Soaring (9781311625663)

by Ashley, Kristen

  She also barely spoke to me.

  And last, he had come charging out of a shop without looking where he was going. I was already on the sidewalk. I had right of way (according to me). And he was not going to blame me for breaking my bottle of wine.

  “Watch where I’m going?” I asked a man who was tall, dark and attractive, but he reminded me of my father.

  He was also gazing contemplatively at me as he lifted a hand and swept it toward the sidewalk. “My apologies. I broke your wine.”

  “You absolutely did,” I confirmed, stepping away from the spreading wine stain, not wanting it on my criminally awesome shoes, at the same time going into a squat to rescue the other bag.

  “Allow me,” he said, crouching beside me.

  “Thank you, but I’ve got it,” I returned coolly.

  “No, really,” he murmured and curled his fingers around my wrist, staying my movements, and at this unwelcome familiarity so soon in our acquaintance, forcing my eyes to his. “Allow me.”

  He wanted to do it?

  He could do it.

  I pulled away and straightened.

  He grabbed the handles of my good bag and transferred the items of the ruined one into it, setting it aside rather than lifting it and possibly breaking it due to its new weight.

  “I’ll go to Wayfarer’s, get another bag, replace your wine,” he offered. “Are you fine to wait with your other things while I do that?”

  Even though Wayfarer’s was the last place on earth I wanted to be, something about him made me decline his offer.

  “Again, thank you but I’ll do it.”

  “Please,” he pushed. “You were on your way before I crashed into you and I’d hate to think of the other bag breaking while you sort out something it was me that made you need to sort out.”

  He was right about that.

  “I’m in kind of a hurry,” I somewhat lied.

  He more than somewhat smiled. “Then I’ll be certain to hurry.”

  I sighed and decided discussing it with him would make this situation last even longer, not to mention mean I’d remain in his presence for longer, so I gave in by nodding.

  He kept smiling and nodded back.

  Then he sauntered off, appearing not in a rush at all and not bothering to ask me what the wine was he should be replacing.

  I stood on the sidewalk, hoping to all that was holy that Olympia and Martine wouldn’t walk out and catch me standing on the sidewalk looking like an exceptionally well-dressed, exemplarily-shod, fabulously coifed and made up daytime prostitute.

  This didn’t happen and within minutes, a checkout boy from Wayfarer’s dashed out with a bag. He also repacked my things. Another one came out as the first one was doing this. He had a dustbin and broom and cleaned up the broken bottle and wasted bag.

  They were both gone by the time the man came back with another Wayfarer’s bag, this one doubled against the obviously heavy contents inside that could not be a single bottle of wine.

  He approached me, again smiling. “Let me help you get this to the car.”

  “I’m able to carry it,” I replied.

  “As my way of an apology, I bought you four bottles of wine. It’s heavy.”

  Four bottles?

  I stared.

  “Your car?” he prompted.

  I again sighed and gave in.

  “This way,” I said and started walking.

  He fell in step beside me, doing this noting, “I haven’t seen you in Magdalene.”

  “No, you haven’t,” I confirmed.

  “I’m Boston Stone,” he shared and I looked up to him as I turned in front of him, causing him to stop then follow me as I moved toward the trunk of my car parked on the street.

  “Hello, Boston Stone,” I greeted because I had no idea what else to say.

  “You are?” he asked as I put the bags to the ground and touched the button on the trunk that would open it keyless.

  As it glided open, I opened my mouth, doing it uncertain if I’d share my name or continue to try to brush him off, but I didn’t have the chance to decide.

  I heard the word, “Babe,” growled from behind me.

  I turned and saw Mickey stalking our way.

  Not sauntering.

  Not simply walking.

  Stalking.

  And he didn’t look happy.

  “Mickey,” I called tentatively as a greeting, uncertain at his demeanor.

  I hadn’t seen him since he hadn’t seen me (I hoped) at the movies.

