Suck a calming breath through your nose, breathe deep, and bestow upon him your queenly smile accompanied by a slight nod of acknowledgement. Let him see that his presence has absolutely no effect on you. You’ve moved above and beyond anything to do with Conor Bradstreet, except where it involves the girls or his bank account. End of story.
Ice-tinged air hit her lungs and stung her cheeks as she stepped from the car. The gale-force wind wrestled the dry wax spray she’d used on her hair. No contest, the wind won, her hair swirling and dancing in her eyes and whipping her face before falling back, catching on her earrings.
Eyes watering, she half-staggered through the door, one hand over her mouth, her purse slipping with a thunk! to the floor, gaping wide, while personal items scattered in a pattern reminiscent of well dropped Pick-up Sticks.
Conor and Grayce swooped to gather her things from the floor while Alicia tried to contain her cough. Grayce held up a pink and white, plastic-wrapped, tube-shaped item to Conor. “Grandpa, what’s this?”
Conor never missed a beat. “Something of Grandma’s, honey.” He tucked the tampon back into its case, shut the inner zipper with sure hands, then piled the rest of Alicia’s things on top. “There we go.” He smiled at Grayce as he held out the purse to Alicia. “You’re a good helper, Kid.”
His praise and matter-of-fact attitude satisfied the little girl while Alicia prayed for a do-over, a quick rewind to when Brian first pulled the car into the parking space alongside Conor’s, give her just one more chance at her imagined grand entrance.
Conor handed off the purse, the twinkle in those cinnamon eyes his private concession to the embarrassing moment, at least until they started moving down the plush hall toward the offices. Then he leaned over and ran the upper zipper of her bag back and forth across the purse’s opening, not once, but twice. “Great invention, zippers. Open, easy access.” He slid the zipper shut. “Closed, things stay where they belong. All kinds of things.”
Alicia resisted the growing urge to tell him what he could do with zippers. He reached ahead to hold the door for her, his expression amused, as if he knew what she longed to say and trusted she was too much a lady to say it.
He knew her well, too well, and it had been like that since they met, as if there was something about her that fit with him, not unlike the teeth of a zipper, interlocked, bound by fate and clever design.
But the design had faded with time, warped by passing years of his passion for work and her penchant to punish him for his absence. When their lives fell apart in a sea of sorrow and deceit, the ensuing crash seemed anti-climatic, making it easy to blame Conor for everything that had gone wrong.
Seeing him before her, holding the door, his chin tilted down as he angled a brow her way, eyes lit with gentle amusement, she hated that those familiar actions attracted her after all these years.
Worse, she despised that he probably had streams of women at his beck and call, that his good looks had only solidified with time, and that he considered the Big Apple his personal playground while she existed in a four-mile radius of day-to-day life.
Her self-assessment had “Loser” printed all over it.
When had she gotten this way? More to the point, why had she stayed this way, stodgy and stubborn?
Conor’s voice interrupted her escalating train of thought. “Has Kim decided on this place?”
Alicia turned and tuned into the purpose of the day, determined to focus on the wedding and not on the scent of his leather jacket, or the dark umber turtleneck beneath. She wondered if he knew how well the shirt went with his eyes, then remembered this was Conor...of course he did.
She answered his question without looking up. “As far as I know, yes.”
“Because?”
“It’s pretty, gracious, well-appointed and outrageously expensive.”
“Convincing points, all around,” Conor noted, his voice easy. “How’s the food?”
“I’m sure it’s amazing. That’s why we’re here, right?”
Conor nodded as Kim and Brian stepped into a well-presented office at the end of the hall. “Did you ask about the Chicken Parm?”
What was it with this guy and the stupid chicken? Hello? They were not about to serve breaded Chicken Parmesan at Kim’s wedding reception. Talk about prosaic. “I’m sure they’ll have several good selections, but I’m equally sure that won’t be one of them.”
Conor shrugged as if disappointed. “It wouldn’t be as good as yours, anyway.”
