At Last

by Addison Fox

  Not that her date seemed remotely aware of her lack of interest.

  Pierce Summers was so into his retelling of his latest courtroom victory she was tempted to bust out a show tune or two just to see if she could shake his mind-numbing soliloquy. “My Favorite Things,” she thought, might do the trick. Raindrops on roses had already begun boring an earworm when the sound of a heavy tread had her turning in her chair.

  A flock of nerves took wing in her stomach as Nick Kelley moved past her table, his long strides swift and determined as he headed for the front door. She fought to hold back the small sigh of feminine appreciation—it wouldn’t do to make Pierce think it was for him—but she was helpless to stop the swift kick of lust that tightened her tummy.

  Nick Kelley had been tightening her tummy muscles—and several a few inches lower—since she was in high school. Fifteen years later, with a failed marriage under her belt, and the sure knowledge that professional athletes were not interested in quiet science types, it galled her to know nothing had changed.

  “What do you say we get out of here?”

  Emma keyed back into Pierce’s words—when had he stopped droning on about his case?—and fastened on her sweetest voice. Quiet, well-bred science types also didn’t like making anyone feel bad.

  “Thanks for the evening, but I should get going. I had an early day at work today.”

  “I thought your boss was more lenient than that.” His smile widened, and she wondered for a moment why there were no flutters in her stomach.

  Not a single one.

  Pierce was attractive. He had a good job and his mother had played bridge with her mother for years, so he was a known entity. There was nothing wrong with him.

  Yet despite his most assured pedigree, she couldn’t conjure up an ounce of interest.

  You’re cold, baby.

  She pushed down on the words, unwilling to let them take root in her mind. She’d lived with the criticism for too long—lived with the sure knowledge she wasn’t enough. Instead, she pasted on a smile she didn’t feel and did her best to respond to Pierce’s lame joke. “My father’s the biggest clock-watcher there is. And he doesn’t just expect me to be in on time, but earlier than him.”

  That megawatt smile didn’t dim. Instead Pierce pressed on, undeterred. “Set a second date, then. Tomorrow night?”

  “Um. Well, you know. With just getting back into town, I’m still dealing with boxes and moving stuff.”

  “On Saturday?”

  “Well, every day until things are in order.” Emma thought of her small one-bedroom and how she’d already put everything to rights, but said nothing. If he was buying what she was selling, who was she to argue?

  Pierce leaned forward and covered her hand with his. “I’ll call you then. We’ll figure something out.”

  She nodded and already imagined how she’d dodge his call, a series of excuses already filling her mind.

  And it was those very excuses—and the evidence of her old personality—that had fresh words spilling from her lips. “Thanks, really, Pierce. And I appreciate the lovely evening, but I don’t think we should go out again.”

  His smile fell. “I see.”

  “It’s been nice getting to know you better.”

  “Yeah. You, too.” He stood and was already reaching for his jacket when she realized they’d not paid their tab. She did some quick math and reached for her purse, determined to show him she could pay her way.

  When he made no move for his wallet, she gestured him on. “I’ll get this and I’m fine grabbing a cab.”

  “Have a good night, Emma.”

  “Yeah. You, too.”

  She diligently ignored the tight knot in her throat as she dragged a few twenties from her wallet. She would not watch him leave. Hell, she was relieved he was leaving, so there was no reason to get upset about it.

  Asshole.

  “You get rid of that loser?”

  Emma fought the hard laugh when she glanced up at their waitress. “Or he got rid of me.”

  “Bastard left you with the tab?”

  “I guess he figured he’d invested enough in a date going nowhere. Especially when I assured him there wouldn’t be a second one.”

  “Rat bastard.” The woman’s dark curls shook along with her nodding head. “Don’t worry about the bill. It’s on the house.”

  Emma glanced down at the bills—then back up at the grizzled smile—and handed over the cash. “Then this is yours. Thanks.”

  “Nah, sweetie. You keep it.”

