by Leigh, Ember
It’s actually fun, if you score enough of the tiny cakes. They go fast, so you have to be vigilant. This year, though, I’m not expecting it to be fun. Tamara will be like a fly buzzing around me, for starters. And I know that seeing Kinsley—if she even shows up—is going to be its own brand of torture.
All it takes it the slightest glance from her, and I’m taken back to our sticky vinyl lovemaking on her parents’ boat. The times I fucked her so hard against the shower stall that Dom had to pound on the shared wall to get us to shut up. God help me if I think of the seagull picture ever.
It doesn’t seem like a good idea to go, but I know I will. I’ve committed, and it’s going to be my last hurrah with E-bid, even if Tamara and I are the only ones who know it.
Once I hang up with Gray, I remember the small package Mom had sent with me from home. My inheritance. Definitely not as large as the house Grayson inherited, five doors down from Mom and Dad’s house. Honestly, I was a little disappointed to see the small box she handed over after the funeral. Not like I was expecting a house too. Part of me didn’t want to delve back into the sentimentality of losing Grammy so soon, so I put it off. But now seems like the right time.
I tear into brown paper she covered the box with, and pull out the musty-smelling thing. It’s antique, reinforced with metal edges. It’s cool, at least, with all sorts of swirls painted on top that, if I look hard enough, turn out to be different animals.
Inside, there’s a bunch of stuff. I paw through the contents. Metal clangs, papers shuffle. But one little box catches my attention first. I pop it open and find two gold rings inside. I turn them each over in my fingers a few times before I call Mom.
“Okay,” I tell her once we’ve said our hellos. “What the hell are these rings inside the stuff Grammy Ethel left me?”
A long sigh escapes her. “You, my dear, have inherited their wedding rings.”
The knowledge thuds through me. Somehow, that doesn’t seem right. “But why?”
“Because that’s what she decided to give you.”
“I mean, why wasn’t she buried with these? Isn’t that a thing? I thought Grammy would want to be buried with the rings that she and Grandpa wore their whole lives.”
Mom tuts. “No. She wanted the Daly family legacy of love to live on. So that the rings could be handed down throughout the generations.” Mom pauses, and I wonder if she’s getting emotional on the other end. “You certainly got the most valuable inheritance of them all.”
I swallow a sudden lump in my throat, and I push the box away. “Okay. Well, I hope she’s not disappointed in Heaven when I end up alone and miserable.”
“Connor James Daly. Why do you say that?”
I fist the front of my hair. “Because I suck, and I value my career over everything else?
Mom sighs wearily. “Is this about Kinsley?”
“Yes, specifically, but I’m also preparing you for the sad truth. None of your sons will ever find love and happiness because we’re money-obsessed tools.”
“Connor.”
“You heard it when we were all home. It was a dick-swinging competition, except instead of dicks, it was bank accounts.”
I can practically see her rubbing her forehead. This isn’t how she wanted things to turn out, but here we are.
“I’m sure you will find someone else eventually,” Mom says, her voice straining with sweetness.
“I don’t want to. I already found the woman for me.” I pick glumly at the wrapper on the bottle of bourbon.
“I want you to be happy, sweetie.”
“Would you be happy for me even if it meant marrying ‘the Cabana girl’ with Grammy and Grandpa’s rings?”
“Connor, don’t rush into things. It’s so early, still, and you don’t have to—”
“Don’t worry, Mom. I already told you I’m dying alone.” Jesus, it must be great having five emotionally ridiculous boys for offspring. Times like these, I’m sure my mom thinks she’s cursed or something. And I’m not even drunk. God help the person who hears what I spew when I get even a little tispy. “Besides, Kinsley and I could never get married if our own parents wouldn’t show up to the ceremony.”
Mom gets deathly quiet. The kind of quiet that tells me she’s probably scowling or on the verge of tears, or both.
“Do you think we’re all so childish?” she asks.
“Yes. You barely looked at Kinsley for two weeks while she stayed under your own roof. If that’s not childish, I don’t know what is. Kinsley is a ray of light. She’s is fucking happiness and sunflowers and everything sweet and right in the world, wrapped in a lemur shirt.”
Damn, it felt good to say that.
“Honey—”
“And she didn’t deserve that from you, or from Dad, or from me.” Now my throat is clamping shut, and I know it’s time to go. This is the sign. Time to wallow in private.
“I know you’re upset—”
“I should go, Mom. I’ll talk to you later.”
I end the call, feeling like a bigger douchebag than ever. Even bourbon doesn’t appeal to me, so I put the glass away and head to the gym to distract myself with weightlifting and the indoor track. Once upon a time, Tamara and I used to come to this gym where she would interrupt my reps to get Instagram pictures. From the outside, we looked perfect. But on the inside, I was suffocating.
While I grunt and groan through my bench press reps, I think about what it might be like to come here with Kinsley. She’d probably be reading in the corner, her long legs dangling over the cushioned footrest of the thigh machine. I can imagine her getting so lost in the book that some big burly weightlifter needs to tell her to read somewhere else. Like maybe on the treadmill. The thought prompts a laugh to burst out of me, and I damn near drop the weights.