Alicia’s heart paused at his words, right before she gave herself another internal scolding, remembering who he was and why he lived in New York while she lived in Princeton. The small matter of cheating on his wife with a leggy lawyer and the resultant divorce. No doubt they’d been the talk of the cocktail party circuit for months on end. It had taken time and effort to regain a sense of control, to feel like she had the reins firmly in hand, her daily existence calm and unquestioned.
Until he bought their old house so he could rub her nose in his presence.
Conor slid back a chair for her. She sank into the tufted leather seat without a whisper of acknowledgement, refusing to chance a look his way, bemused by how quickly he slid under her guard, beneath her radar. Looking straight ahead, she focused her attention on the wedding planner’s elitist presentation.
A soft knock at the door drew their attention. The wedding planner surged to her feet. “Mr. Preston. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Rachel.” He smiled and nodded at the woman as if his presence hadn’t flustered her. His eyes scanned the room, landed on Conor. “Mr. Bradstreet.” He took a couple of steps and held out his hand as Conor rose. “We had the pleasure of talking not too long ago.”
“We did.” Conor took the other man’s hand in a steady grip, his manner a tad uncomfortable. “Nice to meet you in person.”
“And you.”
The wedding planner appeared to rediscover her purpose for living. “Mr. Bradstreet, you obviously know Mr. Preston.”
Conor gave a quick nod. “We’ve done business together.”
“Mrs. Bradstreet.” The young woman nodded to Alicia. “This is Mr. Preston, the CEO of Garlock Aviation and the co-owner of Garlock Estates.”
Alicia offered her hand. “And chairman of the Princeton Zoning Commission.”
“Guilty, on all counts. How are your plans for the bookstore coming?”
Conor stiffened beside her, but Alicia ignored the action. “Fine, thank you. We’re looking forward to a St. Patrick’s Day opening.”
He smiled and made a really bad attempt at an Irish brogue. “Earnin’ your first bit o’ green on the wearin’ o’ the green.”
Conor winced. “You might need to work on the accent, Reggie.” He waved a hand, indicating the rest of the family. “My daughter Kim, her fiancé Brian, and his daughter Grayce, aka The Flower Girl.”
Grayce wiggled at the mention of her name, offering a smile that lacked two top teeth.
Reggie shook hands all around, then turned back to Conor. “When you’re done here, may I have a minute?”
Conor’s gaze flicked to his family, then back to Reggie. “Now is fine. I believe my primary objective here is food-tasting, and we’re not to that point yet, so I’m okay to step out as long as they promise to save me a bite or two.”
“We can probably manage that,” Kim promised.
Conor stepped forward, then turned back. “Oh, and, Kim?”
Kim met his look. “Yes?”
“See if they make Chicken Parm, would you?”
Alicia bit back a groan and a laugh, miffed that she even considered the latter.
Kim flashed him a smile. “If not, I’ll make it for you soon.”
Conor copped an abject look of fear. Kim laughed out loud. “Okay, maybe I’ll take you out for it instead.”
Conor gave her a wink and laid his big, broad hand along her cheek, smiling. “Much better idea.”
The planner acknowledged his humo
r with a well practiced smile beneath an immovable brow, botoxed, no doubt. “We’ll move down the hall for the tasting, Mr. Bradstreet. I’ll be sure you’re back with us before we do, and of course our chef can create a perfectly elegant Pollo Parmigiano Italiano for your wedding guests if you’d like.”
Kim’s brow arched up when Conor turned his gaze Alicia’s way. “Not quite the same, I’m afraid.”
Points of heat bit Alicia’s cheeks, caused by Conor or an upsurge in estrogen. Maybe Conor’s presence spurred an upsurge in estrogen? Conor and hormones seemed to go hand in hand.
Conor laid a light hand on Alicia’s shoulder and bent down, his mouth near her ear. “I’ll be right back.”
His breath feathered wisps of hair along the edge of her neck, his words tickling the sensitive skin, while the pressure of his hand felt warm and comforting, like a well-washed quilt.
Red alert! Red alert! Red alert!
Instantly she waxed into zone mode, the calm, cool, detached persona she donned when emotions spun out of control. “Of course.”
