And it could have all been prevented, if only Naomi had cared about him enough to make the introduction.
He rubbed his chest, feeling a hollow ache building as though his heart were collapsing in on itself. How could she? He let anger take over from the unpleasant feeling of betrayal. It was easier to be angry than to grieve what he’d lost. What he’d never really had, apparently. As far as Iain was concerned, she could take all her talk of support and understanding and shove it. She might think she didn’t trade on her connections, but he’d watched her at the Founders’ Ball well before they’d been introduced, and she’d been working the room for her art just as much as he had been for his whiskey.
She was a damn hypocrite.
And he was nothing to her. She’d made that clear the past few days. He was a fool for wanting to come to her aid in the first place. She didn’t need him; but what was most evident was she didn’t want him either.
He slapped his palms to his thighs and pushed to his feet. Looking down at Judith Klein, he forced a smile. “It was great seeing you again, but I really have to run. I have a meeting in about twenty minutes that I can’t be late for.”
Both women stood, and Mrs. Klein clasped his hand in hers. “Have Naomi give you my number. She might not want to introduce you to Luis, but I have no such rules about leveraging my connections to help a … special friend out.” He ignored the slither of discomfort her phrasing gave him in favor of a fresh spurt of anger. Maybe he’d been cozying up to the wrong Klein all along.
Naomi stepped forward. “I’ll walk you out.”
He stared at her a beat, wondering if she could see the disappointment on his face. “No, don’t bother. I know the way.”
As he walked out the door, Iain wondered if the last three months—including the time he’d spent holding the dark-haired beauty in his arms—had all just been an epic waste of time.
19
He was leaving. He was leaving? Naomi watched Iain stomp out of the room, her stomach sinking. She hadn’t thought about what she was doing when he’d said he was outside, only that she wanted nothing more than his strength as a buffer between herself and her family. And now, somehow, her mother had managed to ruin that, too. She drew in a deep breath. She only had a week left before Iain went back to Ireland, and she’d already wasted two days fighting with her family about this ridiculous intervention. So she hadn’t come to their stupid events! They’d never come to her gallery openings. Maybe it was about time.
She stood up, trying not to let her eyes keep drifting to the door. He hadn’t seemed like he was planning to come back. “Mom, why on earth would you possibly think it’s okay for you to insert yourself into my life like this?”
Her mother frowned. “I’m not inserting myself.”
Naomi leaned forward. “You have no right to talk to Iain about his whiskey.” The words sounded ridiculous even as she said them, and all three of her family members raised their eyebrows.
“May I remind you that I’m the one who signed the contract for his whiskey to be at the Founders’ Ball?” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “I have every right to speak to him, both as a vendor and apparently as a friend of the family—not that you cared to mention it to us.”
“There was nothing to mention,” she said through gritted teeth. This was exactly what she’d been hoping to avoid. It was her own stupid fault for bringing him into the house when they were here.
Her brother snorted. “Please. Coming out of a different hotel the morning after the Founders’ Ball is one thing. Him showing up in your living room months later is entirely different.”
“I’m doing his logo design,” she said. It sounded weak, even to her own ears.
“Yeah? How long did that take you? And was that before or after you were in bed with him?”
Naomi had never actually understood the phrase ’seeing red’ until now. An actual haze of rage filmed her eyes as she stared at Jacob. “I think you should leave.”
“Is he the reason you haven’t been returning my calls?” Her mother’s lips thinned. “I can’t say I approve entirely without knowing more about his family, Naomi. Of course I want you to be happy. But I still don’t understand why you wouldn’t have sent him to Luis.”
“Because I don’t want to be like you!” she shouted.
Utter silence fell in the room. Her father and brother exchanged glances, but Naomi had let the floodgates open and now she couldn’t stop.
“I don’t want to just let all of my dreams die and do absolutely nothing worthwhile unless it’s in pursuit of some man’s ambitions,” she snarled at her mother. “You might be happy living some sort of zombie Stepford Wife life, but it is not. for. me. I’ve told you over and over again, and all you care about is marrying me off to one of your friends’ sons! I’m sorry, but fuck that! I have a life, and I have a career, and I am never giving it up just so I can change my goddamn last name.”
Her mother stared at her. “Is that what you think I did? Is that what you honestly think my life is?” Her expression, as usual, was unreadable, but the fine lines between her brows had deepened with strain.
Naomi threw her hands up helplessly. “I can’t see how it could be anything else, Mom.”
“Then I suppose we’re done here.” Her mother rose and left without another word, the front door closing gently behind her.
More silence. Naomi listened to the sound of a car starting in her driveway, then heard the wheels thump onto the street. The sound of the motor faded as she stared at her father and brother.
It was Jacob who finally broke the silence. “That was too far, Nay.”
Her anger stirred again. “Says you. Maybe you should go home to your own wife, see what she might have wanted to do with her life.”
His lips thinned, and he stood up off of her couch. “I’ll be in the car when you’re ready, Dad.” Another exit, this time with a much louder slam of the door.
