At Last

by Addison Fox

  Comments erupted around the table, and Landon took that opportunity to lean over and whisper in her ear. “We’re kind of like the Borg.”

  “The what?”

  “Sorry. Star Trek reference. I basically mean we assimilate you into whatever it is we’re doing, whether you like it or not. Tonight it’s fried chicken. Tomorrow night it’s apparently a group outing for baseball.”

  “It’s . . . welcoming?” When Landon only smiled, she added, “We have plenty of tickets. Scarlett was very generous with her invitation.”

  “Maybe you don’t want to take this motley crew.”

  Emma had put the invite out of her mind, but now that Nick had brought it up, Landon had a point. Scarlett’s invitation had been rather expansive, but did she want to spend another night in Nick’s company?

  She could invite her father, make him see the benefits of cementing a relationship within the community. But even that filled her with a strange dread she couldn’t shake. What if he misbehaved? Or worse, flat-out gave up and told Nick he was ready to sell? Her deal was based more in spirit than an official contract, and if her father wanted to be stubborn, he could probably find a way to railroad a deal through.

  Would Nick take it? And would she blame him if he did?

  So make your own deal.

  The thought whispered, empowered by Louisa’s encouragement in the kitchen. Could she do it? She had the skills Nick needed to run the Unity. Her investment in a degree from Siebel—achieved over Cole’s considerable protest—had set her up for success. And she already had the benefit of knowing the business. It wasn’t what she truly wanted—working for the family business instead of owning and running it—but it was an option to consider.

  Even if it was the very epitome of compromise.

  Hadn’t she sworn she was done with settling for her future? Wasn’t she well-and-truly done with giving someone the opportunity to gain an upper hand over her and her life?

  The fact she was even considering a compromise filled her with raw, panicky dread. The desire to escape grew to an insistent drumbeat in her chest; the need to flee rose to near brute force.

  “I appreciate the invitation this evening, but I should be going.” Emma diligently avoided Nick’s gaze. She’d make her excuses, keep a congenial smile in place, and get out of the too-pretty house filled to the brim with laughter and familial support and home cooking.

  Her departure set the table in motion, and in moments, she had leftovers in hand and had received a round of good-bye hugs. It was only as she hit the door, that damnable smile still firmly in place, that she felt a hand settle low against her back.

  With a glance over her shoulder, Emma nearly bumped into Nick, so surprised to see him behind her.

  “What are you doing?” And why was he so hot? Heat consumed her, the warmth of his body branding her from behind as he reached around her for the front door.

  “Walking you home.”

  “I’m good. It’s not that far.”

  “Then it won’t take me very long.”

  The hand that had settled on her back pushed her gently forward, out onto the wide stoop, then Nick gestured her down the stairs. It was only as she stepped onto the sidewalk, the warm, evening air wrapping around her, that Emma finally understood the real danger.

  No matter how badly she wanted to fight it, she’d loved spending the evening with his family. Had loved sitting down to a meal. And had loved staring across the table, practically drunk on his electric-blue eyes.

  For a woman who’d shut down her heart years ago, it was humbling to realize Nick Kelley had sprung the lock as neatly as any thief.

  Chapter Twelve

  Although his temper could flare quick as a spark, Nick had never been all that good at holding a bad mood. He usually shook off an unpleasant moment as fast as it came, moving on. For some reason tonight was different.

  Something about the night’s conversation had taken those burning embers of ire and temper and mellowed them into a cloudy haze. He wasn’t ready to let Fender fully off the hook, but did have to give his brother some credit. He’d rather his mother heard any and all gossip from them as opposed to the neighborhood, and Fender had defused any concerns with his quick thinking.

  Which he would never tell the self-righteous bastard, or he’d risk never hearing the end of it.

