“There are so, so many similarities to what happened before my divorce. And directly after. I’m having a hard time accepting this.”
“Now wait a minute. I am not that asshole. Do not compare me to Marco.”
“I’m not comparing you to him. Just . . . you need to stop thinking that everything can be fixed with money.”
Darkness swept across his face. “That’s not what I think. At all. Do not go mistaking caring for egotism.”
She glanced at the pile of papers once more. When she looked back at him, his frustration had grown, not diminished.
“Good point,” she said. “That’s a very good point. I’m sorry.”
The crunch of his shoulders relaxed some.
She pressed a hand to her chest. “But I am not your parents, Byrne. I know you’re dying to help them, to know that all your hard work and saving and such added up to the thing you wanted most, but I can’t be their replacement.”
“You’re not. You’re not at all. I believe in this project. I believe in you, Shea. I think you’re going to fucking kill in the whiskey world outside of New York.”
She would have to leave New York. The place she’d called home for a decade. She would have to leave Byrne. A year ago, when she’d concocted the dream of Gleann and the distillery, he hadn’t even been a blip on her radar screen. Now? She wasn’t sure what he was, but his mere existence made her want to stay.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love having you in my arms,” he said, as though he were reading her mind, “but I hate seeing what I saw on your face when I walked in here. I hated having to leave the country when you were going through that shit. I hated watching you think it signaled the end to everything. You told me before that maybe the blow to my family was a new beginning for me, and I think you’re right. It was my new beginning and it’s yours, too. Because when I was overseas, it became clear what I wanted to do, and that was to help you.”
Her head swam with thoughts. Only there was no surface to break, no clear revelation, just a murky, swirling, pressurized mess between her ears.
“This gift, Byrne . . . It’s so much. It’s too much.”
“Not to me.” His conviction spoke volumes.
“It is to me. What if I refuse it?”
His lips parted. A little sound leaked out before he asked, “You’d do that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. To be honest, it’s my gut instinct.”
His cheeks puffed out as he scratched the back of his head.
“You didn’t even consider that,” she said. “Did you?”
“My turn to be honest: no.”
“What would happen, if I turned you down right now?”
“I’d get my earnest money back. The bid would die.”
“And after the attorney review is over at the end of next week?”
“That money would be gone, but so would the sale.”
So she had a week to make a decision, or else Byrne will have lost a good chunk of cash.
She swung out a chair and flopped into the seat. Instantly Byrne fell to his knees in front of her, and the position caused all sorts of flip-flops in her belly. All sorts of twisting in her heart.
“I know you want this, Shea. I know you do. If only you could’ve looked in a mirror when you were telling me about the distillery, about your dreams. I loved seeing that in you, because I recognized it. It’s why I went to school, why I moved here, became what I did, so I could have my dreams. I know dreams. They are powerful, powerful stuff, and they don’t ever go away. Not ever. I want to see that look back on your face, the one from that night in Gleann when you told me all about it. This is it. Let me do this for you. We can talk about the details later.”
“I can’t. I just can’t.”
He took her knees, rubbed them lightly. “You can. All you have to do is say yes.”
“And if I don’t? You just bid on a multimillion-dollar abandoned estate in the middle-of-nowhere New Hampshire.”
“I’ll figure it out. I’m kind of good at things like that. You know, with money and such.” He grinned.
She covered her face with her hands, bowed her head. Too much. Too much . . .
“Listen.” He pried her hands away. She wasn’t crying, but his gorgeous face was blurred because of the buzzing in her head. “All this shit that happened with the photos? The crap that is still sticking around even after the divorce? Why don’t you use this opportunity to finally get rid of Marco and that Lynch guy? Show Marco that you truly can stand on your own. Show him how much you’re worth in a way that has nothing to do with revenue. Or give him a virtual ‘fuck you’ and just erase him from your consciousness. Show the rest of the world how resilient and strong you are. Do this. Go after your dream. Start your own distillery. Take this gift. Please.”
Her hands were wrapped in his now. Big and warm and so utterly generous—
“Wait.” She narrowed her eyes. “Did you do this because of Marco?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Like some sort of multimillion-dollar penis measurement thing.”
“No!” He really did look horrified at that. Whereas Marco likely would’ve shrugged and nonverbally admitted to as much.
Byrne was absolutely right. She had to stop assuming that every guy was trying to keep her under his thumb. “I’m sorry.” She gave him a wavering smile. “I didn’t really think that, but I felt like I had to ask.”
The papers drew her attention again, like they were doused in glowing neon paint and smelled like red velvet cake.
Lovely, soft pressure on her cheek turned her head back to him.
“I first had the crazy idea to do this,” he murmured, “way back when you showed me the place. When you told me how hard it would be for you to get it and how long it would probably take. I barely knew you then, but I instantly knew that you deserved it all. And now it feels so incredibly right to me.”
