The bartender volleyed a look between them, not quite getting it. “Okay.”
As Shea guided them back to the drink ledge, she said, “I’ve never brought someone who wasn’t Willa here before.”
Byrne wouldn’t be a true guy if that didn’t make him stand a little taller, didn’t make him want to grab that microphone and growl out some sort of prehistoric sound of satisfaction.
“Vodka?” Byrne guessed, pointing to her tall glass filled with clear liquid and a bunch of sparkling ice.
Her lips fastened around the straw. How she could sip and smile and look like she wanted to devour him all at once, he didn’t know. And he didn’t really care.
“Water,” she said. “I’ll want a dirty martini after.”
He took a drink of his beer. “After what?”
“Next up onstage,” came the drawn-out boom of an unseen announcer, “Shea.”
A new smattering of applause.
Byrne almost choked. “You sing?”
“Don’t sound so shocked! Or I’ll make you get up there, too.”
The beer sputtered in his mouth, and he had to lean forward so it wouldn’t dribble down his shirt. “No.” He dabbed at his chin with a napkin. “No, I’m not singing. At all. And I’m not bad-shocked, I’m good-shocked.”
She fiddled with her straw. “Good. Because I’m a little nervous myself.”
“So why do you do it then? You don’t have to—”
“Oh, but I do. I’m always nervous before I go up, but I know how awesome I’m going to feel after, and it makes it all worth it. Kind of like rugby.”
He nodded, completely transfixed.
She pointed over his shoulder. “Why don’t you go stand by Willa and Erik? You don’t even have to watch.”
“Why on earth wouldn’t I watch?”
Was it even possible to look away from this woman?
She looked honestly perplexed. “Well, I’m not doing this for you,” she said, and then handed him her water. She skirted around the back part of the crescent-shaped auditorium, heading for the wood stairs on the right side of the stage.
Byrne didn’t go up to Willa and Erik, because he simply could not get his feet to move. They came to him, standing on either side.
“She’s really glad you came,” Willa said, “even if she doesn’t come out and tell you.”
Shea reached the top of the stairs and met a wiry man who smiled genially as he handed Shea the microphone. They talked for a few seconds, Shea gesturing and the man nodding, and then he disappeared.
Shea walked to center stage and said into the mike, “This is called ‘The Last Day of Our Acquaintance.’”
The music started, a sole acoustic guitar making quiet, slow, melancholy strums.
“Can she sing?” Erik stage-whispered to Willa, as though Byrne couldn’t hear.
Willa shushed him.
When Shea opened her mouth, out came this throaty voice that had Byrne tightening the grip on his beer glass so hard he thought it might shatter.
She sang with the microphone set on the stand, her torso loose and flowing, accenting the words in perfect time.
She didn’t make eye contact with the audience, but sang to some unseen ex-lover far past the heads of everyone who watched and listened. The song built and built, her tone controlled and sad in the beginning, but then as the emotion grew, the lyrics echoing frustration and loss and heartbreak, she just . . . let it loose.
That voice. That voice.
He thought about all that she’d revealed to him up in Gleann about her dreams of the distillery. At the time he thought he’d learned so much about her, but she’d still held back. He’d just cracked the surface with her, and it was like he was a treasure hunter who’d broken down a wall to find a vast cavern filled with jewels beyond.
To see her up onstage—that presence, that clear passion—dear God, he didn’t know if he’d seen anything like it.
She loosened up as the song went on, the release coursing through her body and voice, just like she’d said it would.
By the time the song finished and she was gripping the microphone stand in both hands, her legs braced apart, the power of the finality of her voice ringing through the club, Byrne knew it. Was absolutely sure of it.
This was not mere attraction. It was complete and total infatuation.
Chapter
11
The trance ended the second Shea bit off the final sound of the final word of her favorite song. She walked offstage dimly aware that the room was enthusiastically applauding, but it was the buzz in her mind that fed her the most joyous sound. She came off the last step onto the main floor, feeling rubber-legged, weightless, and deliriously happy.
Everything from that week—the late shipment from Juniper Imports, the canceled interview that had completely messed up her schedule, the contact from her “silent” partner Douglas Lynch badgering her about profits at the Amber and future strategies she didn’t quite agree with, and nervousness over seeing Byrne again—dissipated from her soul.
She wove through the maze of cocktail tables. Byrne still stood at the back of the auditorium. He looked almost as dazed as she felt.
Willa snagged her before she reached him, however.
“Thought you should know,” Willa said, “that he didn’t stop staring at you the whole time. He didn’t drink, didn’t talk, didn’t do anything. Just watched. I wiped drool from his chin when you were done.”
Over her shorter friend’s head, Shea caught Byrne’s eye. One side of his mouth ticked up, as though he’d heard what Willa had just told her.
“Excellent job, by the way,” Willa added. “You practice that one in the shower?”
Shea tore her gaze from Byrne. “In the kitchen, actually. Better acoustics. You sticking with the usual?”
Willa peered out over the tables set with their singular little lamps and the irregular polka dots of various drinks. She shrugged. “Of course. It’s my thing.”
