the back deck that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. It was a crisp day, with a cool breeze blowing in from the ocean, but the early afternoon sun was warm on my cheeks. I lifted my face toward the sky and closed my eyes.
“Why does the sun always feel warmer when you’re out of the city?” I asked. I inhaled deeply. “And the air so much fresher.”
“Because there are no big, obnoxious buildings to block the sun,” he said, standing next to me at the railing with his arm touching mine. “And no cars and buses and taxis billowing obnoxious exhaust.”