With a wave to Denise, she headed into the kitchen to wait for Del.
Her kitchen was ghostly still, sunlight sifting through the high windows and sparkling off the stainless steel. Tiny motes spun in the air currents, stirred by the constant hum of the overhead fans. The fridge buzzed to life, and for a moment, she stood by her workstation with her head bowed. She couldn’t claim Due South as hers any longer. Not when she was prepared to cut the apron strings.
The back door creaked open, and tiny hairs on her nape rose to attention.
Del had arrived. That her body still knew him, still craved his touch, still almost disobeyed her brain’s order to not go running into his arms, emphasized how deeply she’d fallen.
Silly girl.
She turned to face him, her chin angled high. Kind of fitting this conversation would happen in the place where it all began.
Del filled the doorway, still clenching the doorknob, dressed in his black pants and chef’s jacket, looking professional and ready for action. Good. Maybe if she could focus on being professional, she’d make the tingly, weak feeling spreading through her body disappear. A ray of sunlight drew out the golden tones in his brown hair, which was rumpled as if he’d run his fingers through it. The same way she had—over and over—when he’d kissed her to a melted puddle of goo.
So much for professionalism.
“Dad says you’ve been offered a job in New York,” he said.
Shaye leaned a hip against the counter, the cool stainless steel seeping through her skirt’s thin fabric and centering her. “Yes.”
His eyebrows rose. “Have you accepted it?”
“Not yet. I’m still making a list of pros and cons.”
A dimple appeared in his cheek, as if a smile lurked just out of sight. “Lists, huh? Should’ve guessed. What did your family say?”
She folded her arms. “I haven’t spoken to them yet. I’m capable of making my own decisions, and I’m sure my family will accept whatever I think is right.”
Wow. That sounded stiff and defensive. She made an effort to relax her muscles, but nope, tension continued to zip through her at Del’s steady and unreadable gaze. Damn the man’s poker face.
“Is the New York job what you want?”
Twenty minutes ago, while scrolling through the travel agent’s website, she’d been ninety-nine percent positive she did want it. She’d flicked through some old e-mails from her graduating class—little snippets and photos of their lives in Auckland, Sydney, and a couple who now worked in London. Here she lingered, treading water in Oban, unemployed and hopelessly in love with a man who didn’t love her. At least, love her enough to share with her the part of him that’d been broken and hurting.
Yet each second she stared into Del’s clear blue eyes, her ninety-nine-percent-sureness scrolled downward like a stopwatch in reverse.
Make a decision, Shaye. Make a goddamn decision, see what he says.
“Yes. It’s what I want.”
A muscle twitched once in his jaw then stilled. He nodded, his gaze never leaving her face. “Then you’re right. Your family will support you, but they’ll miss you, too.”
Er, wasn’t Del supposed to say, “Don’t go baby, because I’ll miss you?”
Shaye frowned. “No more than your family will miss you when you return to LA.”
Del crossed to the counter where she leaned and stood facing her. “I’m done with LA, I’m staying here. This is my home now.”
Her pulse leaped from a dull thud to a jarring throb. Hope. Ohmigawd. “But you hate Stewart Island, ass end of the world, remember? And what about Ward On Fire, if you make it to the finals?”
He lifted a shoulder, his chef jacket clinging to the hard muscles beneath.
Don’t think about what’s under his jacket. Don’t you dare remember how amazing he smells and the feel of his stubble-roughened skin when you kiss that spot under his ear.
“There’s nothing in my contract saying I have to accept a place in the finals, so I won’t.”
Well, fuck a duck, as her big sis would say. Life sure had a narky sense of humor and ironic timing. She’d secretly hoped for weeks Del would change his mind and stay, and now he had. Just when she’d been offered a job of a lifetime.
But Del…staying at Due South?
No, she couldn’t look at the world through rose-colored glasses anymore. Del had taken one issue—the issue of him returning to the States—out of the equation, but it didn’t mean they’d removed the other, more important hurdle out of their path.
“Del,” she said softly. “What Ethan said last night…about your drinking”—she sucked in a deep breath—“I’d like to hear what you have to say now.”