  He was in his firefighter-not-fighting-a-fire uniform of blue khakis and tee. His eyes were moving up and down my body. He still was unbelievably beautiful (that uniform…seriously).

  He didn’t greet me back.

  When he stopped, his gaze cut to Boston Stone and it went flinty.

  “You need somethin’?” he asked incomprehensibly inhospitably.

  “I was just helping this lovely lady with her groceries,” Stone responded.

  “I got it,” Mickey stated flatly and then he got it. As in, he carefully pulled me back, grabbed the bags I was perfectly capable of picking up myself and placed them in my trunk.

  He then went for the bag Stone was carrying, caught hold, but Stone didn’t let go.

  “I can put it in the trunk myself, Donovan,” Stone clipped.

  So they knew each other.

  “As I said, I got it, Stone,” Mickey clipped back.

  Yes, they knew each other.

  The handles flattened as they both kept hold and pulled.

  “Please!” I exclaimed. “We already had a wine incident. The sidewalk of Magdalene has been anointed with one red, let’s not anoint Cross Street with four.”

  Mickey instantly let go and stepped back, running into me but he didn’t apologize or move away.

  He stayed close, the back of his left side touching the front of my right.

  It was at that point I noticed Mickey gave off a lot of heat.

  Stone put the bag in my trunk, shut it and turned slowly to Mickey and me.

  But he had eyes on Mickey.

  “Are you two seeing each other?”

  “That’s your business how?” Mickey asked as reply.

  “It’s my business because, if you’re not, I’d like to request you leave so I can ask her to dinner,” Stone returned.

  My head jerked as my body locked in shock.

  “That’s not gonna happen,” Mickey growled.

  My body stayed locked in shock but that didn’t mean my eyes didn’t fly to Mickey’s stony-faced profile in more shock.

  “So you are seeing each other,” Stone remarked.

  “Again, not your business,” Mickey bit out.

  Stone’s expression turned shrewd. “And that’s something that would lead me to believe that the beautiful woman standing behind you is free to go to dinner with me.”

  “You forget English?” Mickey asked. “I already answered that too.”

  I butted in, “I think I can speak for myself, Mickey.”

  He moved nothing but his head (though his torso shifted an inch) so he could look down at me.

  His eyes were communicating again.

  This time they were communicating the fact that he really didn’t like Boston Stone.

  Considering what I knew of Mickey, this would be something that, along with my own natural aversion to Mr. Stone, would have made me decline the man’s invitation.

  Unfortunately, Mickey added words to his look so this didn’t happen.

  “You’re not goin’ out with this guy.”

  Was he being serious?

  He couldn’t tell me what to do. He wasn’t my father, my brother or my lover.

  Heck, he barely knew me!

  All he knew about me was that he didn’t want me. I was his…“attractive” neighbor who he now did not even walk over to beg recipes from (okay, so Aisling didn’t know of any other recipes I had, but whatever).

  He didn’t even return my email!


  And he was off with beautiful, statuesque redheads, smiling at them, taking them to movies.

  He couldn’t tell me who I could and could not see.

  “I’m not?” I snapped.

  “No,” he turned fully to me, an ominous fully. “You are not,” he enunciated each word clearly.

  “Sorry?” I asked sarcastically. “When did you become my big brother?”

  He was still enunciating clearly, and dangerously, when he stated, “I absolutely am not your big brother.”

  “No, you’re not,” I retorted, tossing my hair, which I hoped was shining in the sun. And with my hair toss, I further hoped my fabulous highlights caught the rays and gleamed. “You’re my neighbor. And if I want to go out with someone, you can’t say boo to the contrary.”

  “This guy is an asshole,” he bit off, jerking his thumb at Boston Stone.

  I felt my eyes get big and I got up on my toes, leaning into him, hissing, “That’s insufferably rude, Mickey Donovan.”

  “It isn’t rude if it’s the truth.”

  “You may think so but you don’t say it in front of the man in question.”

  “You do if he’s as big of an asshole as this asshole is,” Mickey shot back.