  “I insist.” Emma foisted the bills off on her and stood, suddenly unwilling to stay a moment longer. Old memories snapped at her heels, and all she wanted was to get some fresh air and a cab. The fact that her latest humiliation had taken place in the middle of Nick Kelley’s bar was the icing on the cake of her monumentally shitty year.

  Purse in hand, she wended her way through the bar. People laughed and talked, flirted and kissed. Each person she passed added further insult to her disappointing evening, and Emma pushed through the thick wooden front door with one goal in mind.

  Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not—

  A heavy fist slammed into her eye, knocking her backward with the force of an oncoming F train.

  Her last thought as her legs went out from under her was that it looked like her monumentally shitty year wasn’t quite done with her.

  Chapter Two

  Nick moved on a heavy roar and dived toward the woman he’d watched all evening. His grab wasn’t clean, but he caught enough of her shoulders to cushion her and take the brunt of her fall.

  Hector’s war cry echoed in Nick’s ear as his bouncer wrestled the fuckwad who’d thrown the punch to the ground.

  “Are you okay?” Nick held tight to the bundle in his arms and tried to get a clear look at her. The slim shoulders fit precisely into the crook of his arm, and he quickly shifted his position to help her get her footing. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.” Her hands fluttered toward her head, her voice still a breathy whisper. Her body wobbled as her legs trembled, but she caught herself and straightened. “What just happened?”

  “You got the wrong end of a drunk.” He maneuvered her toward a bench he kept out front for customers who wanted to grab a smoke. The two men loitering there had already moved out of the way to give Nick some room.

  “You can say that.” That breathy whisper rose a few notches, and a distinct bloom of pink colored her pale cheeks.

  “Can you sit up?”

  “Of course.” She shot him a sideways glance before wincing in pain. “It’s staring I seem to be having the problem with.”

  She leaned back against the bench, her dark eyes slitted as if even the streetlights were too bright. Nick gave her a moment to compose herself, her long fall of blonde hair capturing his attention. He still had his arm behind her shoulders and the soft texture tickled the back of his hand, featherlight and smooth as silk.

  Once again, he tried to conjure up why she looked so familiar. He knew she wasn’t a local, or at least not one who patronized his bar, his gym, or Stewey’s Diner, which catered to damn near everyone in Park Heights.

  So who was she?

  “I’m Nick Kelley, by the way.”

  Those dark chocolate eyes opened a fraction wider and something like awareness flickered there before it vanished. “Emma Bradley.”

  Bradley?

  The name rolled through his mind and again he came up blank. He wasn’t familiar with a Bradley. He’d like to ask his mother, but a question about an unknown woman was akin to parading naked through Mama Lou’s kitchen wearing a neon sign and oh, hell no was he going to do that.

  But he would ask Tommy. His real estate agent knew everyone there was to know in the entire tristate area. And since they were meeting in the morning to go over Nick’s latest investment property, he’d pump his old friend for details, and have the added benefit of avoiding family scrutiny.

  “Do you have someone inside
I can get for you? Or someone I can call?”

  That same wince of pain filled her features, even though her eyelids never fluttered. “No.”

  No? “Where’s your date?”

  “Um. Well. He had to leave.”

  “And he left you here?”

  When she didn’t bother to acknowledge the comment, he pressed on. “Who the hell leaves their date behind?”

  Her eyes popped open before she could catch herself, her immediate cry indicative of how much pain the eye must be giving her. “I told him to.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.” A rush of surprise lit her eyes. “Nothing like that. It was just a boring date that wasn’t going anywhere.”

  “Then he was an asshole for listening to you. Least he could have done was see you home.”

  A heavy shout from Hector pulled Nick’s attention from Emma. The wildly swinging drunk hollering from Hector’s tight grip had Nick moving, cutting off whatever she was about to say. “Excuse me.”

