The Good Chase

by Hanna Martine

  The whisky taste faded, and then it was just her flavor, and she was ten times more delicious.

  “Byrrrrrrrne. Fuck, man, there you are.”

  Oh no.

  Shea ripped her mouth from his, fingers pressed to her lips, and whipped her head around to where uneven footsteps crunched on the gravel road. Shea scooted off Byrne’s lap—how’d she gotten there?—and scrambled backward off the bench.

  Byrne propped an elbow on the tabletop and ground fingers into his eyelids. Fucking Dan.

  “What?” Byrne glared at the drunk leaning heavily on the numbered post.

  Dan jutted a thumb back down the road, toward their own campsite. “Been walking around forever trying to find you.”

  “Get out of here.”

  Byrne looked to Shea, who was poking the fire again, her head down, her wet and swollen bottom lip between her teeth. He tried to read her mood. Pissed off? Embarrassed? What?

  “Came to get you,” Dan said. “We gotta go. Ranger kicked us out.”

  That brought Byrne up off the bench. “Are you serious?”

  “You’re the only one sober, so you’ll have to drive us back.”

  “Shit.” Hands on his hips, he drew a deep breath and exhaled up toward the canopy of trees that hid the stars. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  He gave Shea a look of silent apology. She’d stopped poking the fire and was now watching him in a way that clearly said he wouldn’t get to be with her that night. So he asked for another.

  “When we get back to the city,” he said, dropping his voice, “can I see you?”

  Her eyes flicked over his shoulder toward Dan.

  “I know you stretched your rules for me here; would you consider doing the same back home?”

  “Not near the Amber,” she said. “That’s one rule I won’t break.”

  “New Jersey, if we have to,” he added.

  “Maybe,” she replied.

  And that was good enough for him.

  Chapter

  5

  The elevator door slid open on the fifteenth floor of the sixties-era apartment building on the Upper East Side. Shea stepped into a small marble foyer decorated with ornate wall sconces and bursting with massive fresh flower arrangements.

  This had been Marco’s neighborhood. They’d lived together only two long blocks to the east. Briefly Shea wondered if it was Bespoke Byrne’s neighborhood, too, but then the door to the penthouse yawned open and she was face-to-face with a short, curvy, mature woman who’d been tucked into a sparkling red evening gown.

  The woman looked confused at the sight of Shea, standing alone in the foyer, dressed in a ladies’ tuxedo.

  “Hi, I’m Shea Montgomery. Mr. Yellin hired me to man the whiskey bar tonight?”

  “Oh. That would be my husband. Come in, come in.”

  Shea followed Mrs. Yellin into one of the more opulent New York City apartments she’d ever been in—and back when she’d been with Marco, she’d seen a lot.

  “Isaac can’t stop talking about the Amber,” Mrs. Yellin threw over her shoulder as her low heels clicked down the shiny wood hallway that seemed to stretch all the way to the Hudson. “Whenever I can’t find him, or whenever he’s been out too late, I know where he is. Or has been. I should put your hostess on speed dial.”

  “He’s definitely a loyal customer. And a very nice man,” Shea added, unsure if it was the correct thing to say. This whole being-hired-to-do-a-private-party thing was entirely new to her.

  When Isaac Yellin, an Amber regular and payer of astronomically high bar tabs, had approached her months ago to do this, she’d balked. The offer was surprising enough, which was what had first given her pause. Then Mr. Yellin had named his price, and she’d been shocked into silence, which he mistook for reluctance.

  Then he doubled his offer. And gave her carte blanche to choose the whiskey for the evening, as long as it was rare and expensive.

  It wasn’t hard to say yes after that.

  The payment for her appearance fee had come through that afternoon, and she’d transferred it directly into her personal “distillery fund.” The sight of all those numbers made her a little giddy, and she had to temper her excitement. There was still a long way to go before she could go after what she wanted.

  Having to deal with Yellin’s kind of crowd outside of the Amber for one night was a small price to pay.

