At Last

by Addison Fox

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  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  For Jennifer Claybaugh

  Dear friend, wine confidant, and professional partner in crime. You put up with my (unceasingly bad) use of Snapchat, stubborn belief in the penny, and endless references to every John Hughes film ever made.

  I knew the day you told me you named your dog after a romance heroine we were destined to be friends.

  I’m so glad I was right.

  “Give me a woman who truly loves beer and I will conquer the world.”

  —Kaiser Wilhelm

  Prologue

  Brooklyn, 23 years ago

  Never fall in love with a married man.

  The words repeated themselves over and over in Louisa Mills’s mind, both a litany and a curse.

  It had been a month since she was summarily fired from her job with Reynolds Investments. A month without pay. Without a future. Without Kincade.

  She always had a plan. Had always prided herself on her lifelong ability to work toward a goal. She was one of the first female associates to make it into the inner sanctum at Reynolds and was only about a year away from making partner.

  And then she’d gotten caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Or maybe that was a friendly euphemism, her conscience rose up and taunted her, for hand caught down the boss’s pants. Either way, she’d made the choice. Had set herself up for this monumental fall, and she had no one to blame but herself.

  Except, of course, for Kincade.

  Although the discovery had involved both of them, she had taken the fall. And all she had left were memories, a severance package meant to hush her up, and an emerald necklace he said was hers to keep.

  Whore.

  That word whispered across her mind every time she thought of the necklace.

  She owned her affair and all that had come since, but the necklace . . . somehow she hadn’t quite come to terms with the payment. All she saw, when she dared to pull it from the bottom of her purse, was a payoff.

  So here she was, back in the Park Heights neighborhood she’d grown up in. Nothing had changed since she’d walked these Brooklyn streets as a young girl. The storefronts just looked older—shabbier, somehow—and the sidewalks more cracked.

  Just like her life.

  The crosswalk light changed and she exhaled with a heavy sigh. Much as she’d like a few more weeks to wallow in the small, one-room apartment she’d rented in the heart of Park Heights, she was nothing if not pragmatic.

  She needed a job. She’d saved a bit, but not nearly enough to continue paying for her Upper East Side apartment. She could only count herself lucky her lease renewal had come up the same week as her disgrace at Reynolds. She’d been on the fence about keeping up the apartment, thinking a larger place closer to Kincade’s home would be better, and hadn’t re-signed her lease yet.

  Now it was the one decision that had worked in her favor.

  Shep’s Martinizing came up on her right and she pushed through the front door. Old man Shepherd sat behind the counter, his dry cleaning days long past. His sons worked the back now.

  “Little Louisa Mills, how are you?”

  Louisa didn’t miss the still-sharp gaze, despite the rheumy brown of his eyes. “Good, Mr. Shepherd. I’m good.”

  “Dante tells me you’re back in the neighborhood. For good, I hope.”

  Although she had no doubt word of her failure had spread like wildfire, she had no intention—ever—of telling anyone she was basically unemployable on the entire island of Manhattan.

  Kincade’s wife, Gretchen, had seen to that.

  So she swallowed past the dismal truth and put a broad smile on her face. “I’m happy to be home.”

  “We’re glad to have you back.”

  That gaze sharpened even further and Louisa imagined herself shrinking before him.

  Did he know all of it? Had Gretchen’s influence somehow extended here, too?

  “I have need of your help, young lady.”

  She nearly laughed out loud at the idea of being young at thirty-six, but knew old habits died hard in the neighborhood. Mr. Shepherd was eighty if he was a day, and she supposed thirty-six still looked fairly young from his side of the desk.

  “What is it?”

  “I need you to do my books. My sons—bah!” He waved a hand. “They know nothing of taxes. Or numbers.”

  “But I’m not a bookkeeper, Mr. Shepherd.” She was a day trader and a damn good one. She’d managed billions of dollars in financial portfolios, for God’s sake.

  “You know numbers, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you do my books.” Old man Shepherd pounded his hand on the counter, then reached under it to pull out a ledger and a checkbook. “I’ll pay you now. In good faith for the first month.”

  “I haven’t said yes.”

  He steamrolled through the argument, and Louisa didn’t miss the avid stares that came from the back of the dry cleaner as his two youngest sons, Eddie and Steven, watched the exchange. “And when you finish here, you manage the finances for Dante’s restaurant. And my daughter’s convenient store.”

  She smiled at the butchering of Annie’s “convenience” store, but knew what he offered would keep her busy.

  And the check would go a long way toward calming her nerves at the lack of income.

  This job would tide her over and give her time to think of what to do next while keeping her mind busy. Some task—any task—would be more welcome than the constant berating she’d been unable to shake from her mind.

  “And now that you’re back in the neighborhood, you need a house. Mrs. Weston is selling her brownstones on Cherry Street.”

