by Skye Warren
There’s every chance tonight will end the same way.
He stares me down, willing me to look away first. Except I want this too much. I want him too much, in all his conflicted glory, even if he is some kind of consolation prize. Even if that’s what I am for him. He courted me once, and he was damn charming then. But now he’s resisting me, trying to be reserved, and he’s damn near devastating.
I might be the one falling to my knees in front of him tonight.
“Beer,” he says, his voice rough. “At the Den. Nine o’clock.”
I take off the yellow hard hat and hold it out to him. “You need this more than me. I don’t want any wayward pieces of concrete knocking you out. I’m pretty sure they don’t serve beer in the ER.”
He gives me a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
I’m still wondering about that look as I step back through the heavy plastic sheeting, as I cross back through the looking glass into the real world of traffic horns and exhaust.
The way you and Christopher were business partners? There was something in his expression when I asked the question. Guilt. Longing?
It makes me wonder if there was more to their relationship than money. It makes me wonder if I broke more than their company when I stood between them.
My mother’s nurse is a stout woman with perpetually pink cheeks and a tendency to call everyone sugar. Freida dutifully prepares the chopped kale salads and wheatgrass smoothies my mother prefers, but I suspect she laces the brownies with pot.
Whatever we’re paying the agency, it isn’t enough.
I like her so much I can almost forget that she isn’t a regular nurse. She’s a hospice nurse, part of a whole hospice team that consulted with my mother for weeks when we moved here.
Daddy died in the middle of my first art gallery show, to the shock of everyone.
What came after, the will and its humiliation, that was a surprise, too.
My mother seems determined to die in exactly the opposite way—slowly, with every stage planned out. I’m sure it comes from a kindness, a wish to prevent the kind of paralysis that gripped us in that New York City hotel room, the air still tinged with the smell of paint.
Freida manages to corner me. I’m usually more careful than this, but I sneaked into the kitchen for a pot brownie and a glass of milk. I could have used a little natural high before seeing Sutton in his natural element. There’s nothing behind me except a walk-in pantry, no possible escape from the conversation I’ve been avoiding for almost a month.
“Harper,” she says. “I’m glad I caught you, sugar.”
I wave the plate with the pot brownie vaguely, as if I’m not panicking inside. “Oh, you know, just getting a midnight snack. It’s something I do when I’m sleepwalking. Like right now.”
She gives me that hospice-nurse smile. “We should talk about your mother.”
“You already told me what she ate today,” I say as if she’s just so silly. As if there’s nothing else to say about a woman determined to die in the most drawn-out possible way.
“We should talk about the Death Plan, Harper.”
And there it is.
I still can’t believe there’s something even called a Death Plan. Who plans for death? It’s the worst possible outcome, and even if it’s inevitable, even if you see it coming, how can you accept it with something as terrible as Times New Roman printed on cheap inkjet paper?
“I really don’t think I need to talk about it, actually. Bad enough that it exists.”
She doesn’t move out of my way. “The purpose is to make the event easier for you.”
“Easier? Death isn’t supposed to be easy.”
“Maybe not easy, but it doesn’t have to be hard. Death is a natural part of life.”
God. Is that what the Death Plan says? Ten thousand percent glad I haven’t read it. “I know Mom was into this whole hospice, kumbaya, circle-of-life thing, and I respect that, but that doesn’t mean I have to join the club. No leather jacket for me, okay?”
“She would really like you to be on the same page.”
No, it’s not respecting her wishes, but I can’t read that sheet of paper any more than I can stab my eyes with a steak knife. That’s actually looking more and more like a reasonable exit as Freida continues to stand in front of the door to the kitchen.
It may not look like much, but I’m doing the best I can. I’m not fighting for my mother to continue treatment. I’m not begging doctors for favors or circling the world for a new experimental medicine. I’m here to face her death, but I don’t have to read the script.
“You can’t avoid this forever,” she says gently.
“Watch me.”
It strikes me how this is the opposite of Daddy’s death. His will was a secret when he died, taking all of us by surprise. Maybe even him. Instead there’s an actual plan for Mom’s death. There won’t be any surprises, any pain, because dying is just a part of life, right? Unless the paper says, Just kidding, I’m not dying, there’s nothing that can make this easier.
The nurse takes a step back, giving me enough room to squeeze by. “My job isn’t only to care for the dying. I’m here to help the family, too.”
I stare at her, more bemused than frustrated. “Does that ever actually work?”
She pauses for only a moment. “I hope so.”
And I think I’m not the only woman trying to turn straw into gold. I’m not the only woman failing. There are a million impossible tasks we give ourselves, trapped in a room with no way out. Part of me wants to throw my arms around Freida and sob into her warmth. Instead I leave the brownie on the counter and go upstairs to change into something sexy and ill-advised. It’s going to take something a lot stronger to make me forget tonight.
The Den is part gentleman’s club, where socializing happens with liquor and cigars. Part Renaissance salon, where ideas are discussed. And part boardroom, where deals are made.
Both Sutton and Christopher are regulars here, which means I put on my best dress. Even Mom notices the effort, telling me I’ll turn heads tonight. I might not be with either man right now, but I can at least show them what they’re missing. Tonight I need something that shallow. Something that selfish. Something that sweet.
