by Maria Luis
“I’m fine.”
Luke’s eyes narrowed to a steely glare. “Don’t be a chick, Taylor. We both know you’re not ‘fine.’ We both know that you’re dying on the inside.”
Swallowing the sudden baseball-sized lump in his throat, Brady looked out to where a group of college-aged kids were shoving each other around as they entered the Thai place.
Luke took Brady’s silence for avoidance and he slapped his hand on the dashboard. “Seriously, dude? I get you’re upset because of what went down, and trust me when I say that it’s a shitty situation. But do something about it. You not saying anything is almost identical to what she did twelve years ago. Don’t run away.”
“Don’t run away?” Brady shoved himself forward and got himself up in Luke’s face. “Who the hell has been running away for twelve years, Luke? It sure as hell hasn’t been me.”
“Don’t go there, Taylor.” Luke’s voice was hard as a nail, probably the same tone he used on new army recruits.
Brady hadn’t been a recruit of any kind in almost a decade.
“Sure, I won’t,” he snapped. “I also won’t talk about how you’re going to re-up again, even when your mother is begging you not to. I also won’t mention how you’ve been running from New Orleans by throwing yourself into the military all in the name of the good ol’ US of A.”
They were both breathing hard and Brady couldn’t help but wonder if this hadn’t been a long time coming for them both. It was tough to tell your best friend that you thought they were full of shit when they lived in the same state as you. But when they spent half their time in the sandbox on the other side of the world? Nearly impossible.
Luke flicked his finger back and forth between them. “We are not talking about this.”
Brady lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. “It’s what you do best.”
A hand flew up between them, reminding Brady that they’d just aired their personal business in front of an outsider. Not, however, that Brady didn’t consider Nathan Danvers one of his close friends. Even so . . .
“Sorry,” he grumbled, though he wasn’t all too sure to whom.
With a visible tick beating in his temple, Luke stared hard at the console. Like it had all the answers in the world. Or maybe like he wished he could smash Brady’s head into it.
It was tough to tell.
“Me too,” Luke said after a minute where the only sound in the truck was the obnoxious chewing of gum, courtesy of Danvers.
The other detective clapped his hands together. “All right! Now that that is over and done with, I’ve decided we’re getting Thai for dinner. I need some goddamn Saki to empty my mind of y’alls ridiculous pissing contest.”
“What if I want Italian?” Luke asked, and Brady knew that he’d been forgiven for his outburst. While Luke’s shotgun temper was well known, he wasn’t one to hold grudges.
Danvers threw a disdainful look in their direction. “You two lost your chance for a democracy the minute you started fighting.”
Brady and Luke exchanged a glance through the rearview mirror. Sure, Danvers was a giant among men, but they could take him.
Italian it was.
When Danvers finally released them from the car, moving jauntily toward the Thai restaurant’s entrance, Luke and Brady snagged the bigger man by each arm and corralled him next door, spluttering and cursing the whole way.
As they were seated, and as Luke told Danvers to shut up about the Saki and just drink red wine, Brady couldn’t help think that maybe Luke was right. Maybe he had been running.
He’d been running on account of fear. On account of the fact that it was easier to swallow Shaelyn’s harsh words than it was to throw himself into risking his heart again. On account of the fact that Brady had always taken “the easy route,” even when they’d been kids. Sure, Shaelyn had sped out of town—but Brady hadn’t done much in the way of chasing after her.
He’d stuck around in New Orleans and relied on hope—hope that she might return, hope that she might give him another chance.
He was done with hoping. If he wanted her, then he had to go full-steam ahead. No more plans, no more stages.
Brady knew what he had to do first, and though the thought of approaching Anna and Julian after what he’d done made him want to vomit, there was no other way.
They deserved to hear the truth, and they deserved to hear it from him.
30
A week after her heart-to-heart with Meme Elaine, Shaelyn had half a mind to tell her cousin “no” when Anna texted her, asking for Shaelyn to come back to the boutique, when she’d already worked since seven that morning.