  “Why?” Intrigued, Louisa leaned across the counter. Mrs. Weston had owned her “brownstones” since she and her husband bought it after the war. The widow was getting up there in age, but Louisa had no idea why Mrs. W. would want to sell it instead of passing it on to her children.

  “Go see her. She tell you all about it.”

  Within minutes, Louisa was on her way, her arms full of the business suits that she used to wear like armor. Her favorite—a power suit in vivid red—sat on top of the pile, a colorful reminder of what she used to have.

  Whether it was the mocking reminder of who she used to be or the equivalent of challenging a bull with a red cape, Louisa didn’t know. But as she left Shep’s, she turned right instead of left and headed for Cherry Street. For the first time since Kincade had given her the necklace, it didn’t feel like a lead weight in her purse.

  In fact . . . it might just be her ticket to a future.

  A loud shout as she turned onto Elm pulled her from her thoughts, and she caught sight of three boys huddled together on a busy playground. She didn’t stop, not wanting to seem odd by staring at children who couldn’t be more than about ten playing at recess, but something in the set of the three, separate from the others, captivated her.

  She slowed even further, almost unaware of doing so, until she stumbled on the plastic of her dry-cleaning bag. She managed to keep herself from falling, but the bag fl
ew from her hands, tossing up a cloud of dirt as it landed in the patchy grass along the sidewalk.

  With a soft curse, she bent to pick up the suits. Irritation speared through her stomach as she saw several of the suits now bore brown dirt stains through torn plastic. While she might not have need of them at the moment, she certainly didn’t want them ruined.

  Muttering to herself, she gathered up her clothing and caught sight of the boys staring at her as she regained her feet. Large, solemn eyes caught hers, and she followed each boy’s stare in turn, something tugging deep inside of her as she looked at each of them.

  The smallest finally spoke. “You okay, lady?”

  She couldn’t have held back the laugh if she’d tried. Was she okay? With her life in ruins and her goddamned future right back where she’d started?

  Without warning, the laughter sprouted tears and she began sobbing, right there on the sidewalk in front of Park Heights Elementary.

  In front of three small boys who couldn’t be more than nine or ten, but who had the most somber eyes she’d ever seen. Old eyes.

  Somehow she knew each of those pairs of eyes had seen things a child should never see.

  The largest of the three—who’d remained silent and still throughout the exchange—hopped up from the small circle they’d been sitting in, a dandelion in his hands. He crossed to the fence and stuck the flower through the chain.

  “Here.”

  She took the flower—weed, she well knew—and held it up. Her fingers brushed across his for the briefest moment and she marveled at the strange sensation that shimmered over her spine before gripping her tight. “What’s this for?”

  “It’s for you.”

  And then the little imp turned and ran back to the other boys, who were already on their feet. Once the third reached them, they all ran toward a woman blowing a whistle to signal the end of recess.

  Louisa stood there and watched, not sure why she was so captivated by the trio, but unable to look away. But at the last minute, just before the boys filed back in the school doors, the tallest one turned around to look at her. He flashed her the most heartbreaking smile and waved.

  As she lifted her hand, that feeling shifted once more, this time deep inside, to squeeze her heart.

  And in that moment, she sensed her future was about to change in ways she’d never imagined.

  Chapter One

  The first thing he noticed was her legs.

  Some men—most men, he quickly corrected himself—were breast men. Others liked asses. Even more were suckers for a red-hot pair of lips. While he enjoyed every part of a woman, he’d been a leg man since his twelve-year-old self had stayed up late one night, sick on the couch, and watched Julia Roberts strut her stuff down Rodeo Drive in a microscopic miniskirt and tank top in Pretty Woman.

  Nick Kelley ran a hand over his stomach and fought the rising sense of interest. He’d watched the woman—who was she?—fake smile her way through her date’s dumb jokes, flirty smiles, and chair position that continued to move closer to hers.

  Those killer legs were crossed, visible past the wooden legs of the table, topped off by what he fondly thought of as fuck-me heels. His mother would have smacked him in the head for that one—some thoughts were meant to be kept private for a reason—but he did his imagined penance by shifting his gaze to her face.

  He’d looked at her when the pair had walked in, quickly cataloguing the fact he’d never seen either of them, before he’d amended the thought on the woman. She did look familiar, and it had nagged at him for the last hour why he couldn’t place her.

  He knew she hadn’t been into the End Zone before, so why was he so convinced he knew her?

  Long blonde hair waved down her back, and she wore a prim sweater set over a black pencil skirt. She was more librarian than bombshell, but hell if he wasn’t fascinated all the same.

  As her uninterested brown eyes measured her date’s chair when it shifted another notch closer, Nick refocused on his work.

  Not your problem, he mused to himself as he continued to build his final Guinness for the young financier he’d overheard bragging to his friends about his recent business trip to Dublin. The kid was buying and Nick pulled a pretty penny for the beers, so it was all in a night’s work.