  The hallway emptied into a spectacular room overlooking Central Park. The masculine furniture had been clustered for perfect pockets of conversation, every seat with a view outdoors. A string quartet warmed up in the back corner. The caterers hurried about, fidgeting with mounds of hors d’oeuvres and spot-checking silverware and wineglasses. A party planner holding a tablet computer raced around, looking like one more cup of coffee might send her to the asylum.

  “You’ll be in here.” Mrs. Yellin flicked a red-nailed hand toward a set of open double doors set off the main room. “I’ll go find Isaac and tell him you’ve arrived.”

  Shea stepped through the double doors and felt like she’d been sent back in time. Or, at least, back to the country of her heart.

  The left wall was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The entire right wall was a bar. An ornate, polished-to-a-gleam wood bar with thick columns at the corners, heavy lintels above, and gorgeous stained glass all along the back. Perfect lines of fine liquor bottles stretched the entire length of the back shelf, and on top of the bar sat her chosen bottles of whiskey, all delivered safely.

  The whole room was gorgeous. Warm and inviting and high-end without being uncomfortable. But it was the sight of that bar that had her heart thudding and a wistful smile spreading across her face. She ran a hand down the wood, then leaned over and touched the tip of her nose to a finely carved column. Inhaled. The scent of the old wood and the sharpness of the stain reminded her so much of Granddad.

  “You like it?”

  Shea turned around to find Isaac Yellin entering. He had one of those faces that appeared mean when he wasn’t smiling and like your best friend when he was. But she’d long since gotten over being intimidated by that sort of thing.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said. “It reminds me so much of the pubs I used to go to back in Scotland.”

  “It should.” He grunted. “That’s where I got it.”

  “You bought a whole bar?”

  Yellin shrugged. “They were going to tear down this wonderful old hotel in Glasgow, and I couldn’t bear it. So I bought what I could, had it shipped here and restored. It’s my favorite room.”

  “Mr. Yellin,” she teased. “You’re not Scottish, are you?”

  “One hundred percent New York Jewish.” He grinned. “But perhaps Celtic by heart.” He tapped his chest, sending the ivory pocket square in his fine tuxedo askew.

  He went over to the bottles and palmed the Talisker 30 Year Old. “I knew you’d pick some good ones. I’d say I’m going to hate seeing the bill, but since the people coming here tonight are the reasons I can afford such incredible whiskey, you won’t hear me complaining.”

  She smiled down at him. Even at five feet nine barefoot, she hadn’t flinched about slipping into three-inch heels that evening.

  “You just might be my dream client, Mr. Yellin. Most of these bottles I don’t even have in my personal collection, but I’ve been coveting them for years and years.”

  One had cost seven hundred dollars, another a thousand.

  Men like him liked to know they were special, and since this was her job, she was happy to oblige. Plus, she was hoping to snag a sip or three of some of the really great bottles.

  “So tell me.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “How’d you get them?”

  “The newer Japanese whiskeys I got through my favorite distributor. I really need to take a trip over there, taste them personally, see their distilleries. A
couple of the big bourbons and Irish whiskeys I found through auctions, others through personal connections. But for the Scotch”—she winked—“I simply called up some old friends.”

  It was the truth. A few phone calls overseas had netted her some lucrative bottles and gave her the opportunity to hear voices she hadn’t heard in a long while.

  Yellin liked that. “You’ve made magic. Now make it special for my friends and acquaintances. Impress them with everything you’ve got up here.” He tapped the side of his head.

  “No problem.” No problem at all.

  Two hours later, the entire apartment was packed shoulder to shoulder with men in tuxes and women in all manner of evening gowns. The mood was lively, the food never-ending, and she’d had a steady stream of Brown Veins and Eager Beavers and Drinkers visit her little nook. Truth be told, she’d been skeptical about taking on this kind of private party, but it turned out that she interacted with Yellin’s guests far more than customers at the Amber, and they’d listened to her stories of certain whiskeys with a rapt ear.