Tonight that means a strapless red gown that flares into an asymmetrical sweep beside my knee. It’s head-turning anywhere, but in the low lamp glow of the Den I’m like a walking, talking beacon to the men around me. There are a hundred eyes on my body as I weave around crinkled leather chairs and thick wood stools.
The first person I recognize is Blue, a man I’ve met here before who runs a security company. He’s standing at the bar, watching the men who watch me. There’s definitely no Sutton, no lazy smile as he waits for me and that drink. Unease curls through my stomach. Did he stand me up?
“Whatever’s on tap,” I tell the bartender, sliding across a twenty.
An assortment of gold and clear liquids line mirrored shelves behind the bar, but I find myself craving the cool froth of a beer. Maybe it was hearing Sutton say the word, that it somehow eroticized an otherwise ordinary drink. He has that effect on more than beverages—the heat of morning across my cheeks, the metal scent of the earth.
All of it becomes the backdrop to his elemental charisma.
A large glass of amber beer appears in front of me, the glass already condensing.
Blue slides the bill back to me. “It’s on me. The least I can do considering I earned many times that spying on you. What makes you so intriguing, Ms. St. Claire?”
So that’s how Christopher knew about my mother. “I’m sure I have no idea. It must be really boring to watch me read books and pick up Thai food.”
“I don’t watch you personally, but I see the reports.”
That makes me snort. “‘She ordered the yellow curry today instead of the red.’”
“Interesting enough that I can sell it to more than one entity.”
That must mean Sutton is paying
for information, too. And why not? Both he and Christopher are friends with Blue Eastman. That’s how I met him. It doesn’t have to bother me that they’re both nosy and manipulative. It doesn’t have to hurt.
The ache in my heart proves me wrong.
My gaze scans the room back and forth, back and forth. Only when my heart leaps do I realize I’m not looking for sky-blue eyes and blond hair. Not only that. I’m keeping an eye out for Christopher, unable to keep myself from hoping. That will go on my tombstone, I’m sure of it—here lies Harper St. Claire, unable to keep herself from hoping.
“Shouldn’t you be at home changing diapers?” I ask.
Blue nods toward a closed velvet curtain. “I would, but I’m on the clock. We have two clients in the game. They both have their own bodyguards, but I figured I’d better check in.”
“The game?”
“Poker,” he clarifies.
“Does that often get violent?”
“All the men around the table are armed.” At my shudder he adds, “Not everyone who works for me can get the cushy job of tailing little girls to the library.”
I scrunch my nose. “I’m not a little girl. And I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“That’s good because he’s not there to guard you. Look at it this way—at least if the building comes down on you, there will be someone to dial 9-1-1.”
“He won’t come in after me?”
A faint smile. “He has orders not to engage.”
“Cold,” I say, but I can’t help laughing. “At least show me pictures.”
He looks only too glad to pull out his phone. A quick swipe reveals a chubby-cheeked baby with her eyes closed tight, tucked into the arms of a woman I recognize as Blue’s young wife. “She’s twelve weeks.”
“She’s so beautiful, both of them.”
He scrolls to the left, where a wide-eyed toddler offers a biscuit to the infant. Another one where a large golden dog sniffs the baby, who wears footie pajamas. Then there’s a little girl with chestnut curls riding a pony, wearing a tiara and rainbow leggings.
“Three of them?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“And they’re all as beautiful as their mother.” He keeps scrolling through an endless display of familial love, and I soak it up. Until another swipe reveals a woman who must be his wife. They’re in a fancy restaurant with china and wineglasses between them. Date night? She’s looking up, a little shy, a mild reproach, as if he’s snapping a picture against her wishes.
“She is beautiful,” I admit, my voice solemn. “What did she see in you?”
He gives me a secret smile. “I didn’t give her much choice.”
The words might be ominous if I hadn’t seen such love glowing from the dark eyes in the photo. “A husband who actually wants to stay with his wife. A little strange where I come from.”
Blue tucks his phone back in his pocket. “And where is it that you come from?”
“I’m surprised that’s not in your fancy reports.” It probably is, but I humor him anyway. “I suppose you could say I come from all over the place. All over the country. All over the world. But mostly you could say I come from money.”
He nods. “That’s a whole different ball game.”
I take in his tailored suit, which molds to his large body perfectly. The watch that easily rivals something the fancy businessmen in the Den are wearing. “I think you play that game just fine.”
“It helps when you’re so damn entertaining you have half the Tanglewood population paying for information about you. If you get any more interesting, I’ll be able to buy a vacation home.”
On that note he gives me a small salute and walks toward the velvet curtains. I slip inside after him, pretending I have every right to be here. It takes a second to adjust to the dim light and smoke in the air. Then I see players sitting around the table and someone dressed in a white dress shirt and a maroon vest that must be the dealer.
There’s Damon Scott, leaning back like a king in his three-piece suit, which is a reasonable analogy considering he owns the Den. His fingers drum against cards facedown on the table.