  My eyes got wider and I leaned closer. “Stop being nasty!” I demanded.

  “You been in town, what?” he asked then answered with another question he didn’t expect a reply to. “A coupla months? I lived here my whole life and trust me, I’m savin’ you from a load of misery, this guy gets interested in you,” he returned.

  I rocked down to my stilettos. “I am a big girl, Mickey. All grown up and everything. I do think I can make such decisions for myself.”

  “You do, and they’re not what I’m tellin’ you to do, you’d be wrong.”

  I glared at him.

  Then I pushed right past him, hand lifted and got in the space of Boston Stone.

  “Boston,” I said as he took my hand, grinning arrogantly and more than a little obnoxiously at me. “A belated nice to meet you. I’m Amelia Hathaway.”

  His hand tightened in mine as he murmured, “Amelia.”

  I pulled my hand from his, asking, “Do you know Cliff Blue?”

  “Of course,” he replied, inclining his head in a pompous way that actually was kind of creepy.

  “I live there,” I announced, doing another hair toss and powering beyond the creepy. “And I have plans this evening but I’m free tomorrow. Are you?”

  “I wasn’t,” he replied. “But I’ll be making a phone call and I will be.”

  “Excellent,” I decreed. “Seven?” I went on to ask.

  “I’d be delighted,” he said softly, his eyes dancing with humor and I could see that too was relatively malicious.

  I didn’t care.

  I’d go out with him once, just to stick it to Mickey.

  Then I’d be done with Boston Stone.

  And anyway, I had about seven new outfits that would be perfect for a date and I knew this even though I hadn’t been on a date in two decades.

  “I’ll see you then,” I said.

  “You will, Amelia.” He dipped his chin to me. “Looking forward to it.”

  “And me,” I replied.

  He gave me another arrogant grin then transferred it to Mickey.

  “Donovan,” he murmured.

  Mickey didn’t reply.

  Stone looked back to me. “Until tomorrow, Amelia.”

  “Yes, Boston. And please, feel free to call me Amy.”

  Mickey grunted.

  Boston smiled before he turned and sauntered away.

  I whirled on Mickey and tipped my head to the side. “See? All grown up and able to make decisions for myself.”

  “What I see is a pattern here,” he retorted unpleasantly.

  “Oh?” I asked with mock interest. “Do tell.”

  Then Mickey told.

  “First time I laid eyes on you, your ex was up in your face, cursing at you, threatening you, shouting right at you and acting like a total fucking dick. It’s obvious he’s rich and up his own ass and didn’t give a shit you were alone, and because of that, you probably felt unsafe. It was just as obvious you were lettin’ him use you as his punching bag. Even if no woman deserves the way he was speakin’ to you, he just kept right on punching. Now, you know that guy you just made a date with is a total asshole and you made that date anyway. So that’s your pattern. You open yourself up for assholes to shit all over you. And if that’s the way you like it, baby, then no way in fuck I’m gonna get in there to show you there’s another way.”

  Before I could retort, he turned on his boot and prowled away.

  I glared at him as he did it then jerked toward my car.

  I stopped dead because Olympia and Martine were standing at the sidewalk at the front bumper of my car.

  Martine was staring after Mickey incredulously.

  My baby girl was staring at me, her eyes big and shocked, her face ashen.

  “Honey,” I said softly, hurrying her way.

  “Dad shouted at you?” she whispered.

  I stopped at the curb. “He—”

  I got no further because Martine grabbed her hand and yanked her away, saying, “Let’s go, sweetie.”

  I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to stop them. But Martine clearly didn’t want to be stopped, and if I tried it might cause a scene.

  So I couldn’t stop them.

  Thus, powerless (as usual), I stood at the curb watching my daughter’s stepmom drag her away as she stayed turned, her eyes on me.

  I lifted my hand and waved.

  Martine pulled her into the street behind a parked SUV and I lost sight of her.

  I closed my eyes, drawing in a deep breath, and opened them, turning to my car.