“Do you really need to hear how fucked up I was?” His lips curved in a cool twist, which masqueraded as a smile. “How I was a mess for months after Lionel died—drinking almost every night, staggering into work the next day hung-over or still half pissed, hiding it from the head chef as long as I possibly could? Then how my life fucking imploded after Jessica nearly drowned?”
Two quick steps forward and he gripped her upper arms. “I was selfish, blindly ambitious, and yeah, a drunk. The kind of man you would’ve justifiably hated. Nothing mattered to me but getting wasted and getting laid. But I haven’t had more than a couple of beers at a time since I’ve been back—West’s wedding was the exception. I’m not that guy anymore. Do you believe me?” He dropped his hands from her arms and slid them around her waist, looking down at her with clear, guileless eyes.
“I believe you.”
And she did believe him. In some ways, he was unrecognizable as the man she’d met on the ferry.
“What’s between us is more than amazing sex—a lot more, and you know it,” he said.
Shaye’s eyelids stung, so she closed them—accomplishing nothing more than heightening her other senses. Her nose filled with his cologne, her ears with a thunderous heartbeat, and her fingertips tingled as she slid them over the crisp cotton of his jacket.
Hands cupped her bottom, pressing her intimately into him. She gasped, and he kissed her—a deep, wet kiss that unraveled her resolve. Unable to help herself, she rubbed against him like a cat.
Del groaned, a harsh sound vibrating through his chest. He pulled away, dropping hot kisses along her throat. “Baby, you’re more addictive than anything on the top shelf.”
Words the equivalent of an ice bath.
Shaye jerked, every muscle going rigid. She’d let him hypnotize her again, drag her under with his talented mouth, making her forget all the reasons why she and Del Westlake wouldn’t work.
Shaye shoved his chest—hard. He stumbled back, eyes still hooded with leftover passion. As her breath heaved in and out, his gaze sharpened.
“Unfortunate choice of metaphor, huh?” He shoved a hand into his hair. “Shit. Look”—the laser beam of his intense stare sliced through her—“I’m not like your father. I won’t cross the line into alcoholism; there are too many people here who’d kick my ass before letting that happen.”
“You’re saying you’re accountable? To your father and brother? To Ben? Ford?”
“Sure.” His eyes cut left then returned, but he didn’t meet her gaze.
“You haven’t told them how bad things were for you in LA, have you? Just like you didn’t tell me—I had to overhear you telling Ethan. You didn’t trust me enough to share that part of your life”—she sucked in a ragged breath at the guilt on his face—“and you knew, right back at the beginning, that your past would push my emotional buttons. But instead of being completely honest with me, you chose to keep me in the dark.”
Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them away. “Do you really think so badly of me, Del? That I’m so judgmental, that I wouldn’t feel any sympathy for what you’ve been through and how hard you’ve fought to change?”
“I don’t think badly of you—you’re making too big a deal about this.” He took a step toward her.
Shaye bac
ked up, slowly shaking her head. “It’s a big deal to me, and I’m sorry you can’t understand why it’s a big deal. My father died because he was ashamed and hid his struggles from the world. When things got tough for you in LA, you didn’t talk to anyone. You opted to turn to a bottle, and in your own words, your life imploded.”
She held up a hand to ward him off. “So, what if, God-forbid, your dad doesn’t make it through a kidney transplant? How will you cope with the sort of shit life can throw at you if you won’t let me or anyone else get close enough to you to share that load?” Her throat clogged, but she gamely swallowed. “Let the people who love you help you, Del.”
He jammed his hands into his pants pockets and glared. “I don’t need anyone’s help or a fucking intervention, goddammit. I’m not one of your stray charity cases. I’m trying to figure out how to make us work.”
“You’re not listening. We won’t work because you can’t admit there will be times when your bad-ass self isn’t enough to deal with shit alone.” She arched her chin and looked him dead in the eye. “I love you, you big jerk, but how can I stay here when you shut me out? When you won’t let me, the woman who bloody loves you, stand with you when you need it?”
