by Megyn Ward
Thirty-two
Patrick
I try to focus on work. On all the things that will take my mind off the fact that Cari is finally home.
I check on the new bartender and ask Paddy if he needs me to bring any kegs up from the basement. He throws his bar towel at me and tells me to fuck off. “The day I can’t hump a keg up a flight of stairs is the day I lay down and die,” he shouts at me, the tops of his ears red—a sure-fire sign he’s agitated. If there’s anything that pisses him off, it’s one of us implying that he needs help. I leave before his agitation tips into a full-blown mad.
I take a trip out to the second jobsite and make sure Jeff has everything under control. He does. Matter of fact, the build is a few days ahead of schedule. It’s a good thing too because we’re expecting snow to blow in next week.
I spend a few minutes with Jeff, mapping out the next few weeks on the set of blueprints rolled out between us. Where we need to be. How hard he needs to push his crew. “We need the roof on, windows installed and siding up before the sixteenth,” I tell him. “Inside shit can wait—I’m not having another clusterfuck like we did with the Porters.” Jeff listens intently, every once in a while, his face breaking out into a wide smile.
“What?’ I finally say, suddenly feeling like my Uncle Paddy. “Am I practicing my comedy routine or something?”
Jeff smothers the smile and shakes his hand. “No, boss.”
For some reason, his reaction only irritates me more. “Then what?”
“Just...” Jeff rubs the back of his neck before letting his hand drop to his side. “A year ago, you were letting Declan handle everything—wouldn’t even look up when I called you boss.” He shrugs. “Now, you’re barking orders and kicking ass. I feel like a proud papa, watching his kid graduate from college.”
He’s not wrong. A year ago, I deferred to Declan on everything. Avoided taking control of any situation I was in at all costs. I don’t have to think too hard about what prompted the change.
Cari. The week of insanity we spent together. Me, finally admitting that not every impulse I have is good. Not every choice I want to make is the right one.
Me, finally accepting that I’m not always a nice guy.
That I don’t have to be.
I lift the chunks of scrap wood I’m using to hold the blueprints open and let them roll closed. “Fuck off,” I say around a laugh of my own. I pick up the plans and tuck them under my arm. “If I have to file another insurance claim due to storm damage, it’s your ass I’m going to be kicking.”
Jeff smothered another smile and nodded his head. “Yes, boss.”
Afterward, I head back to the office I shared with Declan. When he started the business, he rented space in a co-op downtown. The rent was astronomical. Coupled with the lot rent he had to pay for his work trucks, he was barely breaking even. His dad offered up space in one of his properties but Declan always refused, determined to make it on his own, without any help from his father and I went along with it because that’s what I did. I went along with things. Followed my cousin’s lead.
When Cari left, things changed.
DG Contracting is now DPG Design & Build, housed in a twenty-thousand square-foot, two-story water-front warehouse. The ground-floor houses trucks, equipment building supplies while the top floor houses our showroom, reception and office area. Entirely too much space for just Dec and me but I own the building outright, so we’re saving a fortune on rent. It’s also a great place for him to hide.
A few months ago, I walked in after Labor Day weekend to find that he’d thrown up a couple of walls, carving out about six-hundred square feet, tucked into the farthest corner of the top floor. A quick look inside revealed a small living area, kitchenette, and bathroom. Behind a pony wall sat a king-sized bed. It looked like it’d been slept in.
That Declan built himself and furnished a studio apartment in our office over a three-day weekend was not surprising. What was surprising was the fact that he’d done it less than six months before his wedding.
When he came in a few hours later, I was at my desk, working. As soon as he saw me, his eyes darted toward his safe haven before finding their way back to me. It made me remember what he’d said to me that day in the hospital cafeteria when he’d intercepted me to keep me from beating James to death in his hospital bed. I’d asked him if he loved Jessica, the question immediately stiffening his shoulder, jerking his gaze away from mine and over my shoulder.
