Shannon had been to their house for dinner a few times shortly after she’d been hired, but then Gia had come, and Lilli had been sick, and they’d had their hands full. She’d enjoyed those evenings. But she was suspicious. “Don’t try a setup thing, Lilli. No.”
“Jesus! No. Not my style. I’d never ambush anybody with that kind of crap. If someone did it to me, I’d…well, there might be bloodshed. I’m just asking you over for dinner. Isaac finally built the couch he promised me a year ago, so we even have a nice place for guests to sit. And we won’t talk about anything uncomfortable.”
Shannon smiled. “Okay. After Hollywood leaves, though.”
“Fair enough.” Lilli leaned back and settled a dozing Gia on her shoulder. “So tell me how Beth’s coping with the people who don’t eat food. That’s got to be hilarious.”
~oOo~
Lilli stayed for about half an hour, and they sat the whole time in the porch rockers and talked while Gia napped on her mom’s shoulder, sucking her fist. It was a nice break. And then Lilli left, leaving Shannon in full control of the inn, without even a wistful glance back. Finally, Lilli was handing over the reins and getting off the wagon.
The Hollywood guests came in around six o’clock, which was later than they’d planned but early enough that the heavy snacks Beth had prepared were still fresh and lovely, and with plenty of time for them to get settled and come down for drinks. They were all three of them Hollywood-pretty. Two writers: a woman, Harrie Beck, probably a few years younger than Shannon, so early thirties, petite and pretty, with long, blonde, perfectly blown-out hair; and a man, David Gordon, maybe forty or so, African American and very GQ stylish. And a photographer: Austin Montroy, also about forty, ruggedly handsome in a studied, California way. Sheesh. Did California have any normal-looking people, or did they screen for that at the border when they checked for contraband fruit?
Shannon checked them in and described the services. She handed them each a key—this was a B&B, old school, so no keycards—and tapped the bell, calling Steve, the bellboy and general gopher, to help them with their bags. Which would take a few trips, unless they helped themselves. These folks had not packed light.
Both Austin and David had been flirting with Shannon outrageously since they’d crossed the threshold, like it was some kind of competition between them. They were both successful and handsome, and it salved her badly scraped ego to play along. She wasn’t really interested, but that was beside the point. It was nice to have two handsome men fighting over her a little, even if it was their shtick—and she was sure it was.
Steve trotted in and collected several of their bags. They all three carried what they could. Only one bag was left—a medium-size, squarish black case, not a usual suitcase. Shannon figured, what the hell, she’d help out. She bent to pick up the case, but Austin stopped her, his hand on her back. “That’s okay, leave it. I’ll come back down. It’s equipment, and I’d rather carry it myself.” His hand lingered on her back, and as she stood, he swept it down, just brushing her ass as he took it away. Slick. And not really a way to impress her.
“Okay, then. Remember, there are heavy hors d’oeuvres in the dining room until seven, and then drinks and light snacks at nine. If you want an actual meal, it’s the Chop House—I marked it on the maps. Their kitchen closes at nine-thirty.”
Austin leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, love.” Then he winked at her, and they all continued up the stairs. Austin might be something of a pompous dick, Shannon decided. With her foot, she pushed the black case to the side—it was heavier than she expected—and turned around to go back to the desk.
As she turned, she saw Showdown standing on the other side of the full glass of the front door. He opened it and stepped into the parlor.
CHAPTER NINE
Show was angry, his fists clenched at his sides, and that was not how he’d intended to come into this room. But that asshole had been all over her, and she’d smiled at him like she liked it.
Yeah, he’d left her in his bed, and yeah, that made him a dick, but that hadn’t even been two days ago, and he’d come here to fucking apologize. Make it better. Instead, he found her pushing up on some piece of shit with prissy, groomed stubble.
Shannon was standing in the middle of the room, staring at him, her hands on her hips. The sweet smile she’d given Blondie Boy was gone now. Now she looked as pissed as he felt.
“What the hell do you want?” Venom dripped from every syllable she spoke.
“Who was that asshole?”
Her laugh was bitter and derisive. “You have got to be joking. Get out, Show.” She moved to walk past him, and he grabbed her arm. She yanked, but he had no intention of letting her go.
“I came here to talk to you.”
“And why would I want to talk to you?” She pulled again. “Let me go.”
“No. We need to talk.”
“You know when I would have talked to you? Saturday morning. I would have talked about anything you wanted to talk about. Now, you can fuck off and Let. Me. Go.” She yanked again, and he tightened his grip. She was going to fucking talk to him.
“Shannon? You okay, love?”
Show didn’t release his hold on her, but he twisted around to see Blondie standing at the foot of the stairs, looking like he thought he knew what he was doing. He didn’t.
“Not your business, hoss.”
“I think you should let her go, buddy.”
Buddy. Now Show let Shannon go and stalked over to his new buddy. He got up close, towering over him, staring down, his jaw set. Damn, he hoped this scrawny fuck tried something. The asshole looked up, and Show was glad to see him swallow hard. That’s right, buddy.
“Show. Enough.” Shannon was behind him, her hand on his back. “Everything’s fine, Mr. Montroy. Thanks for your concern.”
