All Night Long, Page 8

  “Oh, God. Is he—”

  “Fine. Stable. He’s in a hospital in China. Mom says they’re taking care of him. She tried to call you, too, but said it kept disconnecting.”

  “Are they coming home? Can I call her?”

  “You can try. She said she’d email you when she had a moment. As for coming home, they’re going to take a cruise back. She says it’ll force Dad to rest.”

  Selma closed her eyes and nodded. When she opened them again, the women and Easton were looking at her with concern. “It’s my dad. He’s fine, but he had a heart attack.” She aimed a thin smile at Easton. “Thank you for the ticket. I loved seeing the animals. But if you don’t mind, I think I’m going to go home. I feel a little raw.”

  A thousand emotions seemed to shift over his face, and she knew that whatever he wanted to say, he couldn’t in public. Right then, she didn’t even care. She felt numb, and after she said her goodbyes, she drove home on autopilot, then curled up on her couch without even being certain how she managed to get inside.

  She dozed for a few hours, then checked her email. As promised, her mother had sent an email updating her on her dad’s status, which, thankfully, wasn’t too scary. Honestly, it was the part her mother had tagged on at the end that made Selma’s nerves twitch.

  Sweetie, I know you’re tired of hearing the same song from me, but I have to say it to you one more time—please stop playing Hopscotch through your life. I’m afraid that this close call with your father will push you the opposite direction. That you will imagine the pain of losing him and once again push everyone close in your life away simply so that you will have done it to them before they do it to you. You think I don’t see that, but I do. I’m your mother, yes, but I had the benefit of watching you at first with a stranger’s eyes. And I see you better than you think I do. And I love you for everything I see, but it worries me as well.

  I want you to be happy and settled, but settled doesn’t mean that you can’t still travel and have fun. I want your life to be exciting and memorable. But don’t hop about so much that you only land on the mountaintops. Take time to explore the ground beneath you. Live your life, Selma. Don’t just bounce through it. Take time to love and to learn. I promise you, any pain that comes with it is a small price to pay for being connected.

  I love you always and Dad and I will see you when we make port in the US. Until then, think of us sunning and relaxing on the deck of a ship. And also think about what I’ve said.

  Much love and kisses forever,

  Mom

  * * *

  Selma tried to read the email twice, but with the tears filling her eyes, she couldn’t. Instead, she hugged her phone close and closed her eyes, willing sleep—only to sit bolt upright when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry.” Easton’s voice washed over her. “You left your door unlocked.”

  She sat up, groggy, and realized she’d been dozing. “What time is it? The benefit’s already over?”

  “I left early. I would have been here sooner, but I didn’t know your address. I had to swing by the office and look it up.”

  “Home sweet home,” she said, indicating the efficiency apartment that took up part of the distillery’s second floor. She frowned. “You left early?”

  “I was worried about you.”

  “Oh.” The words warmed her, pleasing her more than she’d expected. “Who is Marianne to you?” She blinked. She hadn’t intended to ask that question.

  “No one,” he said, his words giving credence to what Hannah had said. “My mentor thinks she’s the perfect wingman for political events.”

  “She likes you. And not as a wingman.”

  He shook his head. “Not an issue.”

  “Maybe not for you. But I saw the look on her face.”

  “Again. Not an issue.”

  She ran her fingers through her hair. “What about Hannah?”

  “Am I hearing jealousy?”

  She met his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Yes.”

  “Oh.” He actually flinched a bit in surprise. Not that she blamed him. Considering their deal, that pronouncement was definitely out of character. Hell, maybe her mother’s words were getting to her more than Selma wanted them to.

  “Good,” he added, then grinned. “I think I like knowing you’re jealous.”

  “Rat bastard,” she said mildly. “Seriously, who is Hannah to you?”

  “One of my best friends.”

  “That’s what she said. I like corroborating evidence.” His chuckle washed over her and she pressed on. “Why aren’t you opening your firm with her?”

  “I’m doing the judicial thing.”

  “Again I ask, why?”

  “A lot of reasons. The path makes sense, and I can help people.”

  “But it’s not you. I mean, I’ve seen some interesting sides of you, and they’re not particularly judicial. And as for helping people, don’t judges deal with attorneys and not the actual clients?”

  He said nothing, and when he did answer, his words were unexpected. And a bit unwelcome. “Why do you keep haggling over minor terms in the sale contract?”

  “What? I’m not—”

  “You are. We could have closed this deal days ago, but we keep going over the same ground. And I don’t think it’s just because you want to spend more time with me.”

  “I want the best deal.”

  “Maybe the best deal is no deal.”

  “Dammit, Easton, we’re not doing the psychology game.”

  He lifted a brow. “Aren’t we?”

  “Fine.” She stood up and thrust out her hand. “Truce?”

  He tugged her toward him, then lifted her onto his lap and kissed her, the feel of his lips against hers and his body hot and hard beneath her settling her more than it should. “Truce,” he murmured, then put his arms around her and hugged her against him.