I deserve Jessica.
That’s what he’d said. Like marrying her was some sort of penance.
Like he knew he’d never be happy, so it was stupid to even try.
He looked at me, waiting for me to ask him about it.
I didn’t.
Instead, I jerked my chin in the direction of the coffee bar in the reception area we have set up to greet clients. “Coffee’s fresh,” I told him, before resettling my attention on the plans in front of me. He muttered a quick thanks and dove for his desk.
We never talked about it. I’m pretty sure no one even knows about it but me.
These days, he’s spending three nights out of five here, but I pretend I don’t notice. It’s none of my business. Not unless he wants to talk about it. I no longer feel the need to chase trouble where Declan is concerned. If he wants to hide from his fiancé and pretend he isn’t about to make the biggest mistake of his life, that’s his problem.
“Hey, Jane,” I call across the room instead of using the ridiculous intercom system Declan had installed.
Jane, our shared assistant, looks up from her desk. Instead of yelling she gives me a look of mild exasperation and presses her finger to the intercom button on her desk. “Yes, Mr. Gilroy?”
Mr. Gilroy. I have to bite my tongue to keep from rolling my eyes. Indulging her, I jab my thumb against my intercom. “Has Declan been in this afternoon?”
Jane’s gaze bounces toward his empty desk before looking at me. “He was here, but Ms. Renfro stopped by and...” She didn’t have to say the rest. Jessica barged in like she owns the place and dragged Dec off by his balls.
Got it.
“Alright,” I say. “I’m about finished for the day—why don’t you knock off early?”
She scowls slightly. “But it’s not five o’clock yet.”
“That’s why it’s called knocking off early,” I tell her with a laugh. “Go on—I won’t tell Declan if you won’t.”
She’s gone five minutes later, barely throwing me more than a quick wave over her shoulder.
My phone beeps and I pick it up. It’s a text from Cari.
Cari: Dinner?
I look at my watch, surprised that it’s nearly five o’clock.
Me: Sure. I’ll cook.
Cari: Still allergic to mushrooms :)
Me: Duh.
Cari: LOL It needed to be said.
Me: Let me run home and grab a quick
shower and swing by the store. 6:30?
Cari: ...
Cari: ...
Cari: ...
Those bubbling dots mean she’s writing something. Either a dissertation or she’s having a hard time figuring out what to say.
Cari: Just shower here.
I stare hard at my phone. Historically, showering around her does not end well. About a minute passes before my phone beeps again.
Cari: I know you have clothes here.
I saw them in one of the guest rooms.
Yeah, I keep clothes there. Sometimes, I don’t have time to stop at home between jobs, so I have to shower and change upstairs before I pull a shift at the bar. Sometimes I’m so beat after a Saturday night of slinging beer and breaking up fights I barely have the strength to drag myself up the stairs to crash on the couch for a few hours before I wake up, disoriented and alone. As soon as I can make the drive home without wrapping myself around a telephone pole, I leave.
Quit being a pussy. She’s offering you a place to shower, not a place to park your cock.
&nb
sp; I let out a groan, instantly hard enough to cut glass. Thank god Declan hasn’t shown up yet. I’d never hear the end of it. He’s nearly as bad as his brother.
This is a bad idea.
Me: Okay. See you in an hour.
My thumb hovers over SEND.
Fuck. This is a really bad idea.
Cari: ...
Cari: ...
Cari: ...
She’s typing something. I imagine her frustrated and confused as to why, after nearly four years of friendship, six months of living together and one week spent fucking each other blind, I’m balking at taking a goddamn shower in her presence. I imagine her telling me to forget it. To not come over. To stay away from her.
And it’s probably what I should do. Stay away from her. Keep my distance. Take things slow. Get to know her again.
Yeah, that’s not happening.
I hit send.
Thirty-three
Cari
Just shower here.