Hearing her call him Mr. Montroy, it got through to Show that the guy was nothing more than a guest. A handsy guest, who was gonna be short a hand if he didn’t back the fuck down. Blondie blinked, and his eyes shifted from Show’s down to Shannon. “You sure, love?”
Love? Who did this guy think he was?
“Yep. Anything I can get you?” He could hear the smile in Shannon’s voice. Fake or not, it made him want to turn this asshole’s face inside out.
“Uh, no. Just came down for my case.”
“Okay, then. Drinks at nine.” Blondie nodded, gave Show another, brief, considering look, then picked up a black case off the floor and went upstairs.
Shannon watched him go. When he was up and out of sight, she grabbed Show’s sleeve in her fist. “Come with me. You want to talk? Fine. But do not mess with my work when you do it.” She pulled, and he let her lead him back to her office.
She closed the door, and he turned around. “Shannon.”
She jumped when he spoke, and then she laughed, without humor. “I didn’t realize it until I just heard it. But that’s the first time you’ve ever said my name.”
He didn’t think that could be true. He thought it all the damn time. It never seemed to leave his head anymore. Whether he’d said it out loud seemed irrelevant. There was a lock of red hair hanging over her eye, and he reached out to brush it back, but she knocked his hand away and moved to the other side of the room.
“I don’t understand what you think you’re doing. But I don’t care anymore. You need to stay away. Leave me alone.” She hugged herself, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked vulnerable. Nothing was going like Show thought it would—and he hadn’t thought it would go that great in the first place.
“No.”
“What?”
“I can’t leave you alone.” He couldn’t. He’d done a lot of thinking the last day or so.
“Well, that’s a lie. You left me alone just fine yesterday morning.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here. I’m sorry.”
“Good for you. Now go.”
“Shannon”—she reacted again to her name. Show didn�
�t know what to make of that. Still feeling a lingering buzz of the anger he’d felt when he’d come in and had seen that bastard with his hand on her ass, and needing her to fucking listen to him, he crossed the room and grabbed her arms. Her eyes narrowed as he approached, and she went stiff at his touch; he ignored it. He was done avoiding fights, done deferring just to keep things quiet. Done being half a man, living half a life.
“I’m not leaving. I came here to talk, and I’m not fucking leaving. I’m asking you to listen.”
“You’re not asking. You’re telling.”
He didn’t respond, except to tighten his grip on her arms a little. He was going to get his goddamn way.
After they stared at each other for several charged seconds, Shannon huffed. “Do you know who that guy was?”
He didn’t care, but she was talking and not insisting he leave, so he answered her. “Asshole with his hands where they shouldn’t be.”
“One of the Hollywood people. The photographer. You made a perfect first impression.”
That hadn’t occurred to him. Made sense in retrospect; he’d known they were coming. But it changed nothing. He’d have done the same thing knowing who the guy was.
She fought his hold again. “Will you get off me? Please?”
“You gonna sit and listen?”
With another huff, she said, “Fine. Make it quick, and make it good.”
Satisfied, he let her go, and she started to sidle around him, headed to sit behind her desk. He caught her—taking her hand this time. It was so small in his grip. For a second, he considered pulling her back and kissing her, leaving the talking for later.
“No. Over here, with me.” He pulled her toward the small couch. She came, but she made him pull her the whole way. When she sat, she tucked herself in the corner. He let her have that distance, some small space between them, as he sat, too.
Her regard was steady on him, brittle with anger and hurt. But she was quiet and waiting for him. Now, he had to figure out what to say. He’d had it ready, but he had not planned to come in tonight the way he had.
He cleared his throat and started, “I didn’t mean to leave you like that. I—”
Before he could get into the next sentence, she scoffed. “So, then, what? You got lost?”
“I am trying to tell you something, to explain. You gonna listen or not?”
Sitting back into the corner of the couch, she crossed her arms and gave him a well, go on, then look.
She’d meant it sarcastically, but she hadn’t been far off the mark. He’d been lost. They’d fallen asleep together, her body warm under his hand. He’d only dozed for a couple of hours, though, and then, before the dawn, he was awake, the whiskey cleared away, leaving his mind free to review the events of the night and realize that a door had been opened that Show had intended to leave sealed shut. That he’d needed to leave sealed shut.
He’d forced himself to stay in bed as long as he could, trying to work through his thoughts. That’s what he did—he thought things through. He paid attention, took in the information, and thought it all out. It was his job as Isaac’s VP—to be the one who saw the whole picture and kept reason in charge. Reason told him that he did not have the emotional fortitude to start something with Shannon. Shannon wasn’t the kind of woman you fucked. She was the kind of woman you loved. He’d thought that many times before, and he…just couldn’t. He couldn’t bind himself to a woman again. He’d loved Holly. Even when that love had turned mostly to guilt and pity and patience, he’d loved her. And that love had eroded him.
He’d lain next to Shannon knowing the truth of his limits, but wanting to touch her, to wake her, to take her again. Wanting it so much that it felt like…not love, but something that could become love.
That thought had driven him from the bed.