Del’s jaw sagged, and his eyes widened. The only sounds in the kitchen were the hum of the refrigerator and the pounding in her ears.
Oh, cinnamon-freaking-sticks. She’d told him she loved him, and ohgodohgodohgod, he just stared and said nothing.
Del’s mouth snapped shut, and his eyes turned flinty.
“Then go, cupcake.” He swept a dramatic hand toward the door, a tight, sardonic smile on his lips. “Go to New York and take it by storm. Maybe you’ll even find your Mr. Perfect there, since I can’t possibly measure up.”
A voice outside the kitchen grew louder, but Shaye’s feet stayed glued to the checked linoleum. The swinging doors blasted open, and Fraser sauntered in, phone clamped to an ear.
“—And I was all, ‘Yeah, whatever, dude’—oh.” Fraser skidded to a halt, his gaze flicking between them. “Oops.” He moved to scuttle back out.
“It’s fine, Fraser. I’m leaving,” she said.
As Shaye hurried around the counter, Del’s Converse sneakers squeaked on the floor.
His clipped voice rang out from the far side of the kitchen. “Fraser, off the fucking phone. Ethan’s due in fifteen minutes, and I want the floors mopped again.”
The hope he’d prevent her leaving to tell her he loved her, and that they’d work their problems out together, died a fiery death. Shaye threw herself through the swinging doors.
Decision made, then. She’d ring Ethan to accept his offer. He’d promised to take care of everything, so she’d book a one-way flight to New York in three days’ time.
Three days. Seventy-two long hours to figure out how to excise Del from the pieces of her broken heart, permanently.
Chapter 21
Ten days later…
So…his life had come to this.
Del sat on his deck and fed Bird-Brain his daily peanut fix, staring at the ocean. All nine thousand miles of it, stretching between him and Shaye.
The waves hissed and tumbled, the kaka squawked and flapped his wings, and Del kept firing glances at the six-pack sitting on the step beside him. The same beer his father brought over nearly three weeks ago. The same beer that had sat untouched in his fridge, to prove to himself he didn’t need it.
Didn’t need anyone’s help to remain stone-cold sober.
Del scrubbed a hand over his face. Closed his eyes. Felt his ribs contract as he pictured Shaye the last time he’d seen her at Due South. He hadn’t attended her thrown-together going away party or shown up at the airport farewell to see off her and Ethan’s crew.
Fucking coward that he was.
He’d copped an earful from West and Piper when they’d returned from their honeymoon. Didn’t matter he’d almost bitten his tongue in half to prevent himself from begging Shaye to stay. Didn’t matter that after hearing she wanted the job, he’d gotten the hell outta the way so she could follow her dreams. Did he get any credit for it? No. Just sad-eyes from Piper and a clip on the head from his brother. He’d walked away from the pair of them before he’d tackled West to the ground like they used to do as kids.
Yeah, pride had shoved a red-hot poker up his ass when Shaye nailed him about his inability to ask for help, and he’d reacted like a typical hothead male telling her to go. He groaned—and freaking suggesting she find her Mr. Perfect in New York? Moron.
But dammit…he’d still done the right thing.
Bird-Brain flapped his wings, dropped to the deck beside Del, and waddled over in the kaka’s peculiar gait. The bird nudged Del’s elbow, looking for more peanuts.
“Sorry, buddy.”
The chink of beak on aluminum jerked him out of his daydream.
“Hey!”
Bird-Brain squawked and flew up to the railing. Del stared at the cans, the cool sides the right circumference to fit in a man’s hand. The beer would be icy cold and just the thing to ease the raw burn in his throat. And hell, if six tinnies didn’t do the trick, there was always the top shelf in Due South—since he would be, after all, part owner of the place soon.
Del lurched to his feet. Bird-Brain screeched and took off into the bush behind the house. He snatched up the beer and glared at the cans.
Was this the path he’d chosen?