Her words were prim and proper, but her heart rate rose by a factor of five, maybe six, she might have to give him the extra multiple depending on whether or not she survived the imminent heart attack. A growing flush crept up from her lower neck, her breath coming in butterfly puffs, light and ethereal.
He squeezed her shoulder, gentle but definitive, his touch as sure and composed as the man himself.
Shivers spiraled down her back, her arms. She crossed her arms in self-defense and Kim leaned her way.
“Cold?”
“Um, no. No. I’m fine.”
She put effort into listening to Rachel’s spiel on the harmony of a well-planned wedding day, and couldn’t help but think back to her own wedding, somewhat hurriedly planned due to Kim’s impending arrival.
They’d been married in the church of her youth, an ancient, ivory-stoned affair in Cleveland, whose parish numbers dwindled with the rise of suburban home building. The old church now faced the danger of closing. The remaining parishioners would be shuffled to a neighboring parish whose priest served both communities. The news saddened Alicia, dimming the memories of the old city church, the comfort she’d known there, a staple of her early life, but the thoughts of her wedding day stood out, bright and clear, a young couple with big dreams, bright futures, and all the hope and promise of young love. Funny how life could beat a good thing into the ground, given enough time and lack of effort on the part of the participants.
Footsteps sounded outside the door. Conor stepped back in, his look assessing. “I didn’t miss the food, did I?”
Rachel laughed. “I just got a message from our chef that everything’s ready in the Dubonnet room. Your timing is perfect.”
Conor flashed her the grin that melted female hearts. “Where food is concerned, anyway.”
Kim stood and glanced at her watch, then whistled softly. “Mom, can Dad drive you and Grayce home when we’re done here? Brian and I have some things that need to get done today, and it would help the cause greatly if we can head south while you guys head west. Is that okay with you, Dad?”
Conor hiked a brow to Alicia, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine with it.” He raised his chin slightly. “Alicia?”
Caught between Kim’s time constraints and the lovely Rachel’s obvious admiration of:
A. Conor’s money
B. Conor’s looks
C. Conor’s humor
Alicia took the high road. She nodded to Kim. “That’s fine, honey,” then swung her gaze up to Conor. “You’re sure you’ve got time?”
He shrugged. “Nothing but time. The weekend’s totally free. Why don’t we swing around the old place and you can fill me in on what needs to be done?”
Trapped. Foiled. Ensnared in a Conor-web. How did he manage to do that so well? Alicia hemmed and hawed, then gave in, unwilling to make Kim fret or tweak Rachel’s attraction further. “We’ll have Grayce with us.”
Conor tugged the little girl’s hair, then swooped her up into broad, sturdy arms. “In that case, I think a trip to Thomas Sweet’s for ice cream would be in order, don’t you, Grandma? Like we used to do when Kim and Addie were small.”
The thought of swinging into the popular local ice cream parlor like any old family out for a Saturday treat seemed way too normal an event to share with Conor, but once again she acquiesced due to her surroundings, a fact, no doubt, Conor read and understood. “I’m sure Grayce would enjoy that.”
“I love ice cream thiiiiiiiiis much.” Grayce extended her arms from side to side, stretching to make her point.
“That’s significant,” Conor noted. He winked at Alicia, the action transporting her back thirty years, to the very moment she felt her heart tumble and fall into his. He’d winked then, too, from the tennis court where he’d just completed a set against a Supreme Court nominee. Beat him, too, despite the fact that the sitting Federal Court judge might preside over a Bradstreet case at a later time.
Conor didn’t care. Even then he recognized that he was good enough and strong enough to make his case when necessary.
His actions showed that Conor was no ordinary man. That fact alone should have made her run for the hills in search of average and every day, but the thrill of Conor’s ambition drew her, his quest to conquer the world of New York finance an idealist’s dream in a lion’s mindset, patient, pacing, ready to pounce at the most opportune moment.
She’d been drawn to both sides of him, until the reality of the lion meant long weeks alone while Conor wheeled and dealed his way around New York.