He hadn’t intended to leave, only to get some distance until his head settled. But he couldn’t get enough distance. So he rode. He rode all damn day, doing hundreds of miles, letting his head go and do what it would as the highway spooled out under him. No particular destination, just his head and the highway. When he was younger, before Holly, he’d ridden like that, all day, when he’d found himself feeling restless and broody. It had helped him get right with his world. He hadn’t ridden off by himself in years—he hadn’t ridden alone, just for the sake of it, the joy of it, in years. He’d lost the joy. In everything. Long before Daze. By the time he lost her, and then Rose and Iris, he’d locked himself down so damn hard, it hadn’t even occurred to him to just ride.
As he’d ridden, the deadwood began to fall away.
He’d stopped in the late afternoon at a little roadside place for a burger and a beer, eating outside on their scant patio, alone in the fall chill, watching the country traffic roll by on the highway. And he thought things through. What blame he deserved to carry—and what blame he did not. What he wanted. What he deserved. What he’d lost, and what he could keep. What he could gain. He’d always been the guy who made sense of things—for his family, his club, his town. He saw the road ahead of them, clearly and at some distance. But not his own. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even thought about where he was headed. Then, when he lost his family, when Daze was gone, he’d just stopped completely, feeling himself dying off in pieces but not caring.
He cared—that’s what he felt with Shannon, what had driven him from her in his bed. Not just that he cared about her, though he certainly did, but that he cared about himself. That vexing way she’d gotten hooked into his thoughts—that was him beginning to pay attention to himself. To be interested. To want. It scared the fuck out of him. Jesus God, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d let himself want anything, just for himself. He was almost fifty fucking years old, and, sitting at that dive diner by the side of a two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere, he’d finally seen his own road. What he wanted. Who he wanted.
By the time he’d gotten back to the clubhouse, it was late, and he was sore and exhausted. But his head was straight. It was clear. He’d gone to bed with an idea about what he wanted, and with a calm in his chest and head that was almost painful in its unfamiliarity.
The bed had smelled of Shannon. Of them.
He’d slept fifteen hours, deeply and, as far as he knew, dreamlessly. He woke with that same clarity and sense of purpose. He’d seen Isaac, who’d tried to talk to him about Shannon, but he’d brushed him off. He knew he’d fucked up. But he had every intention of making it better.
But how to say all that to her now, while she was glaring at him like he was shit on her shoe? He’d thought he’d figured that out, but then Blondie had gotten fresh, and he’d behaved in the way he was always pulling Isaac back from—emotion at the vanguard, brain pulling up the rear. Thinking about it even now made his fists clench. That proprietary way Blondie had swept his hand over her ass, like it belonged there. And the way she’d let it happen.
Nope. He’d do the exact same thing again. Brain didn’t factor.
She stirred, crossing one leg over the other and swinging it impatiently. “Is this explanation you have supposed to be conveyed telepathically or something? Am I supposed to be reading your mind right now?”
She got sassy when she was pissed. He liked it. Smiling a little, he said. “Working up to it.” He took a breath. “I’m sorry I left you alone.”
“You said that already. You’re not forgiven. If that’s all you have—”
“Woman, you need to shut up a minute.”
That made her eyes go wide, and she opened her mouth to say something. Something barbed, no doubt, but Show put up his hand. “You know what happened around here last year, about this time. I expect you’ve heard some about what happened with my family.”
That got her mouth shut. She nodded, and he forged on. “It’s not something I want to get into, but I lost a lot, and a lot of that was my fault. I couldn’t deal, so I…closed up shop, I guess.”
Needing a second to think about what to say next
, Show looked around her office. It was nice. Tasteful. Most of that was Lilli; she’d chosen the furniture and drapes and shit before she’d hired Shannon. Lilli had thought she’d manage the place. That woman thought she could do just about anything she set her mind to. She was probably right, in the long run, but he’d convinced her that, especially considering that she’d been pregnant at the time, hiring somebody who already knew how to manage a B&B was the really smart call.
Shannon had been managing the place for five months, so this office was fully hers. But there was nothing really personal in it. A couple of plants. But no photographs, no knickknacks. He found it odd. Sad, even.
“You closed up shop. Well, that’s fine, then. You told me you weren’t interested. Would have been nice if you’d left it at that, but it’s fine. We done?”
He turned back to her as she was moving to get up from the couch. He dropped his hand onto her leg, holding her in place. “No. I’m not finished.”
She stared down at his hand. He didn’t move it. When she lifted her face back to his, he saw that whatever thaw might have started when he’d brought up last year, he’d lost. Back to square one, then.
“I lied. I’m interested. That’s what I’m trying to say. I left because I needed to figure out what was going on between us, what happened that night. Not too proud to say it scared me a little, feeling again. I was riding before I even knew that I’d left you like that. I know what a dick move that was. And I’m sorry. I’m asking you to forgive me.”
“I don’t imagine you know what it’s like to have that happen. I deserve better.”
“Yeah, you do.” His hand was still hooked around her thigh; now, he stroked the length of it. She let him.
“What is it that you want from me? Forgiveness—yeah, I got that. But why? What does it matter?”
Into the Storm Page 10