As soon as I type it and hit send, I drop my phone onto my chest and close my eyes. I’m stretched out on one of the guest room beds, trying to take a much-needed nap. Unfortunately, the five glasses of champagne I drank at Anton’s during my dress-fitting has different ideas. The room is a slow-moving merry-go-round, and I plant a foot on the ground to stop the bed from spinning with it.
Hoping that the soft, fizzy champagne buzz would lull me to sleep, I closed my eyes. It took me all of ten seconds to realize it’s not going to work.
All I could do was think about Patrick.
I struggled for about an hour before I gave in and texted him. When he said he’s going to be late and why I felt a sudden flash of irritation that quickly morphed into a strange sort of longing. I texted back.
You don’t need to shower.
Just come home.
I love you.
Thankfully I’m not drunk enough to send any of those texts. But I am drunk enough to tell him to just shower here. I hit send and rest my phone on my chest, my heart knocking against it through my ribcage.
Was this a date?
I don’t know, Cari. You tell me.
I’m not exactly professing my undying love, but it’s a start.
I’m enough.
I’m enough.
I’m enough.
When he doesn’t answer, longing slides into irritation again.
Me: I know you have clothes here.
I saw them in one of the guest rooms.
I shift on the bed, lifting something off the nightstand. The key.
His key.
I don’t know, Cari. You tell me.
Irritation fades again, this time into understanding. Patrick tore his heart out in front of me once. He won’t do it again. Whatever happens next, it’ll happen because I made it happen. Not by traipsing around half-naked or because I hung a mirror across from my open bedroom door. It’ll happen because I was honest. Because I believed him when he said he loved me.
Because I know we’re enough.
I’m enough.
I raise my phone to text him again.
Me: It was a date. This is a date.
I want you to come home. I want
you to stay.
Before I can hit send, he answers me.
Patrick: Okay. See you in an hour.
“Cari...” Buzz “Cari... shit.”
Buzzz Buzz Buzzz
“Cari, I don’t have my key.”
Patrick’s voice booms through the open spaces of the apartment, the sound of it pulling me upright. I look at my phone. It’s 6:10.
Jumping off the bed, I run down the hall, my socks sliding across the slick, polished wood. The sudden movement sends me spinning, reminding me that I killed an entire mag of Dom on my own at Anton’s. If possible, I’m drunker now than I was when I closed my eyes an hour ago.
On the wall, next to the laundry room door is an intercom system. It looks complicated. Rolling the dice, I press the blue button marked with a white I. “I fell asleep.” I yell. “I’m sorry—I fell asleep.” I can hear street noise through the speaker but nothing else. “Patrick, are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” It sounds like he’s laughing. “Open the door.”
I look at the control panel. There’s at least a dozen of them. “How—”
More laughing. “Green button marked D.”
I press it and hear another buzzing, this one far off, followed by the slam of a door. I step into the laundry room and open the door leading to the stairs. When I do, I find Patrick mounting them, juggling a half-dozen grocery bags. He’s on the landing before I can offer to help and I step back, pressing myself against the door frame to make room for him to pass through. Instead, he stops in front of me.
“Hi,” he says softly, and I have that feeling again. The one I had at Benny’s when he was unbuttoning my coat. He wants to kiss me. He wants to but he won’t.
I’m enough.
I raise myself on my toes and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. When I pull back, I return his smile. “Hi,” I say, pulling one of the bags from his arms. “You’re late.”
“I was on time.” He shakes his head, laughing. “You had me standing in the street, buzzing and yelling like a lunatic.” He moves away from me, stepping into the kitchen, leaving me to follow. He sets the grocery bags on the U-shaped island and starts unloading them.
“I fell asleep,” I say again, setting my bag down next to his.
He flicks me a quick, assessing glance, followed by a dimpled grin that makes me feel like the room is spinning again. “You sure passed out isn’t the term you’re looking for?”