Need to focus.
No more imagining Kinsley reading in the weight room.
No more imagining Kinsley at all. Because if there is one thing I’ve fucked up in my life, it’s the possibility of ever getting that woman in my arms again.
As I sweat my way through my set, one question dances inside my head like leaves on the breeze.
Was losing Kinsley worth the professional boost?
The bar clangs back onto the metal poles, and all the air exists my body in a whoosh.
I already know the answer.
Chapter 27
CONNOR
It’s the evening of the summer mixer. I’m wearing a red bowtie with my black button-down, because #NerdLife, and I need something to brighten my days without my sunbeam in it.
I broke down and tried calling her yesterday, but the call couldn’t be completed. I wonder if she changed her number. Which only makes me feel worse, thinking that my dick-headed absence upset her more than I bargained.
Tamara wants me to pick her up, but I insist on meeting her at the soiree. It’s at this extremely nice restaurant downtown, with wood-paneled walls and crazy bear sculptures and an aquarium so large and appealing they had to put up a sign that says “Do Not Enter, Please.”
She’s waiting for me inside the lobby, arranging the carefully curled waves of her hair over her right shoulder. She’s beautiful in a way that is so tiring. She demands everyone notice how beautiful she is. That everyone react to it and feed into it. And I don’t have the energy for that anymore.
I offer her a tight smile. “You look nice. I’m going to get drinks. What do you want?” Hopefully, this will fulfill the extent of my pseudo-boyfriend obligations for the evening. We don’t kiss, we don’t fuck, I’m not going back to her house. She knows all this. Still, she wants me at her side, and it’s the last place I want to be.
“Chardonnay.”
I nod and take off, waving at colleagues and clapping shoulders while I weave through the crowd toward the bar. I keep an eye out for those tiny cakes, because how can I not?
More than that, though, I’m looking for Kinsley. As much as I dread facing her disdain, I’m desperate to drink her in again.
Aching for it. The infrequent glimpses of her silky braid at work aren’t enough. I’m dying to pull her into a broom closet so I can ask her how she’s been. What books she’s read. Whether or not we can get our affection-o-meter back up to 3500 megahertz like it was in the beginning.
I’m tapping my fist against the bar top while I scan the area. There’s Derek and Zara and Grant and Ulig. Most of accounting has gathered off to one side. I spot Lena, and anticipation prickles through me. Where there is Lena, there must also be Kinsley.
But she’s nowhere to be found. The bartender practically has to slap me to get my attention. “What do you want?”
“Sorry. I’ll take a Maker’s Mark and a RumChata. I mean, chardonnay.” I curse at myself internally.
“RumChata and chardonnay?” he repeats.
“No. Maker’s and Chardonnay.” Though I’d give anything to be ordering a RumChata for Kinsley right now.
He pours the drinks and hands them over. I weave through the crowds again to drop off Tamara’s drink. She’s by the aquarium, chatting with the CEO, Howard.
Tamara is one of the highest-ranking officers of E-bid, and she likes to make sure that she keeps rank. Which means that Tamara wants me on her arm because she wants to be associated with either my talents as a developer or my looks. I’m not sure which she values more.
And at this point, I don’t care. I hand over the chardonnay, make some noise that resembles not wanting to intrude in their conversation, and walk away. It’s a breath of fresh air—for now. I wander the periphery of the party, one hand stuffed in my pocket while I nurse my Maker’s. I’m searching each face now. My preliminary Kinsley scan turned up nothing, so I must go deeper. She has to be here. Unless she isn’t. And the not knowing is a special brand of torture.
But really, there are too many E-bid employees here to realistically see them all. Howard comes to the small podium they set up off to the side of aquarium, and the hundred or so of us congregate before him. I stare at the electric blue-finned fish zipping behind him as he talks about the integrity of our company culture.
Tamara sidles up to me a moment later. I glance down at her and sniff. God, her perfume sucks. It smells like high school mixed with cheap wine. She rubs at the small of my back, and I step away from her.
I can’t wait for her link to WeGo to be completed. She gives me updates every few days, but the process is long with them. They require some barely legal level of talent, nepotism, and security clearance that apparently takes weeks to evaluate. We’re still waiting on the confirmation of my first interview, but she says that at the start of next week I should have a firm date. It couldn’t happen faster. And I wonder if she knows how fast I’ll leave her behind once she gives me what I want.
She must know, which is why she’s dragging this out. I know she’s using me for something too, so it’s tit for tat with us. I don’t feel even a little bit bad. Especially for all the grief she’s given Kinsley, who doesn’t deserve an ounce of it.
And here I am, doling out more grief to Kinsley because I’m so focused on my career.
Applause swells around me, and I realize I have no idea what we’re celebrating. Howard looks really proud about something, and then he gestures to the CFO to take the stage. I down the rest of my drink and head off to refill it.
It turns into a long evening. Each time a waiter brings around a tray of food, it’s not the tiny cakes. Each time a long blonde-haired beauty approaches, it’s not Kinsley. I’m ready to leave before dinner hits, but I slog through anyway.
