“Here are some of the magazines we produce.” Linda pulled out a stack of glossies and other elegantly produced folders and brochures. “And some info about a few of our websites.”
She recognized those magazines. They were on every newsstand in every airport. And though she hadn’t been on the websites listed in the sales brochures, she’d definitely heard of some. And, yes, their following was huge, as far as she could tell.
She pulled out a magazine with a young starlet on the cover, wearing teeny-tiny underwear and a black blazer with no bra. “This one is like Maxim, right?”
“Our main competitor, yes,” Pierce said.
Opening the magazine to a random page showed a headline “How to Build a Better Bookcase,” illustrated by a model with impossible boobs and the smallest bra and underwear possible, wearing a tool belt around her hips.
“I see.” And that was all she could say.
Pierce cleared his throat. “Right Hemisphere casts a wide umbrella. We oversee lots of different media avenues and end products.”
Shea flipped through another mag, the cover a topless model, arms wrapped across her chest. “But this is the kind of thing you see me in?”
Linda replied, “It’s where we see your target market.”
Shea closed the magazine. It was a good thing she hadn’t gotten her hopes up too high about parlaying this opportunity into her own distillery. She’d worked far, far too hard to not be seen as window dressing in her own bar. To become part of Whitten’s Right Hemisphere seemed like such a major compromise on her part, and not in a positive way.
“Mr. Whitten—”
“Pierce. Please.”
“Mr. Whitten, you’re not looking for an answer right this minute, are you?”
“I meant what I said before. I was hoping to pique your interest enough that you’d come in to our offices, meet with our team. Try to find something that could be mutually beneficial.” His gaze flicked to the magazine and back. “That turns you off, doesn’t it?”
“It does. Those messages aren’t the image of myself I want to portray.”
Pierce pressed his lips together and nodded. “Everything is adaptable. We want to work with you. Not make you wear a tool belt.”
Shea sighed. Maybe not her with a tool belt, but they’d give it to some other woman. She could just imagine them putting a model out in the middle of a Scottish field, wearing nothing but a bikini while she wielded a peat hoe.
No. Just . . . no. The answer had to be no.
“Thanks for coming to see me, Mr. Whitten.” She stuck out her hand.
Several long moments passed before he took it. “I hope we’ve at least planted a seed in your brain and that we’ll hear from you eventually.” Releasing her hand, he pulled a business card out of his pocket and slipped it underneath a half-finished glass of Lagavulin.
She chose to respond to that with a nonresponse. “It was great meeting you. I’m glad you enjoyed the whisky.”
For the first time since Shea had walked into the Corner Pocket, Linda showed emotion, and it was disappointment. The director of branding zipped up her briefcase, leaving all the paper goods on the octagonal table. Linda came around and shook Shea’s hand. “I sincerely hope we get to work together someday.”
Linda left the room first. Pierce buttoned his suit coat and said, “So do I, Ms. Montgomery.” Then he was gone, too.
When the gold velvet curtain swished back in their wake, Shea fell forward, catching herself on the table. A Shea Montgomery brand? Like that hopped-up celebrity chef with the dark hair and annoying voice whose name she couldn’t remember? Or Martha Stewart, without the ankle bracelet and worldwide empire? But with whiskey? It just seemed so strange. And potentially lucrative. But how could she make it work with that kind of company?
Reaching out, she snatched the glass of Lagavulin that held down Pierce’s card. And, like she was a college freshman drinking on a fake ID, she knocked the whole thing back in one swig.
Chapter
7
Byrne drove the edges of his thick-soled boots into the soft New Hampshire earth and pushed off with every bit of strength left in his quads and hamstrings and calves. His gloved hands moved just a fraction down the rope, his grip tightening, pulling. His body was nearly parallel to the ground, and every muscle screamed in its tautness, but he hadn’t felt this energized in weeks.
On the other end of the rope, over the red flag tied in the center, burly county firemen were doing their best to bring down the reigning champions of Gleann’s Highland Games Tug-of-War. But there was no way Byrne wasn’t winning again this year.
It had been a really tough, shitty week. He needed this.
George crouched next to the line of Manhattan Rugby players, his hands on his knees, his head swiveling back and forth, barking orders. The firemen made a move, all heaving at once. The crowd erupted, their local guys a clear favorite to off the New York City intruders. There were three times as many onlookers as there were last year, and that pumped Byrne up even more.
The firemen’s move didn’t work. Manhattan Rugby was on, and they resisted, then countered with their own tug of herculean effort. For the past few weeks, after regular rugby practice or during spontaneous workouts, Byrne had cued up tug-of-war tactics on his phone, and the team had spent a few extra minutes on training. Looked like it was going to pay off, and it was making his blood buzz in the way that previously only rugby could.
His teammates wanted the case of whisky prize that would go to the winner, but Byrne couldn’t think about that, because Shea Montgomery would be the one to award it.
No, he wouldn’t think about her. Not even when he was fully aware that she was standing outside her tasting tent on top of the little hill that overlooked the athletic field. Not even when he knew she was watching the competition.