  The evening was clear, hints of summer swirling in the air, the breeze going a long way to clearing out the clouds in his mind as Emma walked beside him. It was almost Memorial Day weekend. The official kickoff to summer, and what should have been a personal milestone. He’d believed he’d be the owner of the Unity by now. The deal should have gone through and he should have been preparing for the final transfer of paperwork.

  Instead he was learning the ropes and increasingly fighting the reality that he might have bitten off a bit more than he’d planned. Staff and ownership, he’d expected. Marketing plans, distribution channels, sales goals, and partnerships? Not so much. Especially in a business that had fallen further into disrepair than he’d initially been led to believe. The sales figures were surprisingly good, but the business had been run into the ground. The brewery needed a technology overhaul, and their distributors had gotten lazy, not putting nearly enough local promotion into the market.

  Tommy figured it knocked the asking price down a few hundred grand, but Nick wasn’t in it for a quick buck. Quite the opposite. The Unity was another link in his battle to build a future.

  The day he’d lost football had been the bleakest of his life. A bad snap and an offensive lineman who didn’t have him covered had created the perfect storm. Nick’s body had gone one way, his leg the other, and his knee was the collateral damage. Realizing everything he’d worked for had blown to bits in the work of three seconds, it had been a humbling day when, a few weeks later, Chili Samuels had summoned him to his old bar.

  “You done licking your wounds, Kelley?”

  “Excuse me?” Cold February air slashed at his ankles and blew through his hair as he stood in the open doorway, a dismal reminder of what he’d lost, left behind while several of his teammates were headed to Hawaii for the Pro Bowl.

  “I want to get out from underneath this place. Figure a young buck like you is just handsome enough and driven enough to make something of it.”

  “Me?”

  “You deaf?”

  Nick had nearly walked right there, until he saw something flash in the depths of Chili’s grizzled old face, his gray eyes alight with a subtle humor that Nick would have missed if he wasn’t evaluating the personal satisfaction of decking the old man.

  “Hearing’s fine. It’s my fucking leg that needs work.”

  “It’ll heal. That program over at the rehab center is damn good. Fixed me up after my knee replacement. Your joints’ll mend up a hell of a lot better than mine.”

  “Not well enough to play football.”

  “So play the crowds. This place is yours if you want it.”

  So he had. He’d come in from the cold, and for reasons that still eluded him, Nick had said yes to Chili’s offer. And just like the work to rebuild his leg, he’d rebuilt his life.

  Landon had nailed it the Saturday they put the new bar in, telling him the End Zone was a metaphor for his life, but Nick had known it was something more than that. Just like that day his mother had stood on the other side of the playground fence, staring at him and Landon and Fender, heartbreak filling her eyes, he’d known. Known his life was about to change.

  He’d recognized it again the moment Chili offered him the bar.

  The breeze kicked up once more, Emma’s lush scent drifting toward him. She was lost and adrift, too, and he knew too well what that felt like. Fender’s comments about not playing her had struck hard—with the bite of teeth a lot sharper than their fight.

  What was he doing with her? He wasn’t so delusional that he couldn’t admit he enjoyed her company. Nor would he deny the awareness of her that he couldn’t quite shake. H
e’d always enjoyed the mating ritual, that heightened awareness of another, tempting and teasing, pushing and pulling toward a mutually desirable end.

  If only she wasn’t a recent divorcée. Or an old friend. Or sitting on the opposite side of the most important business decision of his life.

  If only.

  Her hair hung loose and she’d replaced the awful business suit from earlier with another summer dress that clung to her in soft waves. He’d wanted to trace a finger along her spine, so delicate beneath his touch, but had gently pushed her ahead of him out of the house. And for the second night in a row, he found himself walking her toward her building.

  It would be sweet if he didn’t have a perpetual low-level arousal that went nuclear every time they were alone. It would be even sweeter if they could explore what was between them without everything else hanging over their heads.

  “Why did you kiss me last night?”

  The question so closely mirrored his own thoughts Nick came to a full stop at the end of Cherry Street. “Why’d you kiss me last night?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Attraction didn’t have anything to do with it?”