She was losing herself in his pale eyes again. He leaned into her, so slightly, but enough that his claiming, his desire, was evident. That hypnosis screwed with her thinking and her libido and every little impulse that existed in between. And she knew that whatever she said to him now would be affected by her feelings for him. This proposal of his required a clear heart, a clear mind. And when Byrne was this close to her, this consuming, she knew she had neither.
“I need to think it over,” she finally said. “I need . . . I don’t know what I need.”
“I understand that. Completely.” He patted her legs, then rocked to his feet. “Why don’t I go out and grab us some food and then we can just sit and—you don’t have a TV, do you? Well, we can just watch the wall—”
“No.” She rose to her feet. “No. I meant alone.”
His lips parted as he stared at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I need time to think about everything. To think it all through. And I don’t think I can do that rationally when you’re here.”
He threw a grim look at her front door. The moment he finally saw his suitcase and toy train engine sitting there, his forehead scrunched up. “Of course, of course.”
“I really don’t want to kick you out, if that helps.”
“I was hoping to spend some time with you.”
Well if you hadn’t sprung such a huge thing on me, she thought, we could have.
“That last night, in my place,” he said. “Talking on the couch. Then being with you in the closet. In my bed . . .”
She had to close her eyes. “You don’t know how much I’ve been thinking about that the whole time you were gone.”
“So why can’t we—”
“But you should really go.”
When she opened her eyes, his jaw was clenched tight. At last he nodded. “Right. Okay.”
What followed were the longest seconds in the wor
ld.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“I understand, Shea. I understand.” And he did. The trouble on his face confirmed it. “So what about Saturday night? Can we make it our first date? None of that”—he waved toward the papers on the rug—“just us.”
“It’s the Scottish Ball. I’m doing the tasting thing during the cocktail hour, but I thought I’d stay for the dinner and ceremony, too.”
His eyes brightened. “You’re up for it?”
Wrapping her arms around her waist, she nodded. “I am.”
And she was, now that she’d heard what he had to say about new beginnings. Now that she’d listened to the advice she’d given him.
As he looked at her, she realized she was waiting for him to ask if he could come to the ball. But he didn’t.
“Some other time, then.” His eye contact was so direct, so penetrating. “Will you let me know when?”
“Yes.”
Slowly, finally, he peeled away, his silent footsteps heading for the door. She exhaled, realizing she’d been scared he’d touch her again. And he’d seen that trepidation.
Hand on the doorknob, he said over his shoulder, “You asked me why I did this. Deep down, I think you know.”
She sucked in a breath.
“Believe what you want,” he added, “but it’s for you. It’s all for you.”
He reached over and pulled up the long handle on his rolling suitcase. Picking up the mangled toy engine, he considered it from every angle. Then he set it on her small table next to the door.
“Do whatever you want with this,” he said quietly. “I don’t need it anymore.”
Chapter
22
Byrne would’ve hated the Scottish Ball. He would’ve cringed over the bagpiper playing in the corner, even though the musician was beyond skilled and the notes planted all sorts of tingling emotion inside Shea. Byrne would’ve made small talk with the roomful of people he didn’t know, but since he had to do that all day for work, he wouldn’t have enjoyed it. And he would’ve hated to have to put on a kilt.
Despite all that, she still wished he were here.
The gilt foyer of the posh Midtown hotel was packed shoulder to shoulder with people, some full-blooded Scottish, most only part, a few Scottish only in name. And others, like Willa, who was balancing her glass of champagne while perusing the long line of silent auction items, weren’t any of the above.
Shea took a long drink of water from the bottle below her whisky tasting table. She’d been talking for nearly an hour straight, her throat burned dry, and her cheeks hurt from all the smiling. Now there was a lull in the steady stream of black tie– and evening-gown-clad partygoers, and she took the rare moment to breathe, though the tight, gold-sequined, floor-length dress seemed determined not to let her.
The two young guys she’d just given a whisky 101 to—they were just barely of drinking age, and reveling in finally being able to have a “wee dram” at this event their parents had dragged them to since they were early teenagers—now walked away, laughing. But not at her. In fact, no one that evening had.
Scanning the beautiful foyer decked out in huge sprays of flowers and dotted with tuxedoed waiters passing around hors d’oeuvres, Shea realized that not a single person had asked about or alluded to or openly joked about what had appeared on the Internet. Sure, she’d caught some knowing looks, a few wide eyes, a couple of whispered conversations with glances her way, but nothing overt.
Nothing that deterred her from what she was there to do, and that was to talk about Scotch whisky.
For an hour and a half before dinner was to be served, she poured and talked, sipped and described. She exchanged stories with enthusiastic attendees about trips to Scotland and expressed her interest in getting more involved in the Society.
She thought of her granddad every minute, seeing his face in the features of the older men who came by for a glass of single malt. She heard his laughter in the accented English that spun around the room.
The evening thus far was cathartic. It was refreshing. And, to her surprise, it was fun.
Willa appeared at her side, champagne fizzing in her hand. “Ugh, there is no one here to flirt with. When you shanghaied me into coming, you forgot to mention the whole couples thing going on.”