He wasn’t doing this for her. He hadn’t come back to Gleann for her.
George had been watching the firemen with scrutiny, and when his head snapped back to the rugby players and he shouted his command like an overweight drill sergeant, Byrne and the rest of his guys took their cue, lifted and replanted their boots, and gave it all they had.
The flag jerked to their side. The firemen stumbled and collapsed, and Manhattan Rugby was declared the winner of the semifinals. They would pull against the winners of the construction workers/teachers match, up next.
Byrne celebrated with a few back slaps and some good-natured verbal jabs, then bent to stretch his tightened legs. Getting older sucked, and thirty-five wasn’t even old. As he straightened, crossing one arm in front of his chest to give his shoulder a good stretch, he felt a distinct pull on his conscious coming from the right. When he looked over, there was Shea, still standing outside her tent. Staring right at him.
A light rain began to fall. It had been spitting on and off all day and was expected to continue all through the games. Shea, however, didn’t move under cover. She stood there in the mist and their eyes locked. He wondered if they were going to do this all weekend—just stare awkwardly at each other but not really acknowledge, like a pair of junior high school kids—and then she surprised him by giving him a nod and a brief smile.
A smile not at all dampened by the rain. As he raised a hand in greeting, it seemed to pull some deep muscle in his chest.
Brightly colored umbrellas bloomed all over the field, and Byrne ducked under one that Erik popped open just as the ref’s whistle blew and the next semifinal got under way.
“I’m thinking we want the teachers to win,” Erik said at his side.
“Don’t be fooled,” Byrne replied. “Dealing with kids all day makes them mean.”
Erik laughed, and Byrne stole another glance up at Shea, but she’d taken cover inside her tent.
As the teachers and construction workers battled it out, Byrne took a good long look around the groun
ds.
The shaggy Highland cattle were still there, secured behind a much sturdier fence this year—and looking none too happy about it. Someone had painted an enormous Scottish flag on the side of the nearby barn. The vast silver office building that had looked so neglected and overgrown last year was now lit up, and people streamed indoors to where little girls dressed in tartan were competing in a style of dance that had Byrne grasping a phantom stitch in his side just from looking at it.
The whole grounds was like Scotland had thrown up all over it. Blue and white flags were draped everywhere, with variations of plaid filling in the gaps. The rain—thank God—had kept the bagpipers away, but a band was setting up in the music tent. Families were everywhere, kids splashing in mud puddles, and even though he was a Scrooge when it came to the Scotland-heritage aspect of the games, he had to admit that the atmosphere here was wonderfully homey. Inclusive and loving and generally fun. It made him think of Caroline and his parents, how much they would enjoy something like this.
The teachers won the other semi, to the tune of raucous cheers, and after they’d been given a suitable break, Byrne pulled on his gloves, scraped off clumps of mud from the treads of his boots, and Manhattan Rugby again assumed their place on the opposite end of the rope.
Byrne had been right. The teachers were deceptively good—benefits of summers off? Extra practice?—but in the end, rugby prevailed. And suddenly he found himself exactly where he’d been one year ago: standing in the whisky tent surrounded by the deafening hoots and hollers from grown men acting like children, with Shea in front of him holding a box of six Scotch whisky bottles.
They looked at each other over the top of the cardboard, and all he could think about was how amazing she’d tasted. How good her laugh had felt in his ears. How easy she’d been to talk to.
He had to remember how many times she’d shot him down. Had to remember that she’d given him what allowance she could, and it hadn’t worked out for her. He had to remember—ah, fuck it. He still wanted her. And this time for more than just sex.
As he slipped his hands underneath the box and grazed her fingertips, her lips parted. The noise of the tent clicked off. Just went mute.
Yes, the outward appearance of the scene was bizarrely familiar, but all he could think about was how different things were between what he’d wanted and assumed about her last year, versus what he wanted and knew about her now.
Then she released the box and stepped back, Byrne hugged the prize to his chest, and loud, nearly drunken voices slammed him back into reality.
Shea turned around and went back behind her bar. He watched her go, noticing she wore the same white shirt and black pants she’d worn at the Long Island games, only tonight she’d draped a tartan over one shoulder, like a Scottish princess.
“Get your ass over here!” George called, and Byrne returned to his team. Six of the guys immediately yanked out the bottles and hoisted them in the air, one of them launching into the rugby chant they bellowed out in the local bar after matches back home.
The tent was peppered with other rugby teams who’d be competing in the tournament tomorrow, and they took up the unspoken melodic challenge. Soon the whisky tent turned into an impromptu rugby tune sing-off that had Byrne shouting as loud as he could.
When the singing died down, the real drinking began. It started to rain so hard even the ground under the tent turned into mud. As Byrne nursed his whisky—he really didn’t want to be hungover for tomorrow’s match again—Dan shook his shoulder.
“She’s really into you.” Slurring, as usual.
“Who?” Byrne said, stupidly.
Dan rolled his eyes. “Who do you think? Did you even see the way she was looking at you over there? Don’t fuck it up.”