  Nick gave that heartbreaking face once last glance before turning his full attention to the liquor-fueled drama unfolding a few feet away. The sidewalk had filled with interested onlookers and the owner in him knew it was good for business. Once the curiosity died down, those same onlookers would casually wander in for a round or two of drinks.

  But that same owner—the one with more common sense than greed—hated like hell he had a customer misbehaving like a demented animal. “What’s his problem?”

  Hector’s grip stayed tight—his linebacker’s physique as capable as it looked—as he restrained the struggling man. “I’d say he added something illegal to his cocktail. There’s no way you served him anything that would get him this out of control.”

  “And here I pegged Sazerac as tonight’s problem child.” Nick shook his head, then leaned forward and got as close as he dared to his wild-eyed patron.

  A ragged sneer was all he got for his efforts. “What the fuck do you want?”

  “I want to know what the hell you’re on and if you got it in my bar.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Hector’s bland gaze didn’t change, but he tightened his grip on the man’s arms.

  “Geez, Hec, don’t pop anything.”

  “Not like he’d feel it if I did.”

  The low mutter was classic Hector, and Nick laid a hand on his shoulder. “Cops are on their way. They’ll deal better with him if he’s got both his arms.”

  The big man bared his teeth, but Nick saw the noticeable loosening of his grip. “Shame.”

  “Definitely.”

  With that odd combination of distaste and patience born of long years of living with an addict, Nick leaned forward once more. “I’m going to ask you nicely one more time: Did you get whatever the hell you’re on in my bar?”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time, asshole?”

  Nick stepped away once more and pointed at Hector. “I reconsidered. You can rip his fucking arms off for all I care.”

  “Wait!” Whatever cocktail was coursing through the guy’s system wasn’t potent enough to fully beat Hector’s grip.

  “What now, boss?”

  “He’s going to apologize to the woman he slugged.”

  “I didn’t hit a woman.” The anger simmered down another notch as fear winked in the pinpricks of the man’s pupils.

  “That woman over there took the end of your fist.” Nick could see the angry red swelling around her left eye from where they stood. “And you’re going to say you’re sorry.”

  Hector perp-walked the guy in Emma’s direction, and Nick flanked him on the unlikely chance he might get loose. “Now apologize.”

  Emma fought the very real strain of mortification as Nick, some enormous guy with arms like The Rock, and the guy who’d hit her, towered above her. The urge to giggle filled her, but she knew if she let it out she’d be as likely to sob as laugh, so she held her breath and hoped it would pass.

  The whole night was like a bad dream.

  Or like the living nightmare that was living through a bad date in the middle of Nick Kelley’s bar and then having to admit that very fact to him. To the amazing and awe-inspiring Nick Kelley.

  He of the washboard abs, broad shoulders, and heartbreaking smile.

  “Sorry.” The Rock did something to the drunk guy’s arms because he hollered, which added considerably more sincerity to his originally muttered apology. “I’m really sorry for hitting you. I didn’t mean it.”

  The streetlamps reflected white off a sheen of sweat that covered the man’s face, quickly followed by the blue tinge of police lights. Whatever misery she felt wasn’t going to come close to what this guy was going to wake up with. She had a momentary pang of sorrow for his stupidity.

  And then she felt the tender skin around her eye socket and amended the thought.

  How the hell was she going to explain this to her father?

  He’d already harangued her for moving home, after spending the decade before berating her for leaving. She had no doubt when she told him things hadn’t worked out with Pierce that her father would suggest it was her fault.

  And was it?

  The devious thought drew her up short, and she straightened on the bench, curious to probe the depths of her subconscious for the answer.

  She wasn’t some simpering female who thought she was to blame for every bad thing that went wrong in her relationships, but even she had to accept her track record of late was embarrassingly poor. First Cole. Then the few uninspired dates she’d had in Chicago since her divorce. And now this evening with an old family friend.

  No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t generate any interest for the men who’d sat opposite her at an endless parade of dates set up by well-meaning friends.