  For a moment, they stayed like that, with her clinging to him and soaking up his strength. After a moment, she pulled back, her eyes searching his and, thankfully, what she saw reflected there gave her the strength to say the next words. “I don’t want to think that this is more than it is,” she began. “I mean, we had a deal. But I want—”

  “Fuck the deal.” His voice was rough, sensual. “This is just you and me. No contracts. No rules. Our way, whatever we want that way to be.”

  “What way do you want?” she asked.

  “I want to keep going. I want you in my bed. I want you in my life. Does that scare you?”

  She licked her lips, then nodded.

  “I’m sorry about that. But I don’t think you’re the kind of woman who runs from scary things.”

  A laugh bubbled out of her. “Oh, I think I do. Scary emotional things, anyway.” She drew a breath, then cupped his cheek. “But I don’t want to run from you.”

  “What do you want? Leaving aside selling the distillery, what is it you want to do?”

  She cocked her head, considering the question. “I want to travel. See the world. I like exploring. I want to learn to paint. To read Greek. And I’d like to watch operas and Bollywood movies. I want to stomp grapes in France. And I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I’ve lived my life with my nose in a balance sheet.”

  “And you don’t think you can do all that and keep your distillery?”

  She shrugged. “Certainly easier without.”

  “A lot of things are easy without. But it’s lonelier, too.”

  Her mother’s words seemed to echo in her head.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  Once again, she laughed. “I thought you were.”

  He smirked. “How the hell did you break into my house?”

  “Oh.” The lightness evaporated. “Before the Herringtons adopted me and Matthew, we were in the system. I told you that, right? Well, before our birthmother abandoned us at the mall, she pretty much abandoned us at home. And we wouldn’t have food for days and days.”


  “My God.” The horror in his voice was clear.

  “Yeah. It wasn’t fun. But it was what it was. And so Matthew and I stole what we needed.”

  She spoke matter-of-factly, but when he took her hands in his, she knew he heard the pain underneath.

  “He was never very good at security systems, but I could always manage to get around them. Honestly, I hadn’t tested my skill in a long time. Yours was tricky, but doable.”

  “Hmm. I’ll get it upgraded.” He paused, then, “Selma, I—”

  She pressed her finger to her lips. “Don’t even say it. No regrets. I’ve moved on.”

  “Have you?”

  She turned away.

  He hooked a finger under her chin and turned her head back to face him. “I don’t like that you’re moving to Scotland.” His words made butterflies dance in her stomach. She’d told him her entire plan, of course, but so far they hadn’t talked about it. “And I’m jealous as shit of this guy. Sean O’Reilly. Sounds like a bad guy in a Tom Clancy movie. You should steer clear.”

  She laughed, suddenly happier than she could remember being in a long time. Which made no sense. Except, of course, that it made all the sense in the world. “It’s okay. He’s engaged.”

  Easton’s eyes narrowed. “All right then. Maybe he’s okay.” He sighed. “I don’t know anymore.”

  “If he’s okay?” She’d gotten confused along the way.

  “What we’re doing,” he clarified. “Somewhere, I lost track of what we’re doing.”

  “That’s all right.” She kissed him slow and deep. “We’ll figure it out together.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Just so you know, if you hurt my sister, I will kill you.”

  Easton sat on one of the padded benches in Matthew’s gym and stared up at his friend. “I thought you were going to spot me?” They’d intended to go out for a drink, but except for very athletic sex, Easton hadn’t gotten in a workout recently, so they’d decide to talk over weights and machines.

  “I’ll spot you while I interrogate you. Trust me. You want to give me the right answers.”

  “I have no intention of hurting your sister. What she does to herself, though, is out of my hands.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She doesn’t want to sell the distillery. I just hope she realizes it before she makes a mistake.”

  Matthew seemed to study him. “Agreed. But what about you? Are you a mistake?”

  Easton thought about the bullshit campaign. About how he’d let Marianne on his arm instead of the woman he was falling for, hard and fast. “I’m not,” he said firmly. “But I’ve definitely made some mistakes. I’m going to correct them.”

  “How?”

  “Not sure,” Easton admitted. “But I like your sister. I think I might even love her.” And wasn’t that pretty damn scary? “So I promise you I’m going to figure it out.”

  In front of him, Matthew nodded. “Fair enough. Just know that if you do hurt her, don’t come bitching to me if a heavy load of weights falls on your head one day.”

  Easton laughed. “We have a deal.”

  He spent a few more hours with Matthew, then headed over to see Selma, only to end up bereft when he didn’t find her at home. He tracked her down, but she was with a group of girlfriends, and he hadn’t crossed the line to being so needy he’d pull her away from her friends. Or, at least, he hadn’t crossed the line to admitting he was that needy.

  Unfortunately, that meant that he saw very little of her that week, because he was in trial in Waco, and drove up before dawn Monday morning. Selma, however, wasn’t foiled by the distance; the woman made texting an art form. And all Easton had to do was remember to keep his phone away from his client and opposing counsel. No one else needed to see the naughty sexts they sent back and forth.

  The trial was exhausting and brutal, which was a good thing. For one thing, he loved the excitement of being in front of the bench and thinking on his feet; that was something he’d definitely miss if he won the election.