Byrne tried not to go off right then and there. “Seemed to be going pretty well between us a few weeks ago, Dan, until someone else fucked it up for me.”
Dan laughed, stumbling backward into Erik, who shoved him off. Erik rarely gave Dan the time of day.
“Hey.” Byrne grabbed Dan’s arm, pulled him in close, and said low into his ear, “I didn’t say anything then, but I should have. Shea is not Izzy. Don’t try to mess with everyone else’s relationship just because someone messed with yours.” Dan blinked up at him with eyes that seemed to be red with more emotion than drink. Byrne gave his shoulder a pat. “Get your shit together, man. And I mean that in the best way. In a friend’s way.”
Byrne let that sink in and went over to Erik.
“The team’s heading across the lake to some bar in Westbury,” Erik said.
Byrne slid a glance over to Shea. “I think I’ll stay.”
Erik followed his gaze, then shook his head to himself. “Beef jerky.”
Byrne grinned. “Want to stay with me? Have a low-key night here in town? This is your kind of place, isn’t it?”
As the rest of Manhattan Rugby piled on a shuttle heading over to Westbury, Erik and Byrne trudged down the long drive away from the games’ grounds and toward Gleann’s little downtown.
“Sharing an umbrella with you is so romantic,” Byrne said.
“I’m not making jerky for you.”
Byrne’s phone went off, and he fished it out of the damp back pocket of his jeans. He frowned down at the number. Caroline. Calling on a Friday night, outside of their long-standing conversation schedule.
“Hey there.” He plugged one ear with a finger. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“Nothing.” She didn’t sound so reassuring. “At least, I don’t think anything is. But I’m not sure. I couldn’t wait until tomorrow to tell you.”
“What is it?” He realized he’d stopped in the middle of the drive, a wet, hairy, orange cow staring at him from the other side of the fence. Erik stopped, too, and held the black umbrella over them both.
“Alex called Mom and Dad.”
Byrne frowned. “What did he want, after all this time?”
“I don’t know.” He could hear the stress in her voice now, the sound of her shoes pacing across her kitchen floor. “He said he’s been working up in Ohio of all places and now he wants to come home. To reconnect with them. And us. Says he has a car and everything.”
Byrne didn’t realize he hadn’t said anything until Caroline added, “Hello? Are you there?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Are you sure about this?”
“I’m not sure about anything, which is why I called you. Mom said he sounded really lucid, really calm, not at all like when he took off.”
“Do you think he’ll show up?”
“Don’t know.”
“Do you want me to come down in case he does?”
“No, I don’t want to pull you away for that. Especially if he doesn’t show. You know Alex. I’ll let you know what happens, though.”
“If he does show up, don’t give him any money.” And then he instantly regretted saying that, because it wasn’t like Caroline—or their parents—had any money to give them to begin with.
But Caroline laughed sardonically. “Yeah, I’ll try to remember that.”
“Love you, sis. Call me anytime,” he said.
Erik motioned to hand the phone over to him. Byrne smiled.
“Oh, wait,” Byrne said to his sister before she hung up. “The lover you’ve never met wants to talk to you.”
“Who, Erik? Yay, put him on.”
Byrne handed over the phone, a thing that had happened many times over the years when Caroline called while he was out with Erik.
“Hello, gorgeous,” Erik said, exaggerating his German accent. “Listen, your brother needs advice. He keeps going after this woman who says she doesn’t want him and has turned him down many a time, but then eye-fucks him across the room.”
Byrne winced. Erik pulled the phone away from his ear and Caroline’s distinct “Ew!” cut
through the sound of the games’ dispersing crowd.
“I say he needs to quit,” Erik added. “What say you?”
Byrne made drastic cutting motions across his throat, but Erik was not to be deterred.
Erik sighed, then professed his undying love for the Southern woman he’d never met, and hung up. “She says go for it.”
Byrne laughed. “Of course she did. Because when it comes to relationships, she’s just as dumb as I am.”
* * *
Erik looked like he’d died and gone back to Europe. Byrne also felt that way, because downtown Gleann, New Hampshire, looked like it had been carved from Scotland and transplanted into the new world. The roads curved around with little to no urban planning, the buildings were stone or beautifully carved wood, and overflowing baskets of summer flowers hung from nearly every shop front and home.
By the time they crossed through a municipal park, went over a little stone bridge, and turned down the main street, the rain had tapered off to a mist again. The huge, leafy trees arching over the sidewalks kept them relatively dry. Cars were parallel parked up and down the road, and people ambled about, either carrying passed-out kids on their shoulders or on their way to one of two open drinking establishments.
“That?” Erik pointed to a corner restaurant with a large Now Open sign hanging in one of its wide front windows. “Or there?”
The second place was a stand-alone building set a little ways off the main street, tucked between the quaint, two-pump gas station and the narrow lane that stretched back into a residential area lined with eighteen-hundreds-era houses. It was low and squat, with thick walls and small, stained glass windows. A stunning thatched roof stolen from another time and country swept up to a high peak and created deep eaves that sheltered a row of dry benches. The sign that swung over the door read The Stone Pub.
The Good Chase Page 9