“I might’ve had a glass of champagne—or five.” My hand flies to my hair, the other rubbing at my face. Jesus, I probably look terrible. As soon as I escaped dress-fitting hell, I changed back into the yoga pants and top I was wearing the first time Patrick showed up today. I feel my face crumple into a grumpy frown. “Don’t judge me—I was shanghaied.”
“Me? Judge?” Patrick laughs and shakes his head. “Have you met my family?” He reaches into the bag in front of him and pulls out a package wrapped in white butcher paper. “More than one of us would down a bottle of Jameson, run naked through the streets and call it Tuesday.”
I laugh because that actually happened once.
Reaching into the bag again, he pulls out a bottle of red wine. A nice one by the look of the label. I don’t know why, but something about it pulls at my brain. Makes me uneasy.
“So... shanghaied?” he says. Making short work of the cork, he sets it aside to breathe.
Next out was a few staples—milk, eggs, bread, butter. Blueberry yogurt. My unease passes.
I tell him about going to the garage to see Tess. Jessica showing up and dragging me to dress-fitting. The more I tell him, the tighter his shoulders get. “Jess’s been after her since we were kids—sometimes I think marrying Declan is more about torturing Tess than it is about the money.”
“You don’t think Jessica loves him?” I say, digging a bag of pre-prepped veggies out of one of the sacks.
“Hell no.” Patrick laughs, taking the veggies from me and setting them on the counter. “And he doesn’t love her either.”
“Then why would he marry her?” I don’t have to ask why a girl like Jessica would want to marry Declan. He’s wealthy, gorgeous, successful... the old me understands perfectly.
“He told me once that he’s marrying Jessica because he deserves her.” He shrugs. “Marrying her is a self-imposed punishment.”
“For what he did to Tess?” I still don’t even know what happened between them. All I know is it was bad.
“For a lot of things.” He shakes his head like he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. “I hope you’re hungry because I came here to eat.”
Because I’m a total perv and kinda drunk, his comment chases thoughts of Declan and Tess from my head in an instant and sends a quick blast of heat over my skin, tightening my nipples instantly.
Shit.
“I’m just going to go—” I turn, heading to my room to brush my hair and change my clothes. And put on a bra. Jesus, he probably thinks I keep ditching my bra on purpose just to fuck with him.
A strong hand reaches out and snags my arm, stopping me cold. “Nope,” he says, pulling me back. “I need a sous-chef.”
I lift my free arm, mashing my hand against my skull, wincing when the hair on top of it springs back when I lift it up. “I have bedhead.”
He’s standing close, the hand on my elbow loosening to slide up my arm, skimming over my bare shoulder before coasting up the line of my neck. “You do,” he says, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “It’s adorable.”
I turn my face, digging my chin into the top of my shoulder. “I think I drooled.”
“You did.” He nods, barely suppressing a laugh. “But considering you drank enough champagne to drown a horse, I think you got off easy.”
“I’m not wearing a bra.”
Now his grin turns wicked, his gaze drifting over my chin... my collarbone... before settling on my breasts. “Yeah...” He says it softly, letting his eyes linger for a moment before lifting them to mine. “I noticed.”
“I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to...shit...” I sigh and stop talking because nothing is coming out of my mouth right. I’m not sure if it’s the bubbly or the fact that he’s standing so close I can feel the brush of his work shirt against my swollen nipples.
“I know.”
His words, the way he says them—slow and careful—remind me of what happened the day of the storm. The way I goaded and pushed him into bending me over the pool table.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him quickly. I want him to know that this isn’t a game to me. That I don’t think he’s a joke.
“Don’t be.” He takes a step back, away from me. “You’re allowed to be comfortable without having to offer me an explanation.”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m mean.”
He looks like he’s about to say something else, but he doesn’t. Turning away from me completely, he opens the fridge. The only thing in it is beer and water. He deliberates for a second before snagging a beer. “Put stuff away while I take a quick shower?” he says, twisting off the cap before tossing it in the trash. He takes a long drink of his beer, casually avoiding my gaze.