  “I’ve been attracted to other men and it didn’t result in steamy kisses I can’t get off my mind.”

  So much for ignoring that low-level arousal, he thought as his body betrayed him, the urge to touch her nearly painful.

  Nick moved closer, their bodies still not touching. He could feel the heat of her, branding him, but kept his hands at his sides. “Tell me about these other men. The ones you were attracted to.”

  She swallowed hard, the slim lines of her throat contracting. “Nothing worth mentioning. Clearly they didn’t work out.”

  “Which only means those men were idiots.” He breathed in the scent of her, a light musk that reminded him of the warmest summer days and strawberry shortcake.

  “They were all before my husband.”

  Nick breathed in once more. “The prize idiot of them all.”

  Emma went still at that, like a cornered rabbit anticipating which direction to run. “Idiot?”

  “For letting you go.”

  Her lips trembled. It was subtle, but he caught their slight quiver in the reflected light of the corner streetlamp. “It was a mutual decision.”

  “Was it?”

  “Of course.” Those lips straightened and she moved back a solid step, just shy of falling off the curb. “Why?”

  Nick was well aware he’d overstepped, the sensual mist that had descended over them quickly morphing into something darker, and infinitely sadder. Curious, he decided to see where the moment went. “Because you strike me as a forever type of woman.”

  “Not everything’s meant forever.” She slipped from her spot, moving to the sloping edge of the sidewalk, her gaze on the crosswalk lights.

  “Some things are.”

  “Not in my life.”

  The light changed and Emma barreled on through the crosswalk, her focus straight ahead. What had begun as curiosity had his legs moving in concern, anxious to keep up with her. He had nearly a foot on her—and she wore heels—but she moved at a steady clip.

  It was only when he caught up, grasping for her hand, that he realized she was crying. He was enough of a man-card-carrying, red-blooded male that the sight of tears shriveled his balls, but the fact he’d instigated them carried a particular sting.

  “Emma. I’m sorry.”

  “No. It’s me. I shouldn’t have come here tonight.” She tugged hard to loosen his grip, leaving him behind the moment she got her hand free.

  Why did you kiss me?

  A question she’d asked herself over and over again, the only answer a helpless, Because I wanted to. No, she amended to herself, as she dashed away the damnable tears that flooded her vision, she’d needed to. She’d needed to kiss Nick Kelley, stealing those moments just for herself.

  Something way down deep inside had gloried in the opportunity to kiss him, to feel that large, athletic body beneath her fingers as his mouth consumed her. She wanted to wrap up those moments like a fantasy she could keep and open back up in all the lonely moments ahead, staring at her like bright, unceasing headlights.

  Yet here he was, asking her about those kisses as if it were some fucking clinical exercise.

  “Emma—” His hand wrapped around hers again as he stilled her. She hated crying—and had done enough this past year to last a lifetime—yet no matter how hard she tried to catch her breath, she couldn’t quite hold back the tears. “Emma, I’m sorry.”

  Embarrassment mixed with her already-heightened emotions and all the worry that consumed her. She was so tired. So monstrously tired of holding it all together. Of worrying that her father was so far gone there was no getting through to him. And that every good thing she’d managed to find in earning her degree at Siebel had been for nothing. Worse, she couldn’t shake the fear that no matter how hard she tried, she’d already put herself on a path of failure.

  Her marriage. Her family relationships. Even her career. She was staring down thirty-five and had very little to show for it except for a shoebox apartment and an enormous dining-room table she would set on fire given half a chance.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Oh God, where did she start?

  Instead of ignoring the question, the only solid thing she could grasp in the middle of that whirling, mind-sucking moment spilled out.

  “Not everybody gets forever, Nick! Some people just get fucking fourteen-thousand-dollar hand-carved dining rooms for their trouble.”

  “Dining rooms?”