  On top of that, a perk of the intense concentration necessary for trial meant that he didn’t have time to miss Selma or mourn their time apart.

  But by the time he was finished with the final day’s trial prep on Thursday night, he was definitely ready for some sexy texts. That, of course, was when she didn’t send naughty pictures and raw words describing exactly what she intended to do when she saw him again. Instead, she texted him pictures of bats.

  He called her on the phone within seconds. “Bats? I was hoping for breasts. Yours, actually.”

  The sound of her laughter made him smile. “Too bad for you. I’m working on a new logo for Bat Bourbon. What do you think of the middle image?”

  He didn’t bother looking. Just frowned at the phone. “Baby, what’s going on with you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Branding isn’t your concern anymore. Or it won’t be after you sign.”

  “Oh. I know. I’m just fooling around. Besides, it’s kind of my legacy. I should go out with the company and brand looking exactly like I want them too, right?”

  Wrong.

  But what he said was, “What are you afraid of?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That if you keep the distillery you’ll be trapped? There are no bars. That it might fail later so you should sell it now? It won’t, and even if it does, you’ll survive. That you’ll be bored? You won’t be. You could find something fascinating in a sea of asphalt. That’s just the kind of person you are.”

  “Easton—”

  “That you’ll be alone?” He heard her sharp intake of breath. “You won’t be.”

  “You can’t promise that.”

  He hesitated, then closed his eyes. “Yeah. I think I can.”

  “I—” Her voice hitched.

  “Come with me on Saturday to the event at the Children’s Museum.”

  “What?”

  “As my date.”

  “But—”

  “I want you with me. I want us together.”

  She stayed silent.

  “You told me once that you understood what it was like to have the world ripped out from under you,” he said. “And I know the story behind please. Maybe it’s time you stop being afraid, Selma. Say yes, and come with me.”

  For a moment, there was silence. Then he heard her soft, breathy, “Yes,” followed by the click of the call disconnecting.

  Selma dialed the country code for Scotland, then put her phone down.

  Five minutes later, she picked it up again. This time, she got all the way through Sean’s number before she slid the phone away.

  The next time—an hour later after she’d showered—she forced herself to dial the full number and press the little handset icon.

  She heard the weird ring that signified that it wasn’t a US call, then tightened her grip so she wouldn’t be tempted to hang up again.

  A click, a yawn, and then a sleepy voice. “Selma?”

  Damn. She hadn’t factored in the time change.

  “I’m sorry to wake you. I just—I wanted to talk to you soon. So you were in the loop.”

  “There’s a loop?”

  She smiled. The odd question coupled with his sexy Scottish voice crossed the line into funny.

  “It’s just that I—well, I won’t be coming after all. I’m sorry if that leaves you in a lurch.”

  “Yeah?” Another yawn, followed by a soft, it’s okay, love, go back to sleep, and when he came back on, he sounded more human. “What’s up?”

  “I just—well, honestly, there’s a guy. No, that’s not it.” She shook her head. “It’s Free-Tail. I’m not ready to give it up.”

  She closed her eyes and waited for him to lose his temper. She knew he’d been counting on her help. He’d even arranged a flat for her to lease.

  A moment passed, then another. Then finally, he said, “If I were you, I couldn’t walk away either.”

  “You’re not mad?
”

  “Nah. Disappointed I won’t be seeing you, but come make a trip when you can.”

  Relief flooded through her, and for the first time she was not only certain she’d done the right thing, but she felt one hundred percent comfortable with a longterm decision.

  “I will."

  “And Selma? If there is a guy in the picture, bring him, too. I want to meet the man who finally got under your skin.”

  He had gotten under her skin, Selma realized. And the most significant evidence was that she was standing in Elena’s bedroom getting dressed for the Children’s Museum function.

  Since Easton had some sort of board meeting before the event, she was meeting him there. And she wanted him to know—not just through her words—that she’d made a decision. About her work, and her life.

  Because frankly, she didn’t want to see Marianne on his arm anymore. She wanted that job, and she considered today an audition.

  And none of her friends dressed as classy as Elena.

  “It’s a knockoff,” Elena said. “But it’s a good one.”

  “Chanel?”

  “Classic,” Elena said, holding the pale pink suit. “And you can match it with pearls and a silk blouse.”

  Selma looked at the conservative outfit dubiously, then reminded herself why she was doing this. She wanted to be a woman he didn’t hesitate to show off.

  But underneath the damn thing, she was wearing her thong.

  “We can cover your wrist tattoo with makeup. And a quick rinse will put your hair all to black. We can style it close to your face. Classic makeup and then stunning shoes and you’re all set.”

  “Shoes?” She hadn’t thought to bring any.

  “We’re the same size. I’ve got you covered.”

  An hour later, Elena’s words proved true. Selma hardly recognized herself as she stood in front of the mirror decked out in a conservative but classic suit, a scoop neck silk blouse paired with a choker of pearls—fake, but decent quality. Her hair was styled with curls worn close to her scalp, giving her a little bit of a flapper look.

  The shoes were kickass. Only three-inch heels, but the material was almost iridescent and it reflected the color of the dress.