Her father sighed. “Naomi—”
“Is it your turn now?” she asked bitterly. “Go for it, Dad. Tell me what an awful person I am for wanting my own life.”
He was quiet for a few moments. “You can have your own life and still have other people in it, Naomi. You don’t have to be all alone to be successful.”
She felt her anger fading into discomfort. “I know that.”
“This whiskey man—”
“Iain.”
“Iain. You didn’t use your connections to help him because you thought it would make you weak?”
She sighed. “Not exactly.” Talking about her sex life with her dad was exactly as uncomfortable as she’d always assumed it would be, even though she’d waited until her thirties to do it. “We were just friends. I don’t really do commitment, you may have noticed.”
His lips tipped into a half smile, and he inclined his head. “I’m a doctor, honey, I’m trained to be observant.”
“I just … didn’t want people assuming it was more. And if I’d been begging all my friends and relatives to help out a guy, you know perfectly well they’d have started sending out wedding invitations immediately.”
Her father pursed his lips. “I think perhaps you’re getting a little cynical.”
“In my old age?”
“Watch it, now.”
“Come on, Dad. Iain walked in the door and Mom was practically demanding to see his income statements and offering to take him ring shopping.”
“She wants to see you happy.”
“She has no idea what makes me happy.”
“I think she’s always assumed that what makes her happy are the same things that would do it for you. You’re a lot alike, you know.”
Naomi stared at her father. “Not. At. All.”
He smiled and pushed himself up out of his chair. “Tell you what. Let’s take the night to cool off. I’m going to take your mother to that cute restaurant in the town square Noah is always telling me about. Tomorrow, you and she can talk. Just the two of you, no pressure.”
She walked him to the door. “What are we suddenly supposed to be talking about?”
He paused in the doorway. “She’s here now, honey. Why don’t you show her what you do?” He glanced up, in the direction of the studio. She hadn’t realized her father even knew about her art, much less where the studio was. He’d always been too busy to acknowledge it. But somebody was keeping him informed, apparently.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
Naomi spent a lonely night tossing and turning in a bed that seemed unnaturally empty without Iain in it, alternately angry with herself, her family, and him. Why hadn’t he come back? Why hadn’t she swallowed her damned pride and helped him with more than just a good set of logos? Why had her family chosen now, of all possible times, to show up and ruin her life yet again?
Her father’s words kept ringing in her ears. You can be successful without being alone. He didn’t understand, though. He was the successful one, letting her mother spend her entire life supporting him. Raising children, throwing galas, making connections. Naomi shuddered. She couldn’t imagine spending her life that way. And she certainly couldn’t imagine Iain wanting her to. His pride in her work was evident every time he talked about the branding of Whitman’s Revival, and when he asked her curious questions about the sculpture that was nearly finished in her studio upstairs. He hadn’t seen it in several days, not since before her family and his had managed to drop bombs in both their lives.
Now maybe he wasn’t going to see it at all, because she’d driven him away. She scowled and punched a pillow into a less offending shape. He knew she didn’t want her family sniffing around them during the time they had left. His three months were near an end. And with his family dragging him back to Ireland, it wasn’t like they were ever going to see each other again anyway. Why was he so angry? He’d done his job. It hadn’t been a walk in the park, but he was a good marketer and he’d sold all the whiskey he’d intended to. What would have changed if she’d gotten him a contract with Luis? Judging by what he’d told her about the conversation with his father, his family still wouldn’t have had any intention of making the brand a permanent one. Man, that guy. What a piece of work. She shook her head. How anybody could treat a man like Iain that way was beyond her.
She sighed and threw off the covers. She wasn’t getting any more sleep. And Iain wasn’t coming back. Their time together had shrunk to nothing, thanks to her family. Might as well head upstairs and add some final touches to the sculpture, since it was the only thing in her life that seemed to be going right these days.
Predictably, she lost track of time. When her doorbell rang, she blinked out of her reverie and checked the clock. “Shit!” No time to change. She raced down the stairs and opened the door, wincing as her mother’s gazed travelled over her dust-covered shirt—Iain’s black button-up, as though she could somehow summon him back by wearing it—and loosely-tied hair. “Hi, Mom.” She stepped back and let her mother in.
They’d arranged to meet again today, as her father had suggested, but she hadn’t intended to look like this. She’d meant to be wearing something casual but nice, something that made her look like an adult woman who had a career, but also friends and an exciting, fulfilling life. Maybe those white linen capris. They screamed ’I’ve got it all, Mom, stop judging me.’ It was the gold buttons on the ankles that did it.
Instead, here she was, letting her impeccable mother into the house looking exactly as she had in high school when she’d first discovered real clay. She’d spent hours at the art studio at school, knowing better than to try to bring her work home. But she’d ruined plenty of clothes back then. Nobody had taught her about industrial laundry cleaners yet. That had come much later.
“Your father says you want to show me something,” her mother said as they crossed the hallway.