Stroganoff, crab cakes, steamed asparagus, and lobster tails are among the options tonight. I dine mostly on Maker’s and crab cakes, and then head to the dessert table to scope the options while plates are being cleared.
They’ve tucked the long dessert table off to the side, partially down a long hallway. The silky tablecloth swishes iridescent blue, which is E-bid’s color. I tip more Maker’s into my mouth, acknowledging the other dessert-friendly person creeping near the long table.
She’s tall and lithe, with narrow shoulders and a tan that betrays a hint of a bikini line. Strawberry blonde hair hangs just below her chin, chopped at a precise flat angle. A wine-and-gold strappy dress clings to curves that remind me of Kinsley, and when she turns to me, my heart stops.
Periwinkle eyes sear through me.
I’m looking at Kinsley.
Except it’s not her, not any Kinsley I’ve ever seen before. Her eyes are expertly lined with kohl and her lips glisten deep maroon. Her hair is straight—and gone. I must blink a thousand times as I try to understand what’s going on.
“Where’s your hair?” I finally ask.
“In the trash,” she spits.
There’s a storm brewing in her eyes. I clench my jaw and glance back out at the tables of diners. I turn back toward the desserts, measuring my words.
“I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“Good.”
Silence pounds between us. This seems so pointless, but I have to try. “You never wrote back.”
She purses her lips. “Was I supposed to?”
Between the different hair, the makeup, the elegant dress, and the jaded irritation, I don’t even know this woman.
I shake my head, inspecting the ice cubes inside my tumbler. “I wouldn’t have either. Trust me.”
“You must have written to me after I blocked you,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. I get a whiff of her perfume, and I damn near crumple to my knees. Every inch of my body is alive again, like she’s the secret amulet that brings me to life. “Which I didn’t even do immediately. I waited a full week and a half for that. More than enough time for you to come forward and tell me it was all a horrible joke, but no.”
I grit my teeth, drifting closer to her even though I shouldn’t. She take a step back.
“I fucked up,” I say in a low voice.
“Yeah, you did.” She turns her head, and I get the sense that our conversation is over. But it can’t be. I scan the table, wracking my brain for something to talk about that she might actually want to participate in.
“Did you get any of the tiny cakes?” I ask.
“No, they don’t have them this year.”
I scoff. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“That’s what I said.”
God, the energy. Can she feel it? It’s pulsing between us, and if things were only slightly different, we’d be cracking up about something already. That laughter is lurking, waiting for us in the shadows. If only we can get there.
It’s the only place I want to get to.
“I’m going to find out who made them,” I say, stepping closer again. She doesn’t step away this time. “I’ll order a special batch. Just for us.”
Kinsley doesn’t even blink. “I’ll file that under ‘More lies from a Daly man.’”
Her words irk me, but not as much as that acerbic tone. “You know, I can explain what happened.”
“Well, I figured out you were done with me, so why bother getting the story?”
Irritation scorches through me, and I grab her by the elbow, bringing her closer to me. “I was never done with you. I was compromised.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” From this close, I can see the gold shimmer at the corners of her eyes. The lush, dark mascara coating her lashes. She is a total bombshell. But still every bit Kinsley. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to lean forward and kiss her. She rips her elbow out of my grip and stands a defiant few feet away. “You’ll have to try harder than that if you want to explain yourself. I’m done giving you time and making up excuses for you. I’m fucking done.”
The sadness behind her anger nearly slices me in two. She balls her fists and looks like she’s about to storm off, but I stand there, facing her, hoping that my presence will convince her to stay a little bit longer. I’d rather have her angry and hating me than not have her at all.
“I fucked up, and I want to tell you what happened,” I say in a low, measured voice.
“No. I was a pawn in your stupid jealousy game, and I don’t deal with players.” She practically hisses the word. “And on various fronts! You wanted to make your brothers jealous. You wanted to piss off your parents. And you wanted to piss off my boss.” Her voice wavers slightly. “But you know what?” Her eyes are blazing blue and fearsome. “I was the stupid one. Because at the end of the day, I was the one who got played and mistook it for love.”
Chapter 28
KINSLEY
There is a wrenching, gasping moment once I realize the L-word has flown out of my mouth. I had been doing so well—speaking my mind, being firm and honest but not too raw. And then I had to go and ruin it by telling my deepest truth.
That I fucking love this man and fell so hard for him that I cracked my skull on the pavement.
I would tug my hair out of my scalp, but I spent too much money to ruin it over a stupid man.
Connor’s icy blue gaze hardens, as intense as a tractor beam. I’m shocked I’ve been able to speak around him at all. The two weeks and some odd days away from him have left me twitching and wanting. It doesn’t help that he’s dressed like the love child of a 1930s gentlemen and a millennial. Both strapping and dapper, his black button-down strains at his biceps, while that infuriating red bowtie makes me want to collapse into his arms.
It’s not just sex withdrawal. No, it’s the confusing mess of knowing someone’s innards so well, you could sketch a diagram, and then realizing they’ve only shown you a carefully selected percentage of themselves. I can’t tell how many more layers there are to peel back on this man. Or if the core is rotten and stinking altogether.
But deep down inside me, I feel like I’m not wrong about what we shared. That it meant something. That it still means something to him.