  I got in and dug in my purse to get out my phone.

  When I had it, I texted my daughter.

  Just to finish, I texted, it wasn’t as bad as all that. I’m okay. Your father was just sharing the lay of the land after I arrived in Maine. It’s done with and I’m good. I love you, Pippa. See you in a couple of weeks and looking forward to it, honey.

  I sent the text then decided to send more.

  And it’s worth a repeat that those shorts really look cute on you, sweets, I typed in.

  I sent that and looked through my windshield, staring at a kid in a Wayfarer’s apron hosing down the wine stain.

  That just happened.

  A hysterical giggle burst out of me but it was short-lived as I swallowed it down.

  I couldn’t believe that just happened.

  First and foremost, what was the deal with Mickey and Boston Stone?

  Whatever it was, he was not going to use me to work it out.

  Sadly, I had stubbornly and definitely stupidly agreed to go out with a man who, with one look, I knew I wanted nothing to do with.

  Well, there was nothing for it now.

  And at least I’d get to wear a new outfit that it was unlikely I would wear anytime soon for the men were not beating down my door.

  Except Mr. Dennison, who clearly had a crush on me. But since he was eighty-eight and confined to a nursing home without access to a motor vehicle, I didn’t think we’d be able to get anything going.

  On that thought, having things to do, I decided it best to move on and do them.

  So I started my car, carefully backed out of my space and into the street, and did just that.

  * * * * *

  “I had a lovely time,” I shared with Boston Stone on my front step, looking up at him and hoping he didn’t try to kiss me.

  It was the next night.

  The night before, I’d had dinner with Josie, Jake and their kids (and Sofie and Connor were adorable together—young love, seemingly the real kind, something I’d never seen before but it was amazing).

  I did not share any of my Mickey-Stone-and-me stupidity with Josie because there was no need. I knew she was close to Mickey, I had a feeling that Jake was even
closer and I didn’t want to be talking about him behind his back with this friends.

  It would all be over the next night anyway.

  So I’d had a lovely night with the Spear family and then gone home.

  I’d gotten up and went to Dove House. I flirted with Mr. Dennison, listened to Mrs. Naigle telling me about her twelve great-grandbabies, found a pair of missing dentures in the cushion of an armchair in the lounge, assisted a staffer with a profoundly unpleasant situation that was the result of way too much prune juice, and avoided Mrs. McMurphy threatening to tell President Roosevelt about me.

  Then I’d gone out with Boston Stone.

  I’d been right. He was a man I wanted nothing to do with.

  He was also boring.

  Further, he was rich and he took every opportunity, including purchasing a four hundred dollar bottle of champagne for us to drink at dinner, to make certain I was aware of that.

  This was even more boring.

  And now, I really wanted the night to be over so I could go in, admire myself in my dress (which even I had to admit was fabulous) before I took it off and went to bed with a book.

  What I didn’t want was for him to kiss me.

  As was the way of my world, I didn’t get what I wanted.

  He leaned in and kissed me.

  It was short, not deep, and only included him curling a hand around my waist. His breath smelled of champagne and mint, which wasn’t all bad. And his lips were firm, which wasn’t all bad either.

  Last, he didn’t go for tongues, which was a definite relief.

  When he lifted his head, he said in a voice that I had a feeling was supposed to be sexy but missed the mark, “I’d like to see you again, Amy.”

  God, I should never have invited him to call me Amy.

  “Why don’t you call me?” I suggested, wishing, in all my boasting about being grown up, I was grown up enough to let a man I did not like down for any repeat dates face to face.

  He pulled slightly away but not far enough for me. “I will, if you give me your number.”

  Shit.

  Now I was giving him my number!

  Well, I’d successfully avoided my mother, who had my number. My best friend, who was alarmingly no longer using my number. And my father, who was rich enough to find commandos to track me down, kidnap me and bring me back to La Jolla to tie me to a chair and interrogate me about why I didn’t phone my mother.