“Next up onstage,” cried the wizardly announcer from behind the curtain, “Willa!”
Willa’s “thing” was wartime melodies. Old tunes backed by big brass and tinny drums that fit her high, slightly nasal vibrato perfectly. Shea pinched Willa’s butt as her friend waltzed off toward the stage steps.
Shea finally went up to the guys. She’d forgotten Erik was there, too.
“Great job,” Erik said.
Shea nodded. “Thanks.”
Byrne just kept grinning.
“So, um.” Erik rattled the ice cubes in the bottom of his glass. “Yeah.” He ducked away and bellied up to the bar.
Byrne bit his lower lip. “Remember what I said in your car, about you surprising me?”
“Sure.”
“Well, that was nothing. Holy shit, Shea. Had no idea you could sing. I mean—holy shit.”
“Stop. You’re going to give me a complex.”
He gestured to the stage. “Not that I’m an expert or anything, but you could do that professionally.”
“Don’t want to.”
“But you’re amazing.”
“If I wanted to do it professionally, I would. But I don’t want it to be something I’m paid for. It’s more than that to me, if that makes sense.”
He nodded slowly. “You know, I think I do. Sometimes I want more when it comes to rugby, but I wouldn’t want to do it professionally. To have that kind of pressure would take away the joy part.”
“Exactly.”
“Who sings that song?” he asked.
“Sinéad O’Connor. Probably my most favorite female voice ever.”
He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at the same time. “An Irish singer? Will they revoke your Scottish heritage for that?”
“Oh hush.”
“It’s a sad song.” He c
ocked his head, eyes warming. “A gorgeous song.”
“I think so, too. I love the way it builds, the emotion in it.”
“Should I be worried that you sang a song about the end of a relationship on our first not-a-date?”
“Not remotely.”
He stared at her for a second. Or five.
“Here.” He nudged a dirty martini toward her. “You earned this.”
“Oooh thank you.” She took out the swizzle stick and plucked a big olive off the end with her lips. Byrne watched her intently.
Onstage, Willa was joking back and forth with one of the audience members. If they had the Willa Show here every night, the place would clean up.
“How do you and Willa know each other?” Byrne asked.
“We used to wait tables together, way back when. When she learned I loved to sing, she brought me here and we’ve become regulars. It’s an escape for both of us, but for different reasons.”
“Makes sense. You’re different people.”
“She’s a freelance graphic designer now. Insanely talented.”
“And you’re Shea Montgomery, whiskey expert extraordinaire.” He sipped his beer.
“Shh.” Shea put a finger to her lips. “I want to watch her.”
Willa brought down the house, as expected, her schtick hitting this crowd right between the eyes. With her beautifully curled hair and bright red lips and subtle hip shaking, matched to the upbeat song, there wasn’t a single person in the bar who wasn’t tapping a foot.
“Wow,” Byrne said over the raucous applause as Willa finished. “You have to try out or something to be able to sing here?”
“Kind of. You have to send in a tape to the owner for vocal approval, and you have to submit your songs beforehand. It’s not for drunks or bachelorette parties or anything.”
“So what you’re saying is that if I got up there and opened this hideous mouth, I’d be run out?”
“Probably with a pitchfork in your ass, yes.” She took a sip of her martini. “And I wouldn’t call your mouth hideous at all.”
Willa came off the stage, negotiating the steps sideways in her tight, unforgiving skirt, and then crossed the floor. Erik intercepted her and gave her a stinging high five. Shea and Byrne bowed repeatedly, arms raised, as she came up. Willa was laughing so hard she dabbed at the mascara beneath her eyes.
And then her laughter died. Just fell off her face like melted makeup.
“What?” Shea asked.
Willa’s wide, unblinking eyes darted to the left, over Shea’s shoulder. And then again.
Confused, Shea turned and—oh shit.
Seriously? Not again. Not tonight. Not here.
There was Marco, descending upon one of the curved VIP tables in the back row. He was touching the back of a puss-faced girl with a sleek brown bob. Had to be ten years younger than Shea, which didn’t surprise her at all. The way they interacted clearly said they had some history.
Seemed like the girl who Marco had said was “coming back” actually had.
“What is it?” Byrne beside her, his voice low near her ear.
How the hell had Marco ever heard of a place like this? Wasn’t it far beneath him?
Onstage a very large man with a very large voice started in on a Pavarotti. Any other night Shea would’ve appreciated it, but right now everything sounded sour.
Marco gestured for the bobbed girl to slide into the booth and, with two fingers, turned to summon a waitress. He found Shea instead and did a double take. Then he did that thing where he moved his head on his neck like he was cracking it, going in for a boxing match.
Byrne stood close to Shea and followed her line of sight. “Him?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Shea sighed and took a giant gulp of martini that burned down her throat. “Him.”
Marco leaned down to say something to his date, who immediately swiveled and caught Shea in a laser-beam stare. One hand tipped in bright pink nails folded into a fist on top of the table. Her eyes narrowed, and then Shea couldn’t see her anymore because Marco blocked the way as he weaved his way toward Shea.
“Want me to take him down?” Willa made a karate chop move.