  Nick Kelley’s long, powerful strides pulled her attention from her thoughts, and Emma had to admit she felt something there. His powerful athlete’s thighs were encased in worn denim and a black T-shirt fit snugly over his sculpted chest.

  Yep. Plenty of interest there.

  “Come on inside. I want to get some ice on your eye, and then I’ll see that you get home.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll just grab a cab. I’m only going a few blocks.”

  “I’m not your asshole date.” Before she could protest, he had her firmly by the elbow and was gently lifting her to her feet. “I’ll see that you get home.”

  “It’s no big deal. Really.”

  “Actually, it is a big deal.” He stopped and stared down at her, his impressive frame towering over her. “That eye’s already swelling shut. You need to put something on it, and you need to do it soon.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he ushered her back into the bar, through the same noisy crowd she’d rushed past in her haste to leave. Patrons still huddled in groups, lost in their conversations, but they all moved aside for Nick.

  With her good eye, Emma watched in fascination. The man commanded a room, the act so natural he didn’t even seem conscious of it. And so here she was, trailing along at his side, her protests out on the sidewalk ignored under the ruthless march of Brooklyn’s own version of a Greek god.

  She’d watched him of course. Had kept tabs on his college football career and then draft into the NFL. She’d made the mistake of telling Cole once that she’d gone to school with Nick. He hadn’t said much at the time, but her ex had found reasons to bring Nick’s name up on more than one occasion after that.

  Thank God you hadn’t mentioned that the two of you were lab partners in chemistry.

  She’d thought it at the time and wondered—more than once through the years—why she’d held her tongue. All she did know was that her instincts had kept her quiet when the realization dawned that the very fact she knew a man like Nick Kelley had intimidated her ex-husband.

  “Sit down and I’ll get the ice.” His voice pulled her from that distant memory, and Emma took a seat on an old, beat-up leather couch in the corner of Nick’s smal
l office. The couch took up most of the room. What space was left housed a small metal desk and a filing cabinet, both of which looked like they’d been minted around the time Truman was in office.

  While the urge to lean her head back and sink into the couch was strong, curiosity won out. She let her gaze wander the room, and took in the various items framed on the wall.

  A large photo of Nick and what she knew to be his two adopted brothers and adoptive mother, Mama Lou, dominated the wall space closest to the desk. The boys towered over their mother, each clad in a cap and gown in the magenta and gold of Park Heights High School. The joy of motherhood stamped itself on the woman’s features, and Emma braced for that quick stab of loss. It vanished almost instantaneously; it was impossible to be sad when looking at the vivid smile of love and pride that beamed from Louisa’s face as she stood dwarfed between Nick and Landon.

  Emma’s gaze drifted from the family scene toward a plaque bearing the words Heisman Trophy Finalist with Nick’s name scrolled in calligraphy underneath.

  The plaque reminded her again of Cole’s callous jealousy of a man he didn’t even know. A man she didn’t know, for that matter. A man who’d spent much of his life in the rarified air of professional sports and who had returned as the conquering hometown hero.

  Funny, she thought, they’d both returned to Park Heights after years away.

  Somehow, she didn’t think that was anything more than a strange coincidence.

  Nick juggled the bottle of Advil, a large bottle of water, and an ice pack in one hand, and a plate of brownies in the other. When he’d only stared down at the pile of dark chocolate gooiness Patty had thrust on him, she nodded knowingly. “Trust me. The chocolate’ll help take the sting out.”

  Since Emma Bradley looked like she hadn’t eaten in weeks, he wasn’t so sure of Patty’s wisdom, but he’d learned long ago not to argue with the woman who kept his bar floor running like a well-oiled machine.

  He juggled his way into his office and stopped short at the sight of Emma seated on his couch. The discoloration around her eye had turned an even brighter shade of red, if that were possible. Her eyes were closed as she lay back against the couch cushions, and he took a moment to look his fill.