  And hell, everyone wanted bragging rights to something at twenty-five. He wasn’t even ten years past that mark, but he remembered the time well.

  Finishing up the last build, he added the tab to the kid’s credit card and passed down the beers, satisfied to watch the lot of them—all in their Friday suits—traipse their way toward a knot of well-dressed young women.

  Laughter and conversation echoed throughout the bar and that subtle lightness that meant summer was on its way hovered in the air. Memorial Day weekend was a week away, and he’d heard more than one conversation about reservations on the Hampton Jitney or houses down the Jersey Shore.

  After he’d left Brooklyn for the NFL, he’d never have believed it, but Park Heights had come back, in a big way. What had been a crumbling old neighborhood had been reborn, as Manhattan’s young workforce tumbled over the bridges to live and play.

  Hell, even his place was a story of bringing something back to life. The End Zone’s former owner, Chili Samuels, had practically gifted him the crumbling structure five years earlier. Although the old man had claimed it was because they went way back—Nick’s father having dragged him into Chili’s establishment through much of his youth—Nick knew better.

  Other than great bones, the bar formerly known as Sam’s Place was nothing more than a dive, and Chili wanted nothing more than to get out from underneath it. Nick and his brothers had gutted the place practically down to the studs, then rebuilt everything from the ground up.

  “We’re hot tonight.” Patty, his chief barmaid, sauntered up to the counter. Fifty if she was a day, her dark corkscrew curls hid a brain that could calculate a bar tab and tip at twenty paces, all while keeping exact count of how many drinks she’d served to each of her patrons.

  “Yet you manage it like a pro.”

  “Darlin’, I’ve been serving drinks since before I could have one myself. Nothing ruffles me.”

  “Music to my ears.”

  She grinned and patted her hair. “And yuppies with shiny credit cards, ordering high-end drinks, are music to mine.”

  Nick shot her a wink, took her order for table twenty-five—refills he’d already committed to memory—and set about pouring wine and mixing a Sazerac. As he worked, his gaze drifted from the age-old dance going on with the young bucks and worked its way around the room in a steady progression.

  He’d had the skill young and had further honed it during his years playing football. That ability to look, retain, and assess in rapid order. It was a quarterback’s bread-and-butter—the only way to ensure nearly every pass didn’t end up in your opponent’s hands—and he was damn good at reading his progressions.

  Whether a natural skill or one he’d quickly developed because of his old man he didn’t know, but he had it.

  His gaze settled once more on the blonde librarian, and he fought the nagging sense of familiarity that kept chewing at him. Was she a friend of one of his brothers? Although it seemed unlikely Fender would date a woman as buttoned up and polished as this one, Landon might know her. Was she one of his brother’s geek goddesses Nick had somehow forgotten?

  “You got my Sazerac, Nicky?” Patty tossed a glance over her shoulder before lowering her voice. “The natives are restless tonight.”

  “You know this one takes some time to make.” He nodded toward a glass already coated with Herbsaint before returning his attention to the bitters that finished off the drink.

  “He’s so loaded he won’t notice if you skip the two-glass routine. Hell, he won’t notice if you just give him a glass of whiskey and be done.”

  “You know who has his keys?”

  “Already overheard his friend telling him this was the last round and that the car s
ervice was scheduled for ten.”

  Nick glanced at his watch—estimated the guy could still do himself a fair amount of harm in the next thirty minutes—and eyed Patty. “See that Hector follows them out, will you?”

  “You got it.”

  “And send out two plates of potato skins on the house. It won’t sober him up, but it may slow him down a bit.”

  “Will do.”

  Nick handed over his masterpiece and reset the ingredients for the Sazerac on the back wall of the bar. He was a good bar owner—he didn’t rip off his patrons and he tried to watch out for their dumber choices—but he couldn’t fix how they’d feel the next morning.

  As he turned back to face the room, Nick gave himself a moment. The bar was hopping tonight, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the view. This was his. The bar he’d built from scratch, sprouted from the seeds of professional football, after the actual dream of playing was ripped away from him.

  This was good. Real and as solid as the teakwood under his fingertips.

  And, in the five years since he’d opened the bar, it had become his new dream. One built as neatly with muscle and bone, sweat and labor, as football had been.

  His gaze stopped once more on the pretty woman who’d captivated his attention all evening, her body language showing increasing disinterest. Her date’s chair had moved even closer, and Nick toyed briefly with heading over to say something to lighten the mood until a shout from the front door snagged his attention.

  “Yo, boss!” Hector nodded toward the door and lifted a thumb. His head bouncer didn’t often ask for help, and Nick muttered a curse before he took off at a quick clip through the bar.

  The sense of pride that had filled him as he gazed over what he’d built shifted, then swelled into something more.

  This was his bar. His space. His rules.

  And he protected what was his.

  Emma Vandenburg Bradley shifted in her chair once more and tried to keep any note of encouragement from her words, facial expressions, or body language.