She’d discovered that single parenthood wasn’t her cup of tea, and let Conor know it with increasing regularity. Someplace along the way she’d turned into a bona fide fishwife, nagging and haranguing, wanting more of him, but unwilling to spend time in the city to achieve that goal. In the end she ended up the very thing she didn’t want to be: a single parent. She’d lost on all fronts, her son, her husband and a good share of her self-respect.
Would things have been different if she’d been different?
An internal slap to the head junked that train of thought. Conor did her wrong, and at the worst possible time. No normal woman could forget that, and hadn’t she ascertained her status just that morning? Alicia Bradstreet was, is and ever would be, nothing more than normal.
*
Conor pulled into the driveway of his newly acquired old home and waited for Alicia’s reaction. She didn’t disappoint him.
“Oh.” Her mouth dropped open, eyes narrowed, forehead knit in disbelief. Her jaw worked to one side, then back, while she shifted her gaze from the disaster of a paint job to the condition of the roof, and the yard. “How bad is the inside?”
Conor shook his head. “Don’t know. Haven’t seen it yet.”
When his words registered, she shifted the look of disbelief his way. “Haven’t seen it?”
“No.”
“You bought the house unseen?”
Conor shrugged. “We lived here, Leash, it’s not like I’m unfamiliar with the place.”
“That was a long time ago,” she protested, eyes wide, brows drawn up. “Conor, they could have totally trashed the inside.”
He pushed open his door, moved to the back seat, and withdrew Grayce. “Let’s go see.”
Alicia’s face shadowed as they swung the pea-green door wide and stepped into the entry. “This is... awful.”
Conor tried to look at the bright side. “But, other than the roof, I think it’s structurally sound. I’m having the roof inspected this week, then we’ll take care of replacing that and fixing any hidden damage beneath the shingles. In the meantime, the first floor can be taken care of. I figured I’d wait on the second story and the attic until the roofing was complete.”
Alicia had moved forward, her gaze sweeping multiple directions. “How could anyone be this stupid?”
“Stupid’s not a nice word, Grandma.”
Alicia’s wince s
aid she realized the same thing the moment Grayce opened her mouth. She turned back. “Sorry, honey, Grandma should have said careless.”
“Or clueless, foolish, dense, inane, or idiotic,” Conor supplied, ever helpful.
Alicia crossed a nutmeg shaded rug to study the hand-carved mantel above the bricked fireplace, soot-stained and drab in the afternoon light, then frowned, glanced down at her light-toned pants and growled, one hand slapping her pants as she ran back to Conor. He reached out his free arm to catch her. “What’s wrong?”
Alicia bent and batted, her hands moving in furious fashion. “Fleas.”
“No.” Conor glared at the rug, then reached down to slap two more hoppy little fellows from Alicia’s leg.
“Oh, yes.” Alicia scooted for the door. “Conor Bradstreet, if you’ve infested me with fleas on top of everything else you’ve ever done, I’ll...”
“You’ll what?”
When she swung back he stood right behind her, inches away, clutching Grayce, searching her gaze for something to hang onto, come home to.
Her breath caught when she met his eyes. For a split second she leaned forward instead of back, he was sure of it, her body language betraying her words. “You’ll pay, big time.”
He laughed down at her and was relieved to see her relax into a smile. He reached out a hand to her hair, palming her cheek, amazed that she could still feel so right after all these years. “I already pay, big time. You’ll have to do better than that, woman.”
He thought she turned her cheek into his hand for just a moment, but then she headed back to the car, out of the wind, and away from the fleas, and he wasn’t sure if he’d invented her reaction or witnessed it.
Once he had Grayce belted into her booster seat, he slid into the front, huffed and puffed cold air, and started the engine. Grayce’s voice hailed him from behind.
“Grandpa, I think it’s too cold for ice cream today. Can we go to Grandma ‘Licia’s and drink hot chocolate? She knows how to make it the special way.”
Disappointment speared Conor. No way was Alicia about to offer Grayce’s special recipe hot chocolate to him, loaded with marshmallows and whipped cream, but he couldn’t deny the little girl’s request. The bitter wind did make ice cream less noteworthy for the moment. He put his emotions on hold and nodded, keeping his expression easy. “Whatever you want, Kid.”
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