Anna had missed her chance. Shaelyn had already kicked off her stilettos and had changed into a comfy pair of sweatpants. Everyone knew what that meant. Once the sweats came on and the bra came off, the rest of your night was sealed.
She told her cousin just that.
Less than a minute later, her phone buzzed: I need your help. Be here by 5 p.m.
It was 4:40 p.m. exactly. What do you need my help with so badly?
Anna had to be hovering over her phone because, again, thirty seconds hadn’t passed before there was another message. Come in your sweatpants. Don’t be late.
Don’t be late? New Orleans traffic was hell on earth, and it took Shaelyn twenty minutes on a good day to get from her house to the boutique in the French Quarter. She’d never get there on time.
I’m not wearing a bra either, she texted.
She should have expected Anna’s tenaciousness because her following text only read: Good thing you work at a lingerie boutique. Get down here, Shae.
Which was how Shaelyn found herself in her car at 4:43 p.m. driving down to the Quarter at breakneck speed and hoping that she didn’t get pulled over by the NOPD for going fifteen over the speed limit.
She’d thought she had hit rock bottom with the countless pints of Ben & Jerry’s, or even the few rounds of Jose Cuervo, intermixed with Meme Elaine’s specialty cocktail of sweet tea and vodka.
But no.
Shaelyn’s actual rock bottom came in the form of hot-pink pajama bottoms with Tweety Bird plastered everywhere, including on her crotch, as well as a thin tank top that didn’t conceal the dark hue of her nipples.
If one of the delivery guys had a problem with her attire, then he could shove it.
Her arrival time turned out to be 5:05 p.m.
Grumbling over the injustice of off-street parking, she shoved her credit card into a parking meter, and waited for the white slip of paper that confirmed her payment for the next two hours. She slid it onto her dashboard, slammed the car door shut, and stalked the block down Chartres Street toward the boutique.
There were a few people—tourists, probably—who gave her the side-eye, but Shaelyn ignored them all. Tweety was a classic; they were just jealous.
Across the street was an early ghost tour camped out, even though the sun had yet to set. She heard the blaring sirens of a fire truck, just before she saw the truck itself whip around the corner of the next intersection. Tourists hung off the side, alcoholic beverages clutched in hand, as they shouted for pedestrians to join the party.
Only in New Orleans. Shaelyn hadn’t realized that she had missed the craziness that was her hometown until she’d returned.
She drew to a small pause when she realized that the window blinds of the boutique were drawn shut, even though Anna always preferred to leave them open until later in the evening.
Her hand wrapped around the chrome door handle and pulled.
It was locked.
The first thought that something was wrong hit her as she tried the handle again. No go. She yanked her phone out of her purse, pulling up Anna’s contact info.
Her cousin answered on the first ring. “You’re late.”
Shaelyn pulled the phone away from her ear to stare it, and then said, “There is a thing called traffic, Anna. I’m outside. Why is the door locked?”
Anna didn’t answer.
Not on the phone, anyway. Instead the door flung open and Shaelyn was yanked inside.
And that feeling that something was wrong? Confirmed when she heard Brady’s voice say, “Aw, shit,” and then . . . and then, Shaelyn took note of the boutique.
Of the video camera on a tripod swinging her away, with the words “Channel 5” emblazoned across the side. Of the cameramen and the news anchor all looking in her direction with their hands inching up toward their open mouths. Of Julian standing off in the background with his cellphone pointed directly at her and Sir Mix-A-Lot playing in the background.
Of the fact that she was wearing Tweety Bird pajamas, ancient Old Navy flip-flops, and a thin tank top that did nothing to conceal her braless chest.
She. Was. Going. To. Kill. Him.
One look at Shaelyn’s deer-in-the-headlights expression, and Brady wondered if he’d gone way off track with his plan to convince Shaelyn to be with him.
