Erik, however, had just clapped him on the shoulder and gave him an encouraging nod. No mention of beef jerky at all.
Byrne and Shea had returned separately to New York from Philadelphia on a Sunday. Monday night he begged her to come over to his apartment after she’d finished closing up and he was done with an overseas call. And in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, long after normal people went to bed—and just hours until he was to depart for the Caribbean—he tried his damnedest to get her to destroy his headboard, too.
The shakes and shivers of her body, and the gorgeous sounds she made during orgasm, turned out to be enough.
But then he’d left for Grand Cayman Islands for four days to entertain two different clients and meet with three different banks. Still, every day he found a way to call her. She told him about her schooling with her parents, and the Christian girls’ college she attended, and how Scotland had started her rebellion, but the divorce from Marco had finished it off.
He told her the basics about his full-ride football scholarship to Boston College, and his Wharton years. It was hard to tell the story without mentioning money, but he did it.
Her favorite movie was Being John Malkovich. His was The Terminator. She even sang him some more Sinéad O’Connor.
If someone had told him a decade ago that he’d like talking to a woman as much as, or possibly more than, fucking her, he would’ve laughed in their face. But Shea was different in almost every way.
Now he was back in New York after a flight that had been delayed twice, making him nearly five hours late. He was utterly beat, tired of talking, tired of being Bespoke Byrne, and yet all he wanted to do was see Shea in person, talk to her face-to-face, and curl his hand around a fine glass of bourbon.
Stripping out of his suit and tossing the whole thing into the hamper for Frances to take care of, along with the rest of his dirty travel clothes, he dove into the shower.
Beneath the spray, he recalled his second-favorite moment in that Philadelphia hotel room. After he’d managed to reattach the headboard, he admitted to her that that was about the extent of his handyman skills. He didn’t even know how to use a power drill. Hearing that, she’d pretended to get out of bed, disgusted. He pulled her back down, and then he stretched out beside a naked Shea to learn every curve of her body with his fingers.
She’d laughed and kissed him and said, “I like this Byrne a lot.”
And as he’d gazed into her face he remembered thinking, Funny. I love this Shea.
Really, he should learn that smiling in the shower got you a mouthful of hot water.
All clean, towel wrapped around his waist and skin still damp, he dialed her cell. She didn’t pick up and he left a message.
“I’m home. I really want to see you. I’m coming to the Amber. I hope it’s okay. Call back if it’s not.”
It was ten o’clock on a Thursday and she’d definitely be at the Amber. He just couldn’t wait until she was off, and since he still didn’t know where she lived, a good old-fashioned stalking wasn’t possible.
He chose to believe that showing up at the Amber would be okay. So many things had changed between them since their first meeting. Not-first-dates and long conversations and mind-blowing sex. Encouraging words with hidden meanings and other little things that told him he was different to her. Special. Not a—what was that term she put on men who came into the Amber and thought she was entertainment? A Coyote Drunkly.
He padded into his closet and hit the light switch, illuminating the rows of Bespoke Byrne’s stupidly expensive uniforms.
He couldn’t be Bespoke Byrne tonight, not when he knew Shea liked Rugby Byrne. But he couldn’t walk into the Amber in a holey frat T-shirt and ratty jeans, either. Yet that was the only other kind of clothing he owned. It seemed those were the only two lives he lived, and one was clearly so much larger than the other.
With a sigh he reached for the silk shirt with the wider stripes because it felt more casual, grimacing the whole time at how that sounded in his head, even to himself. He made a mental note to go shopping.
Snagging his wallet and keys, he hurried down to the lobby of his building. The doorman called him a cab, which dropped him off in front of the Amber.
It was a hot, sticky night, and some brave customers were hanging out in the narrow, fenced-off sidewalk garden. The windows were tinted, but the lights inside backlit a sizable crowd. When the door opened to let out a couple holding hands, a blur of voices and the low, sexy thump of music streamed out.
Byrne entered and was instantly impressed. The feel of the place was hip without being exclusionary, comfortable without being overly casual. The seating was strategically placed groups of cream-colored leather chairs around stone tables, and the bar was made of gleaming glass set with rows upon rows of bottles.
The lighting made everyone beautiful. Or maybe it was that everyone inside actually was beautiful.
The pretty hostess asked if he had a reservation.
For a bar? “No, but can I grab that last chair at the end of the bar?”
She tucked a Bible-sized menu under her arm and led him to the chair in question.
Shea was standing behind the bar three chairs down, hands spread out in that way that gave the impression she was listening to every word, that you were the center of her attention.
He’d been on that end before, and he understood why she insisted on keeping those strict boundaries between her and her customers. The men in suits at the bar—and they were all men, only a scant few women were scattered around the main room—were all watching Shea talk as she lifted a bottle and pointed to something on the label.
None of those guys knew what she looked like with her hair down, all messy on the sheets. None of those guys knew that sometimes she snorted when she laughed, that she had a mouth like a sailor on occasion. That she could sing like nobody’s business.
That she was into Byrne.
Smiling to himself, he edged his way along the wall, following the hostess to the very last bar seat, getting all warm and excited the closer he got to her.