With or without Shaye, was he that guy now? The one who kept promising to get his shit together—just a couple more beers first. The guy who stayed at home with Jack Daniels, lounging in the dark with the TV tuned to endless cooking shows, hurling vitriol because, hey, he used to be a goddamn chef, you know. Would he someday be the embarrassing uncle to his brother’s kids, the one who arrived drunk to family events, until no one wanted him around?
Del popped all six tops off the cans and upended them over the sand at his feet. Then he tugged his phone out of his pocket and texted West.
Was he that guy?
Hell-fucking-no.
An hour later, Del sat at his dad’s dining table with his mom, dad, brother and new sister-in-law surrounding him.
“This better be frickin’ life or death,” grumbled West. “It’s not even half seven.”
Piper nudged West’s arm. “Haven’t I taught you anything? You don’t bitch at a family meeting.”
“Now, now, lovebirds,” said his mom, bringing over a tray of mugs. “Let Del explain.”
Eight pairs of eyes lasered in on him. How the hell was he supposed to start?
Hello, my name is Del Westlake, and I’m trying bloody hard not to become an alcoholic?
His knee bounced, the vibration making his chair creak. Forcing his leg still, he took a breath, his lungs feeling like perished rubber sticking together.
“Here’s the thing. I have a problem. With alcohol. I need…” His throat closed, and he swallowed twice before he could continue. “I need your help.”
He looked from his father to his brother, expecting condemnation—to his mom and Piper, expecting disappointment.
Bill spoke first, reaching across the table to cover Del’s hand. “Whatever you need, son. You’ll get it.”
West clapped him on the shoulder. “Anytime,” he said quietly. “Night or day. I’ll be there.”
His mother, seated next to Bill, stretched over and squeezed Del’s other hand. “What your dad said, honey.”
Piper, on the other side of West, watched him with her Harland eyes, almost a carbon copy of her younger sister. She said nothing, her cop-face fixed on—the one she would’ve used in the city dealing with drunks and druggies on a regular basis. His sister-in-law was razor sharp, he’d give her that. She’d have immediately seen what had been the final nail in the coffin between him and Shaye.
Piper stood and gestured him to his feet. He got up—this would be where she kicked his ass in real time for letting Shaye go. Before his imagination ran wild any further, Piper covered the few steps
to stand in front of him. Her cop-mask slipped, exposing the slight sheen of tears.
“This,” she said, sliding her arms around his waist and hugging him so tightly it felt as if she cracked a rib, “is from me.” She kissed his cheek. “And this is on behalf of my little sister, who I bet you loved enough to let her go to New York.”
Of all the things that changed him since he’d returned to Stewart Island, falling in love with Shaye Harland had altered him down to his very DNA. He wasn’t the same soulless, husk of a man who’d left LA all those weeks ago. Shaye brought the real Del back, layer by layer, her gentle touch like a master pâtissière creating tiramisu.
He wasn’t the same, but Shaye was right. He needed to let her in—all the way in, and trust that their strength together could repair both their broken parts.
“No, I let her go because I’m an idiot. But I do love your sister. I love Shaye.” The words spilled over the smile peeling back his lips, and he wrapped his arms around Piper and squeezed.
Piper beamed then leaned in closer to whisper in his ear, “Give her a reason to come home then, Hollywood.”
***
3 weeks later…
She’d had visions of snowflakes falling between towering skyscrapers, of catching a Broadway show, and hailing a yellow cab with a whistle. Of plating meals on premium-grade china and being so busy she wouldn’t miss Del Westlake. Not even for a single New York minute.
Hah!
Shaye avoided a clump of greying bubble-gum as she navigated the steps out of the Lexington/59th subway, crushed between a charcoal-suited businessman snarling into his phone and a teen grooving to the tinny music blasting from his headphones. Another day, another subway ride on the E train from her tiny apartment in Queens. Another freezing walk down slush-covered sidewalks. Another opportunity for touts to hassle her or shoppers and tourists gawking at Bloomies’ window displays to get in her way.
A walk sign buzzed green, and Shaye crossed with the flow, a good little lemming. Now, of course, all the stores were decked out for the holiday season—each one more impressive than the next. The lights, and colors, and constant honking hurt her head.
Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3) Page 29