Anna had encouraged his idea. Hell, she’d told him that Shaelyn would eat it up. All of New Orleans would hear his apology, as well as hear him beg her to give them a chance at having a relationship.
Except that . . .
He tried to hide his wince when her hazel eyes turned on him with fury. He’d thought she would have shown back up in her work attire. He hadn’t—Brady swallowed.
Well, he hadn’t expected her to throw hell to high water and stroll through the very-busy French Quarter in Tweety Bird PJ’s and a top that left nothing to the imagination.
Who was he kidding? The sight of her, starved as he was of her presence, made his mouth water and his cock rise to attention.
“What’s going on here, Brady?” she demanded, the tension in her voice barely leashed.
Brady glanced at the news crew. Did he tell them to stop rolling? He’d been stalling on live TV for ten minutes now like an idiot.
Palms sweating, he ran them over his jeans. “I, uh, came to apologize. For what happened with Mardeaux. For not talking to you like I should have. For withholding information that you had every right to know. And with the hope that you’ll see how much I . . . care for you, and that you’ll take a chance on me, too.”
He was screwing all of this up. He’d spent the weekend planning everything, including sketching out his Take-Me-Back speech. Looking at her now, at her wide-eyed expression and the way she was edging back toward the door to escape, erased everything. The speech went out the window and desperation set in, especially when he saw her hand reach for the door handle.
“Shae!” he shouted, storming forward. The camera guy had told him to stand on the red X they’d taped on the ground, but no way was he risking her leaving him. Not again. “Hear me out.”
“Brady,” she hissed, her gaze darting behind him to the Channel 5 crew, “you could have come over at any time in the last few weeks to talk to me. Airing our personal business on TV is extreme.”
He angled his body to shield her from the cameras. “I thought you’d appreciate the irony. Considering that you found out that I’d been lying about Mardeaux on TV, I thought . . . ” Brady raked his fingers through his hair, only to belatedly remember that he’d gotten it trimmed for the occasion and there wasn’t much to tug on. “I wanted you to see that I was—that I am—serious about fixing this. Us.”
“There isn’t an us.” Shaelyn’s voice dropped, adding, “There can’t be an ‘us’ when you won’t ever tell me anything that isn’t roses and unicorns.”
Get your shit together, Taylor. “Trust me, I plan to break that habit.”
“It’s more than just a habit,” she said forcefully, as though her entire being was strung tight. “Brady, you lied. Not just once, but multiple times. Each time you’ve pulled me back. When we were seventeen and I found you with what’s-her-name, and then again with Tony. I can’t—” Her voice cracked, her fingers finding the fabric over her stomach. Her hand curled into a fist.
She was hiding again. He could see the skittish glint in her hazel eyes, as she used every excuse at her disposal to hold him at length. She wanted to run.
“You can’t what, Shae?”
When her gaze shot to his, he nearly stepped back at the fear swirling in the hazel depths.
“I can’t let myself fall for you!” she burst out. “I can’t let myself fall for you, knowing that you might keep something from me again. I don’t want to feel broken.”
“Shaelyn, sweetheart, it will be different. I promise.”
If he’d thought seeing the emotion in her gaze had hurt before, the look of betrayal she gave him now threatened to cut him at the knees. When she opened her mouth to speak, her voice trembled on the verge of tears. “You did promise, don’t you remember?” she asked softly. “That night we watched TV for hours and we talked . . . . You said that you wouldn’t keep things from me again. That we’d be each other’s rocks.”
His lids fell shut. He did remember saying that. Remembered, also, the way he’d wanted to admit everything to her then.
In a gutted tone he barely recognized as his own, he said, “I remember, Shae. All I can tell you is that I won’t do it again. You have to believe me.”
She shook her head, pressing back against the door as if she could disappear into it. “I don’t think I can. I forgive you for not telling me about the murder case. I understand why you couldn’t say anything then. I know you didn’t mean any harm.”
“But?” he interjected, knowing that he was offering her the metaphorical knife to stab him right in the heart.