As he slid onto the leather chair, Shea said automatically, without looking over at him, “Be with you in a second.”
“Hi,” he said.
She stopped midsentence—something about the peat smoke process—then did a double take as she finally noticed him sitting there. Her eyes went wide, her gorgeous lips parted. Then she gathered herself, cleared her throat, and threw Byrne the most genial, most bland, most universal smile possible.
But her hot eyes shot him a look all their own—one he knew very, very well.
“Excuse me.” She nodded to the four other men she’d been talking to and sidled over to Byrne. “Hello there.”
She was good. There was definite playfulness behind her eyes, but her posture and her expression were incredibly cool and disaffected.
She flipped over a silver napkin in front of him. “Can I help you pick something out?”
“Not sure.” He, on the other hand, couldn’t keep the smile from his face. The very telling, very excited smile. “Looking for something wet.”
Next to Byrne, two of her previous customers whipped their heads toward him. Another coughed into his whisky and the fourth had to clap his buddy on the back.
The glint in Shea’s eye hardened. Her ears turned pink. Uh-oh.
She pursed her lips, pulled the whiskey Bible around, and flipped open to a specific page. She swiveled it back to face Byrne, one fingernail tapping a listing in the middle of the page. “How about this one?”
Seventy-five dollars for a single glass. Probably not even all that big a pour, either.
Ah, shit. He didn’t know which had pissed her off more. The surprise visit? (Didn’t she check her phone? He never got word from her to not come.) Or was it the joke he’d meant for her ears only?
Suddenly he
felt like he should be the one being wrangled by a border collie. Nice and sheepish.
He slid a finger down the page even farther, to the one-hundred-and-twenty-dollar glass. “How about this one instead?”
I’m sorry, he told her silently.
The man at his elbow leaned over, saw where Byrne was pointing, and let out a high whistle, his bushy eyebrows shooting for the ceiling. Byrne realized that his conciliatory move had made it look like he was showing off for her. Or showing off for other men he didn’t even know.
Double shit.
Shea blinked at him, then her eyes narrowed. “Gladly,” she said. Her flat voice smacked of the tone she gave every other one of her customers. The men he wasn’t anything like. “An excellent choice. Let me go get the bottle from the back.”
As she turned without a glance in his direction, Byrne refused to slump. That had backfired. Big-time. How had his genuinely good intentions gone wrong in the span of thirty minutes?
Now she thought he was back to being Bespoke Byrne. In her own bar. She probably assumed that he’d come in here intent on planting his flag in her territory, thinking he could break her rules, that he was different. He was, yes—at least, he wanted to believe he was—but this wasn’t going at all the way he’d intended.
He’d just wanted to see her face. He’d wanted to show her how much he missed her, how much he wanted to spend time with her. Waiting one more night just wasn’t going to cut it.
And he couldn’t tell her that now, not here. He couldn’t try to pull her away—that would make it exponentially worse. He couldn’t try to explain or backtrack or apologize—not with the rapt attention of the guys to his right.
So he’d wait it out. Have his expensive drink, and not try to chat her up again. He’d leave quietly and call her later. Maybe leave a message that would make her smile. Something about ripping headboards off walls.
A big hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Thought that was you, Byrne.”
Byrne startled and looked up into the shrewd but affable face of Pierce Whitten. Byrne rose and shook the man’s hand. “Pierce. Good to see you. What a surprise.”
“I can say the same. How’ve you been since Yellin’s party?”
“Can’t complain. You spending time in Hawaii this year?”
But Pierce didn’t get a chance to respond, because Shea was back, setting a gorgeous bottle of Scotch next to Byrne’s elbow. The label was decorated with curly script and all sorts of numbers that didn’t make any sense to him. Only a third of it was gone.
“Hey now.” Pierce pointed at the bottle, puffing out his cheeks.
Shea finally noticed Pierce standing there, and her gaze darted back and forth between the two men. If Byrne didn’t know better, he’d say she was shocked to see them talking. Like she already knew Pierce or something.
Eyes widening, she said, “Mr. Whitten. Hello.”
“Pierce. Please.” He leaned a hand on the bar. “I came back hoping for a word with you.”
She swept an almost nervous look around the packed bar. “Um . . .”
“Okay, maybe fifteen words.”
Her grip on the neck of the expensive bottle tightened. “I may have a minute in a little while.”
Pierce patted the bar. “Great.”
Byrne was still trying to decipher Shea’s odd expression and ramrod-straight posture when he realized she still hadn’t poured his drink, and that the man standing next to him was not only one of the most powerful men in entertainment but also one of the most decent.
Byrne tapped the lip of his empty glass and asked Shea, “Can you pour one more of those for my friend?”
“Sure,” Shea replied after a moment. “Absolutely.”
As she slid another glass in front of Pierce, the media magnate eyed Byrne. “You came here alone?”
Byrne cleared his throat, shifted on his seat, and made a specific point not to look at Shea. “I did. But I’d love it if you joined me in this. I felt the need to celebrate coming home after a long trip. Got anything you want to drink to?”