  She was already exhausted, however—and so was nearly her entire stock of exceptional bottles—and there were still two hours to go. She ignored the soreness in her feet, the cramp in her cheeks from smiling so much, and the ever-increasing rasp in her voice from the nonstop talking.

  She had another reason to be grateful for the busyness of the evening. It had been nearly four hours since she’d thought of Byrne.

  Crap. Reset the clock.

  A week and a half had passed since the campground. A week and a half of thinking about their conversation and connection. And that kiss. That spark.

  They hadn’t exchanged phone numbers. She’d lamented that for a good day or so, then thought that was perhaps a good thing. She knew where he worked, and vice versa, but then there were her lines. They were still there, despite how she’d tangled them all up in Rhode Island. It wouldn’t feel right, contacting him at his office to start something she wasn’t entirely sure about, now that time had passed. And she was grateful he hadn’t called or stopped in at the Amber, because that meant he was respecting her rules.

  But was she grateful? Really, truly?

  Damn. Reset that clock again.

  “Is that all that’s left?” Isaac slid behind the bar and took up the same Talisker he’d held at the start of the evening, now three-fourths gone. When Shea nodded, he thrust the bottle at her and said, “Hide it. In the butler’s pantry. Back of the kitchen.”

  With a laugh, she did as told.

  When she came back into the library, the I’m-not-thinking-about-Byrne clock exploded into a thousand pieces. Because he was standing right there, next to the bar.

  He didn’t wear a tux, but a sleek black suit that must have cost a fortune because of the way it fit his unusual body so impeccably. Atop a brilliant white shirt lay a gorgeous tie the exact color of his hypnotic blue eyes. He looked big. He looked bold enough to steal the party away from Yellin. He looked like Bespoke Byrne.

  A group of five men mingled in front of the whiskey bottles, turning them this way and that, making comments she couldn’t hear over the party’s noise. Byrne’s profile was to her, so he hadn’t seen her yet, but as she stood there, dumbfounded, one of the other guys noticed her. He pointed a questioning finger at her, then turned it to the bottles. “You? This?” he mouthed.

  As she started through the crowd, Byrne finally turned. He had a glass of something clear topped with a squeezed lime already halfway to his mouth, but that dropped back down when he noticed her. His lips parted, and if she said she wasn’t thinking about how they’d tasted, she’d be lying.

  He smiled at her, but it wasn’t one of those electrifying, crooked grins. It was with his eyes, with the warm spark and the perfect crinkle of skin around them. Then he shook his head slowly as if he couldn’t believe yet another one of their random meeting coincidences.

  “I’m going to start thinking I’ll be running into you at the grocery store,” he said, as she came up to him. “Wow. I was wondering if this”—he gestured to the line of bottles—“was you. I was hoping, I guess.”

  One of the other men in Byrne’s group—late forties, a little paunchy—cocked an eyebrow in interest at that, and Shea started to feel a little poke of panic. This wasn’t the Amber, but it was still work. Still within the walls of the professional life she’d so carefully crafted.

  Byrne glanced at his companion, then back to Shea, and gave her a nearly imperceptible nod. He understood.

  “It’s good to see you,” she told Byrne, hands clasped tightly in front of her in order to resist the urge to touch him. She longed to mess up his perfect hair so he’d resemble the muddy sin she remembered him as.

  “It’s”—he chewed the inside of his cheek for a second—“great to see you.”

  She reached deep inside herself and pulled out the owner of the Amber, the professional, and managed to suppress the warm-blooded woman who was still very attracted to this man.

  And this, she reminded herself, was exactly why she never mixed her two worlds. Because it was damn impossible to keep her cool in front of someone like Byrne. The moment her customers—or tasters, or party guests—started to look at her as potential date material, they ceased speaking to Shea, businesswoman and purveyor of fine whiskeys.

  “So how do you know Isaac Yellin?” she asked Byrne, the formal tone in her voice feeling so odd set against the memories of the way they’d teased and laughed and kissed in front of that campfire.