  “Oh, not just any dining room. A big, fucking, honking set that used to sit in a three-thousand-square-foot house my ex-husband now owns.”

  “He’s—”

  “An asshole who dumped that damn set on me like a goddamned parting gift. Thanks, honey.” She shook her hand in a demented wave. “Don’t let the front door hit your ass on the way out!”

  Mindless now, Emma could practically feel herself hovering about six feet above Cherry Street, staring down at the two of them in the middle of the sidewalk. “I have a dining room table that seats twelve. With a fucking display cabinet and sideboard to match. And I hate it! I hate it all!”

  “Emma—”

  “A fourteen-thousand-dollar hand-carved monstrosity. That’s what Cole left me. I have no home. No baby. No husband. Just a fucking table.”

  The words were absurd. Even in her heated state, Emma knew that. But it was the sentiment underneath—and that hateful sense of failure—that was a billion percent real.

  Before she could think to push him away, strong arms enfolded her. And there on the middle of the sidewalk, in a neighborhood she never thought she’d come home to, she allowed herself to cry for all the dreams that would never come true.

  “Louisa. What bug is up your butt?”

  Emily didn’t mince words on the best of days, but Lou was still startled by the outburst.

  We can plan, but life has other plans. And the outcome is often way better than we ever could have imagined.

  Her own earlier words haunted her. What a hypocrite she was. Giving Emma one piece of advice she was hardly interested in taking. “Nothing except for this stack of dishes I want to finish before I go to bed.”

  Emily was already tucked up into a seat at the kitchen table, a hot mug of tea before her. There’d been a time when the two of them would have done the dishes together, but Emily didn’t have quite the stamina she used to and Lou was just happy for the company. They watched out for each other, her crazy neighbor who’d wormed her way into Lou’s life by hook, crook, and a crafty, canny sense of New York real estate. And in the watching, they’d become a family.

  Her relationship with Emily was as strong—in many ways stronger—than what she’d ever had with her own mother. And it had been Emily who’d guided Lou when she wasn’t sure she could be a mother. When her boys’ future, and her ability to get them there, scared her sleepless.


  But Emily had been there. A rock with endless patience and a mouth that would do a sailor proud.

  “You haven’t been yourself for days. Is it Dave?”

  Something she’d tried desperately to dismiss leaped in her chest at the mention of Dave Maxwell’s name. “No, of course not.”

  “He’s crazy about you.”

  Louisa glanced over her shoulder, not surprised to see Emily sporting a broad, satisfied smile. “His wife just died,” she said.

  “Four years ago.”

  “He’s my friend.”

  “He should be more than your friend.”

  Lou refocused on the dishes. She had the last few pans from the chicken and then she’d be done. Then she’d bundle Emily back upstairs to her top-floor apartment and get on the computer. Gretchen had sent another e-mail today and she wanted to reread it and compose a response.

  She ran steel wool against one of her baking sheets, thoughts of Gretchen Reynolds fading as Dave filled her thoughts. He’d come over tonight, and had promised to join them Thursday for the Kings game. He’d also offered again to help her update her candidate website for the borough presidency. She’d managed to hold him off, but knew she’d be hard-pressed to keep coming up with excuses. She needed to pull out of the race.

  “So if it’s not Dave who’s got you twisted up—and for my money I’m not ready to give up on that horse—what is it? Nicky’s play for the brewery?”

  Louisa grabbed at Emily’s question like a lifeline. She was worried about Nick, but not for the brewery. She supported her children in everything they did, but she’d meant what she told Emma. Things happened the way they were meant. And if Nick wasn’t meant to buy the Unity, it was because he had a different path.

  His time in professional sports had taught him that. It had been a hard-won lesson, but one he’d managed admirably.

  “I’m worried about what’s happening with Emma.”

  “Didn’t stop you from inviting her to dinner.”

  Louisa turned around once more, only to find that cheeky smile once again directed her way. “You invited her.”