Shea smiled and straightened the cloth Montgomery tartan flower pinned high on one strap of her dress. “You can flirt with me.”
“I could, you know. You look fucking hot.” She sighed. “I mean, the only unattached men here are, like, eighty.”
“The things you do for your best friend.”
“Right?”
A high tinkling of chimes came from the far corner of the foyer, and three sets of giant wooden doors swung open. The crowd in the foyer began to filter toward them.
“Looks like people are heading into the ballroom,” Shea said.
“Are we going in?” Willa asked. “You said you were going to see how you felt at the end of the cocktail thing before deciding if you were going to stay for dinner.”
Shea surveyed the backs of the beautiful and impeccably dressed gallery and drew a deep breath. “We’re staying. I made it through. I feel good. Great, actually. I feel like I’ve accomplished something, you know? I did it. I braved the public and I came out unscathed. And I do love all the ceremony they have during dinner. I think it might make me happy to see it.”
Willa groaned exaggeratedly. “Fine. If we must, we must.”
Shea reached out and squeezed her hand. “Thank you for coming.”
“Well, I couldn’t let you come alone. Although, if I must say, another person, someone of the male persuasion, should have been the one to come with you.”
Shea busied herself with drawing out her best bottle and pouring herself a nice, healthy glass, adding the perfect amount of water. “It’s not his thing.”
“But trying to buy you a farm in the middle-of-nowhere New Hampshire is?”
Shea closed her eyes and took a sip, and did not answer Willa. Because although it had been five days since she’d seen or spoken to Byrne, she still had yet to give him an answer.
An arm lifted high above the receding crowd, beckoning to Shea.
“Ah,” she said to Willa. “I’m being summoned. That’s the president of the Society and we’re sitting with him at the head table.”
Willa perked up. “Is he flirt-able?”
Shea snorted. “I’ll let you be the judge of that.” And then the crowd parted to reveal the president, whose kilt was wedged underneath his gut. His white, wiry hair swept over in a spectacular comb-over.
The two women found their seats at the large round table set off to the left of the low stage where the musicians would play later. A long table spilling with flowers and greenery horizontally bisected the dance floor.
“I’m going to go blind from all the plaid in here,” Willa muttered as she started to lower herself into her chair. Halfway down, she froze. Sucked in a breath.
“What?” Shea stashed her little clutch purse underneath her chair, waiting for another of Willa’s snarky comments.
“Um.” Willa was staring over the tables, toward the back of the room and the still-open doors. She straightened. “I think I see a hot single guy by the bar. Can’t let opportunity go to waste.”
“Come on. Will you just sit still for one moment and keep me company? You’re like a three-year-old sometimes, I swear.”
Willa was still looking toward the doors as a shit-eating grin started to spread across her face. It was then Shea realized the bar inside the ballroom was on the wall behind Willa, and not remotely where her friend was looking.
Shea swiveled in her seat. Byrne stood under the arched doorway, chest heaving like he’d just sprinted there all the way from his place on the Upper East Side.
Byrne was here. At h
er Scottish Ball.
Wearing formal Highland dress.
Vaguely she was aware of a light pat on her shoulder and a soft female chuckle in her ear. “I’ll leave you to that fine man and go find one of my own.”
The ballroom was still filling with people trying to find and take their seats. Bodies shifted like the sea between where Shea stood at the front, near the stage, and where Byrne had entered at the very back. He was squinting into the dim, candlelit ballroom, scanning the hundreds of strange faces. Looking for her.
She couldn’t move. Could only stare.
He looked as spectacular as she’d known he would. Maybe even more so.
From this distance and in this low a light she couldn’t tell what tartan his kilt was, but it was likely one of the universal designs meant for those who didn’t belong to a clan. The black Prince Charlie jacket fit perfectly, as though it was tailored for him. As though it was bespoke. Its peaked lapels and shiny buttons on the sleeves and vest underneath made his torso look beautifully shaped. The pristine white shirt set off the deep tan of his face, and the bow tie made him look like the fanciest rugby player in existence.
She watched frustration skate across his features as he slowly ventured into the noisy ballroom. It was then that she stood up and stepped out from behind the table. It took him a few seconds to find her, but when he did, she felt the bang and zap and heat of his recognition like he was touching her all over.
She smiled nervously.
Byrne’s grin, however, wasn’t remotely small or hesitant. Full-on brilliant, wonderfully crooked. He started toward her immediately. When he reached the border of the parquet dance floor and broke free from the milling crowd, she was finally hit with the full brunt of his appearance. Kilt, rugby legs, and all.
The shiny silver sporran bounced on his thighs. The red flashes around the top part of his tartan kilt hose called attention to the intensity and length of his strides. The dark blues and greens of the plaid suited him to perfection.
All she could do was stand there, dumbstruck by how good he looked and absolutely soaring from his unexpected presence. When he finally reached her, the entire ballroom was swept away, noise and all.
The Good Chase Page 30