  “He’s my client.” Byrne smiled, but it wasn’t the smile she loved. Not the one he’d given to her on several occasions. “I handle his money.” And then Byrne slid a sidelong look over to the paunchy man, like he was checking his reaction.

  Shea took that opportunity to head back behind the bar, because even though she knew Byrne was a private banker, now that she’d been inside Yellin’s place, she got a really good idea about the kind of money Byrne saw on a daily basis.

  She did not want to, but she thought of Marco.

  “We were out to dinner earlier,” Byrne offered, gesturing to the other suited gentlemen. “Showing Gordon here”—he clamped a hand on the paunchy man’s shoulder—“a good time while he’s in town.”

  “Trying to win me over, you mean,” Gordon replied with a chuckle.

  Byrne’s responsive laugh was so forced Shea almost made a face at him.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Byrne said to Gordon. “And I’m glad Shea’s here, because she knows everything about Scotch. Absolutely everything.”

  Ugh. Byrne was using her to solicit new business? To schmooze a potential new chunk of money? This was not the Byrne who’d been at the campground at all.

  “Bring it on.” Gordon slapped the edge of the bar. “Hit me with it, beautiful.”

  Shea’s grip on the glasses almost shattered the crystal. A glance at Byrne showed him staring at the bar, one side of his mouth twisting.

  “So you two know each other?” Gordon gestured between Byrne and Shea.

  “We’ve met, yes,” Byrne said. He looked at her a second too long.

  She poured out five small tastes of the Laphroaig 25 Year Old.

  One of the suited guys down at the other end called out, “Oh, now I get it,” and swung a finger between Shea and Byrne.

  Well, fuck a duck. Shea ground her teeth together. The personal and professional slammed together, obliterating her carefully made boundaries.

  “Shea gives wonderful notes about Scotch whisky.” Byrne lifted his glass to her in what she thought was meant as some sort of peace offering, but it didn’t feel very genuine. “She tells beautiful stories and makes you feel like you’re standing right there in Scotland, sipping from the barrels.”

  What was he doing? Did he think she was going to repeat all that she’d said to him at the campground, and in the same manner, to thi
s bunch of tipsy corporate climbers?

  She trapped his eyes with hers and hoped that he could read her disappointment. Over the past week and a half, when she’d allowed herself to imagine what might happen should they ever meet again, this was not it.

  “This is a peaty mouthful,” she said tonelessly. “Distilled on the island of Islay. Some people say it tastes like dirt. Now will you please excuse me?”

  Shea turned away, but not before she made a point to look straight at Byrne, just in time to see his face fall.

  At the other end of the bar stood a woman who’d nearly drunk her way through the entire whiskey list. She’d come back to finish the grand tour. After Shea poured the woman a splash of Pappy Van Winkle twenty-three-year-old bourbon—and cringed doing so, because one should never waste such in-demand Pappy on drunkenness—she returned to her former spot to find only Gordon remained.

  “Great whisky.” He saluted her with his glass. “Can I have a little more before we head out? And don’t be stingy, beautiful.”

  * * *

  Gordon and Byrne’s three Weatherly and McTavish coworkers lingered by Yellin’s front door, blitzed out of their minds and ready to move on to a nightclub, but Byrne barely had a buzz and he didn’t want to go anywhere. If it were his choice—if it were really up to him—he’d ditch those guys, forget about Gordon’s portfolio, walk right back into that library to grab Shea, and just . . . go somewhere.

  From across the thinning crowd, just a few moments ago he’d watched her leave the library and slip down the shadowed hallway leading to the bathroom. If he didn’t do this correctly, it might nudge him into the stalker category.

  The bathroom door cracked open, a line of light falling on the hallway floor. He headed toward her.

  “Shea.”

  She jumped and whirled, clearly surprised. When she saw it was him, her expression changed. He couldn’t stand the way she looked at him like that, like she’d rather be caught with anyone else than him in that hallway.