Beside him is a man I don’t recognize, with deeply tanned skin and dark hair in wild disarray, his eyes a striking green. A man who can only be a bodyguard stands beside him, filling out his suit almost to bursting, his jaw hard-set. As I watch, Blue joins him and murmurs something.
Then there’s Christopher Bardot, who scans the cards he holds with pure calculation. I don’t really know what counting cards entails, but I’m sure he’s doing it. Not as part of any trick, but because his analytical, highly intelligent brain can’t help but solve the equation on the velvet table.
He looks up, his black eyes widening in surprise. “Harper,” he says, his voice low. Somehow intimate even as we sit in a roomful of people.
On the other side of the table are more men I don’t recognize, one young and determined, the other weathered and shrewd, both with a smaller pile of chips. A bodyguard stands behind a gorgeous woman with dark hair who has a large pile of chips.
And then there’s Sutton, sitting directly across from Christopher. He leans back, deceptively casual in his seat. He doesn’t look like a man about to meet me for a drink. I think he would have spent the whole night in here.
From across the room he catches my gaze. His blue eyes are wide as the sky above Gold Rush, leading me toward a horizon I’ll never reach. He looks at me with both desire and determination, as if he’s pushing me away. As if he wants me to choose Christopher. I’m about two seconds away from breaking completely, and these men are playing games. It makes me want to hurt him, even if it means hurting myself.
Sutton watches me with opaque blue eyes, his expression unreadable. It isn’t exactly welcoming, but I feel my body open to him anyway. To the warmth he emanates like a goddamn sun. One step, two. My hips sway to a rhythm only I can hear, and I feel some of my old confidence return. This is the Harper St. Claire wanted by every frat boy—and some of the sorority girls, too. This is the Harper St. Claire who owns the room.
This is Harper St. Claire, pressing the self-destruct button.
I’ll break into a million pieces, but I’ll take them all with me.
I don’t bother with anything so mundane as permission. I don’t wait for him to welcome me. Instead I throw myself into his lap, and he doesn’t miss a beat.
As if my body is made to fall. As if his is made to catch me.
Up close I can see the glint of bristle on his jaw, the tired lines under his eyes. Why is he playing a high-stakes game when he’s tired? A surge of affection takes me by surprise. Lust is something I understand. With a man built like him it’s only natural. I run my fingers through his golden hair, yanking a little before I let him go.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You want to play, Harper?”
There’s a pull deep inside my body, an answering yes that comes from the memory of how it can be between us. Hot. Intense. Devastating. “I’m just here to watch.”
A small smile. “Then watch.”
The words sound unbearably erotic, as if I’m going to watch something more intimate than a high-stakes poker game. I turn slightly in Sutton’s lap so that I can see the table. And his cards. I touch them with my forefinger, affecting a surprised look. “Hey, there’s one of these on the table!”
Sounds of muffled amusement come from around the table. The man with dark tousled hair gives a bark of laughter. “Watch your woman, Mayfair,” he says with a curl of his lip.
“She doesn’t belong to him,” Christopher says, his voice sharp.
Something flashes through his onyx eyes, something I’ve never seen there—violence. It’s cold and calculating, everything I know him to be. And terribly serious. I’m not sure whether he’s mad that the stranger’s words implied ownership—or that he said I belonged to Sutton instead of him.
An uneasy silence descends on the table, which makes me flutter my eyelashes at the stranger. “I’m sorry, I d
on’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Harper. Harper St. Claire.”
“Ms. St. Claire,” the man says with a look I suppose some women would find charming. It reminds me of a snake, the way it studies you before striking. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Sutton tenses. The words would be a compliment to a man. They’re the worst kind of insult to a woman. “You want to be careful,” he says softly, mirroring the earlier warning.
The man grins, looking like the dictionary entry for reckless. “I meant her artwork, of course. And her social causes. What was it you wanted to free? A post office?”
Asshole. “It was a library. And you are?”
He manages a small, mocking bow while remaining seated. “Victor Emmanuel, Prince of Piedmont. At your service, of course.”
“A prince.” I give a wide-eyed look. “Is that like Prince Harry? Are you going to marry a commoner? Oh, I do love a royal wedding.”
That earns me a lazy smile. “I suppose I haven’t met the right woman.”
The statement could be considered flirting if he hadn’t basically just called me a slut in a roomful of people. Does he think he could get away with that because he’s minor royalty? I can feel Christopher’s anger in the air, feel Sutton’s tension beneath me. From the corner of my eyes I see Blue and his bodyguards stiffen, as if preparing for a fight to break out.
What was it Blue said? All the men around the table are armed. Oh God.
“We’re here to play cards,” Damon says, gently chiding. He runs the Den and makes plenty of money off these games. I suppose it wouldn’t help to have bloodshed. He tosses his cards in. “And I’m out.”
“That’s probably for the best,” I tell him in my innocent voice. I glance at Sutton’s hand again. “His cards are really good. I mean really good.”
Damon only smirks back at me, probably seeing right through the act. Because Sutton’s hand really is good, but it’s not the one pair that I implied when I first sat down. No, he’s got a flush with a queen high. And I’m playing this clueless act to get someone to stay in, thinking they can beat him when they can’t.