“I was hoping we could talk a little bit about what I do,” Naomi said tentatively. “You’ve never come to River Hill before, so I’ve never really been able to show you.” She’d practiced that speech last night, because the first five iterations of it had all included reminders that her parents had also never come to any of her gallery shows, or art openings, or even stopped to look at the sculptures she had on public display at the library, for God’s sake. She’d managed to narrow it down to this instead.
“I see.” Her mother drew in a breath. “I—”
The doorbell rang, and Naomi frowned. She looked at her mother, who was returning the expression. “Were you expecting anybody?”
Naomi shook her head, trying not to let hope slither in. “No.” Could it be Iain?
She went back out into the foyer and pulled open the door a little more hastily than she’d intended. She stared blankly at the man who waited on her doorstep.
“I’m here for my son,” he snapped.
Her eyes travelled over him as horrified realization began to dawn. He was older, stockier, and grayer, but the Brennan eyes were unmistakable. On Iain, the lines in his cheeks reflected laughter. On this man, they were something else entirely. “You’re—”
“Cathal Brennan.” He peered past her into the house. “Where the devil is my son?”
“Iain’s not here,” she said. Her voice sounded squeaky to her own ears.
“Listen, missy, I’m no fool.” The old man pointed his finger at her nose. “When two of my children go dark on their family and disappear, I know something’s up. And judging by what I’ve heard since I got here, you’re to blame.”
“Naomi? Who’s this?” Her mother had come up behind her.
“Iain’s father,” she said helplessly. Her mind was whirling.
“Well, how nice. Why don’t you come in?” Judith Klein’s society face fell into place effortlessly.
Cathal stomped into the house, and Naomi silently shut the door behind him. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What do you mean, two of your children have disappeared?”
“I haven’t heard a drop from Iain since our last call, and Maeve fed her mother some harebrained story about a hen do in Vegas and vanished a couple of days ago. I told you, woman, I’m not an idiot. Maeve’s a good girl, she wouldn’t do something wild unless Iain talked her into it. And Iain’s a family man. A Brennan. He wouldn’t insist on staying here unless somebody else talked him into it.” He glared at her. “I know it was you. Tell me where he is, so I can take him home.”
20
Iain’s phone buzzed, alerting him to an incoming call. He honestly didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but since he was still in the middle of wrapping up the sale of his shares in Brennan’s to purchase the distillery down the road, he didn’t dare let the call go to voicemail.
Although when he heard the voice on the other end of the line, he wished like hell he had.
“Iain?” He sucked a long breath in through his nose and didn’t answer. “I can hear you breathing. I know you’re there.”
“What do you want, Naomi?” He let all the air out of his lungs on a long gust.
She paused, and he knew his terse response had caught her off guard. Good. She’d blindsided him ten ways to Sunday. It served her right.
“Look,” she said, her voice taking on an uncharacteristically nervous tone. “I know things are messed up between us right now—”
He scoffed. “That’s one way of putting it.”
This time it was Naomi who let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry. Truly. And I plan on telling you exactly how sorry I am, but right now you and I have much bigger fish to fry.”
Iain heard rustling in the background, and then raised voices. He recognized the haughty voice of Judith Klein, but he couldn’t tell who she was arguing with. The other voice was deep and rumbly and distinctly male. Briefly, he let himself wonder what had gone down after he’d left the other day and whether the Kleins had broken off into factions. From the sound of things, either Naomi’s father or brother had decided to come to her defense. He tried not to care. It wasn’t his place to think about who Naomi had
in her corner now. All he knew was that it wasn’t him, and it probably never would be.
When the voices got louder, and he heard the unmistakable sound of Naomi’s mom shriek, and then a glass hit the wall, he pushed his pride aside. He might be hurt by the way things had turned about between them, but if the situation was going to turn violent, he didn’t want Naomi in that house one second longer. “What’s going on over there?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” she said, her voice dipping into a whisper. “Your dad showed up looking for you, and—”
“What?” He had to have misheard her. There was no way his father was standing in Naomi’s house, arguing with her mother, of all people. It was ludicrous. “You’re joking.”
“I really wish I was,” she snapped. He heard a door snick closed behind her, cutting off the argument in the background. “He seems to be operating under the misguided notion that I’ve convinced you to stay in California.”
Fuck. This was not the way he’d planned to tell her he’d be sticking around. He knew they’d have to discuss it at some point, but he’d wanted time to lick his wounds before he had to go back to her and make nice. As upset as he’d been over her betrayal, he’d had some time to think things through, and he knew it wasn’t Naomi’s fault that his venture with Whitman’s hadn’t been successful. His father had said it himself: he’d never intended to let Iain and Maeve move forward with their plan. The betrayal from his own family cut deep. Naomi’s had put him over the edge.
Still, Iain couldn’t help but wonder if he’d gotten the sales he’d needed sooner rather than later—if she’d hooked him up with this Luis fellow months ago when it might have made an impact on his early reports back to Dublin—if he might have been able to change the old man’s mind. Now, he’d never know.
The Distiller's Darling (River Hill Book 2) Page 14