Shea snorted. “Nah, I’m good.” And really, she was. “Erik, would you mind taking Bruce Lee here for a drink refresh?”
Willa gave her arm a comforting squeeze, then disappeared with Erik.
Byrne stayed right at Shea’s side.
Marco reached them. “Hi, Shea.” Some of his tan had faded, but he still looked so fake compared to Byrne. Even his laugh sounded manufactured as he let it loose, shaking his head. “Twice in one summer. What are the chances?”
“Pretty slim.”
“What are you doing here?” Unlike at the Long Island Highland Games, he seemed honestly shocked to see her.
Shea glanced at the stage.
Marco’s head snapped back on his neck. “Really? You sing?”
“Really.” She’d never sung for him. It had always been something she’d done in secret, only for herself. Even when they’d been married, she’d always felt that he’d never understand how it fed her. And he’d never really been all that interested in knowing what made her tick.
That should have been a big fucking clue they were doomed from the start, but at that age she’d never been big on anything but fairy tales.
Marco said, “We came here—that’s Sabine over there—because we heard the singers were always great.”
And Shea could never, ever come here again. Her weekly release, her unadulterated joy, gone. Bastard.
Beside her, Byrne stuck out his hand. “How’s it going? I’m Byrne.”
“Sorry,” Shea said. “Byrne, this is Marco.”
Marco blinked at Byrne, as though finally realizing she’d been standing there with a man. He shook Byrne’s hand, and in that space he put two and two together, his gaze flicking back and forth between them. Shea didn’t feel like making any sort of explanation aside from introductions. She didn’t know what she’d say anyway—she had no idea what she and Byrne were, couldn’t put a label on it.
A not-a-first-date, but they’d already fucked. They’d already fucked, but they’d laughed first, in the way you would on a great first date. It was all so very convoluted, standing there with her ex-husband looking on.
“You seem familiar,” Byrne said. “You’re not Marco Todaro, are you?”
Marco puffed up, as was expected. “I am.”
Byrne turned a little white, which was completely not expected. He recovered quickly, but casual, friendly Byrne disappeared in a short second, replaced by a stiff, awkward impostor.
“You in real estate?” Marco asked Byrne. “I’m developing the new building on East 47th. Biggest deal in that area since 2008.”
Of course he wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to spout off about his properties, especially if it involved mentioning tons of money. Shea didn’t bother to resist the roll of her eyes.
“No, not in real estate.” Byrne replied, throwing back his shoulders. “I’m with Weatherly and McTavish.”
“No shit.” Marco raised both eyebrows. “As?”
“Private banker.”
“Oh, really.” Marco looked smugly at Shea then, and she knew what he was assuming: that she’d gone from one big-money guy to another, while shouting to the heavens that she’d never do such a thing.
“Then you must know Ren Aaldenberg,” Marco said.
Now Byrne looked really disturbed. It probably went right over Marco’s head because Byrne was doing an excellent job of smiling to cover it up, but Shea knew well enough now when Byrne was smiling for real . . . or when Bespoke Byrne was doing it for him.
“I do,” Byrne said. Though his mouth grinned widely, his eyes were tight and flat.
Then Marco responded with his own ins
incere smile, the one that made her skin itch. “How funny. We’re meeting Ren and his woman here tonight.”
His woman. Ugh.
Byrne looked over to Erik then, but Erik was telling Willa some story, making her laugh. Byrne shifted on his feet and crossed his arms, his fingers tapping impatiently. Shea wondered if she should go over to grab Erik, but then the thought of leaving Byrne and Marco alone together was nauseating.
“I’ll be sure to look for you next time I’m in your office,” Marco said to Byrne.
“Do that.” Byrne’s reply was smooth enough, but he took a long drink of beer directly after, and Shea distinctly felt that some sort of guy challenge had been issued, in some sort of nonverbal man code.
Marco tossed another look back and forth between Shea and Byrne. “First date?” he asked bluntly.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Leave, you jerk.
Then she realized: she’d walked away from him before. She could do it again now.
Reaching out, she laced her fingers through Byrne’s, making him jump. “Not exactly,” she purred to Marco, then smiled up at Byrne in a way that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than Yes, we’ve already fucked and we’re about to do it again.
It had the exact effect she desired. Marco’s whole body went tense, the slimy confidence wiped from his face.
She should have known, however, that he wouldn’t just throw up a flag and admit defeat.
“Don’t make too much money, Byrne,” Marco snapped. “And watch her with your friends.”
In her hand, Byrne’s grip slackened.
Shea’s stomach dropped, but the hole was quickly filled in with anger.
Marco gave them a dismissive, cold nod, not even looking them in the eye, and said, “Have a great night.”
He left. Went back to Sabine.
Shea started shaking. She tried to extricate her hand from Byrne’s but he held on, shockingly, and gently tugged her around to face him. She didn’t want to know what her face looked like, all scowling and twisted. She was having a hard time keeping her breath under control, a very old fury having resurfaced.
“Hey,” Byrne said, giving her fingers a squeeze. “You okay?”
The Good Chase Page 16