Pierce glanced at Shea. “Not yet. But hopefully soon.”
Now Byrne was really curious.
Shea popped out the cork stopper on the bottle and carefully splashed two hundred and forty dollars’ worth of whisky into two heavy-footed glasses.
“It’s kind of a strange coincidence I ran into you here, Byrne, considering you were the one who told me about Shea here.”
“You did?” she said to Byrne.
“I knew he loved whisky,” Byrne replied, “and I thought he’d appreciate what you knew.”
Pierce was eyeing them, a finger wagging back and forth. “And you two know each other?”
Byrne stayed silent. He’d let Shea answer that one. All she said was “yes.”
Pierce’s hand dropped and he said nothing more. Byrne had always liked that about him—his tact and decorum, the politeness that made you want to open up to him.
“Will you two excuse me?” she asked, and then turned away before either of the men could answer. She went to a middle-aged man with a tattooed neck and pointed to the bar, clearly asking him to take over.
“What’s all this about?” Byrne asked, throwing a glance at Shea as she moved deeper into the crowded bar.
Pierce picked up his glass. “I want her to work for me.”
Byrne couldn’t hide his surprise. “And you two have talked about that before?”
“Once.”
Why hadn’t Shea mentioned this? Not that she was required to or that she owed him anything, but when she was talking about wanting to expand beyond the Amber and dreaming of opening her own distillery, wouldn’t something like this have come up? Then he remembered her going all quiet at one point, and him getting the distinct impression that she was glossing over something.
“She turned you down?” Byrne asked.
Pierce’s lips flattened as he nodded. “But I don’t give up. Not when I know I’m right.”
And the CEO hadn’t sent one of his executives or middle managers to do the pitching. This hunter was going after the deal himself. It was one of the many reasons why Byrne respected him so much.
Byrne didn’t want to prod. This was Shea’s thing, and he hoped that if she wanted to tell him, she’d do so when she was ready.
Byrne raised his glass to Pierce. “To new deals then.”
Pierce took his first sip of the whisky. “Holy shit. That’s good stuff. She pick that out for you?”
“Not exactly,” Byrne mumbled into the glass, then swallowed his own taste. Holy shit was right. He chewed it for a bit at the back of his tongue and pictured Shea doing the same. Pictured her drinking this in some secret, dusty warehouse filled with barrels, and then being equal parts smug and gleeful over having snagged such a special bottle.
“So.” Pierce took another mouthful, teeth bared in appreciation. He nudged his chin over to where Shea was weaving through the tables. “You two are together?”
Would be dumb of Byrne to deny anything was going on. He and Pierce knew each other too well. Resting his elbows on the bar, Byrne considered how to answer. “I hope so.”
Pierce smiled with his eyes, a restrained expression that reminded Byrne of his own father, who smiled so very little.
“It was great until I walked in here,” Byrne added, not really sure why, only that he felt the need to explain to someone. “I think I fucked up.”
“Why would you think that?”
Byrne swirled the brown liquid in his glass. “What you and I have, what we work for every day and what we’ve earned, it makes her uncomfortable.”
“You’re talking about money.”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.” Pierce regarded him over his glass, then pulled the drink away and considered the whisky sloshing inside. “Huh,” he said a
gain, and Byrne could practically see his brain gears churning.
“She’ll talk to you,” Byrne said, beckoning to the tattooed guy behind the bar for the check, “after I leave.”
Byrne scrawled his signature on the bottom of the outrageous check, tipping twenty percent.
He looked out over the bar, filled with people dressed to the nines, many of them drinking drinks just because they were expensive, to say they could. To buy them for other people they wanted to impress: a date, an investor, a client, a family member.
“Huh,” Pierce said yet again.
“Listen, it was great to see you. I hope it goes well for you tonight.”
Pierce nodded sagely. “And you, too.”
Byrne laughed, though it sort of hurt.
As he slid off the bar stool, he found Shea in the very center of the main room. Four guys in their midtwenties—investment bankers, most likely, entry-level by the cloud of cockiness and impending drunkenness hanging over them—had commandeered the big armchairs surrounding a low stone table. One was holding the Amber’s giant menu with one hand and trying to snake the other around Shea’s ass, to the lip-smacking, obnoxious glee of his friends.
Byrne’s blood began a slow boil, but then he watched Shea easily step away from the touch. Shoulders back, she established a new position. She shot the asshole a coolly professional stare and said some words to him Byrne couldn’t hear. The offending little shit looked appropriately abashed.
And Byrne suddenly got it. Why she didn’t like him coming in here, all smiling and flirting so openly. Because she probably had to deal with that crap nightly, and encouraging one man—even if it was a man she’d been sleeping with, laughing with, talking with—could send the absolute wrong kind of message to anyone else even considering hitting on her.
She started to walk away from the center table, her expression darkening, but then she caught sight of Byrne standing near the door, and she stopped.
Apologizing across a loud room of people wasn’t possible. Neither was telling her how he felt. So he did what came naturally, and that was putting his hand over his heart, and giving her a nod to convey his regret over having come.
The Good Chase Page 21