Shaelyn’s gaze locked with his. “I forgive you, Brady, but I can’t risk loving you.”
Air. Even though he knew it was her fear driving her actions right now, he couldn’t seem to pull enough air into his lungs to breathe.
From behind him he heard Anna say, “What he’s epically failing at telling you, Shae, is that he personally came to talk to Julian and I about what happened.”
Thank you, Anna.
Shaelyn’s gaze tipped up to meet his. “You did?”
Brady swallowed. “I didn’t do it for you—I mean.” Get it together, man. He sucked in another breath that didn’t seem to do much in the way of easing his anxiety. “They needed to know from me—the closest source. Every day at work I tell families things they don’t want to know and certainly don’t want to hear. But when it came to you and the family you care tremendously about . . . I not only failed as a friend”—as your boyfriend, he wanted to say—“but I failed as a detective. As an enforcer of the law. That’s a burden I have to deal with. I shouldn’t have ever let my emotions impede on that.”
Silence swallowed the room. Almost absently he remembered that the camera crew was still there. Were they recording? Brady didn’t know and he honestly didn’t care.
He cared only about the woman in front of him.
And he saw that this woman, this woman who had been It for him from the time they’d first kissed fifteen years ago, was letting him go. For good.
“I understand, Brady,” she said quietly, “I just need to think.”
And then she opened the door and slipped out of the boutique and out of his life.
31
Shaelyn was running, again.
She was running from her thoughts, her chaotic emotions, and . . . Brady. She was running from him, and this time she knew why. She was scared to trust him, even though he’d proved he more than deserved that trust.
Which meant that the underlying problem was her. Again.
She needed to think. To take the time to get out of her head, to study her thoughts, which were filled with what-ifs and all kinds of doubt.
Do not cry, do not cry, do not cry.
“Watch out, lady,” a pedestrian in a fedora snapped when they nearly collided.
Shaelyn jumped out of the way, purse drawn to her chest, as the guy mean-mugged her and then kept going, muttering something about “trash” and “chicks.”
At another time, when she wasn’t five seconds away from bursting into tears, she migh
t have given the guy a piece of her mind. For one, a fedora? Seriously, who did he think he was? Justin Timberlake?
But, honestly, Shaelyn hadn’t seen Mr. Fedora at all because Brady’s heartbroken expression was all that she saw. Had she made the right choice in leaving?
No.
She clung tighter to her purse, not even caring that a kid around the age of seven was pointing at her and telling his mom that he could see her “boobies.”
Okay, so maybe she did care. Shaelyn shifted her purse to better hide her “boobies” before she was arrested for public indecency. Although it was probably a bit too late for that, considering Brady had called in Channel 5 news to record their reunion.
Except that there had been no reunion.
Tears threatened to surface again, and Shaelyn took a much-needed gulp of air as she navigated the busy sidewalk. The temptation to lean into Brady’s hard chest had nearly sent her to her knees.
“You’re a coward, Shaelyn Magnolia.”
Brady.
Shaelyn swung around, shocked to find him so close when she hadn’t even heard him following her. The frustration in his blue eyes was scalding. She instinctively stepped back, only to be elbowed in the side by a passerby.
Brady stalked closer. “Did you hear me?” he demanded.
What was he doing? “I heard you.”
“You can’t just run away because you’re scared.”
“Brady, please—”
He cut her off. “You had your turn to speak; it’s mine now.” Then he paused, as though waiting to see if she’d gotten the memo, so Shaelyn nodded. “Good,” he said simply, awkwardly, like he’d expected a fight.
Shaelyn was done fighting.
“The thing is, Shaelyn, you’ve been scared for years. Before we dated, even.”
“If you’re just going to point out my faults, I’d rather we not do this,” she said, sliding to the side as a man in a full-body dinosaur costume strolled by. Perhaps she’d been back in New Orleans long enough because she didn’t even bat an eye.
