At Last
Author: Addison Fox
Date: 2016-11-01 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Romance; Contemporary
Description: Meet the Brooklyn Brotherhood: three brothers who escaped rough childhoods in Park Heights, Brooklyn who grew into fiercely loyal, sexy men – and who find love when they’re least expecting it. After a year of turmoil, Emma Vandenburg Bradley returned home to Park Heights to run her family’s business – a Brooklyn institution – Unity brewery. Still trying to get her feet back under her, she definitely doesn’t want to be on the spectacularly bad date that ends with getting caught in a bar fight and her high school crush coming to her rescue. Nick Kelley’s career in the NFL was cut short, but now
Publisher: Macmillan

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Dedication

For Jennifer Claybaugh

Dear friend, wine confidant, and professional partner in crime. You put up with my (unceasingly bad) use of Snapchat, stubborn belief in the penny, and endless references to every John Hughes film ever made.

I knew the day you told me you named your dog after a romance heroine we were destined to be friends.

I’m so glad I was right.

“Give me a woman who truly loves beer and I will conquer the world.”

—Kaiser Wilhelm

Prologue

Brooklyn, 23 years ago

Never fall in love with a married man.

The words repeated themselves over and over in Louisa Mills’s mind, both a litany and a curse.

It had been a month since she was summarily fired from her job with Reynolds Investments. A month without pay. Without a future. Without Kincade.

She always had a plan. Had always prided herself on her lifelong ability to work toward a goal. She was one of the first female associates to make it into the inner sanctum at Reynolds and was only about a year away from making partner.

And then she’d gotten caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Or maybe that was a friendly euphemism, her conscience rose up and taunted her, for hand caught down the boss’s pants. Either way, she’d made the choice. Had set herself up for this monumental fall, and she had no one to blame but herself.

Except, of course, for Kincade.

Although the discovery had involved both of them, she had taken the fall. And all she had left were memories, a severance package meant to hush her up, and an emerald necklace he said was hers to keep.

Whore.

That word whispered across her mind every time she thought of the necklace.

She owned her affair and all that had come since, but the necklace . . . somehow she hadn’t quite come to terms with the payment. All she saw, when she dared to pull it from the bottom of her purse, was a payoff.

So here she was, back in the Park Heights neighborhood she’d grown up in. Nothing had changed since she’d walked these Brooklyn streets as a young girl. The storefronts just looked older—shabbier, somehow—and the sidewalks more cracked.

Just like her life.

The crosswalk light changed and she exhaled with a heavy sigh. Much as she’d like a few more weeks to wallow in the small, one-room apartment she’d rented in the heart of Park Heights, she was nothing if not pragmatic.

She needed a job. She’d saved a bit, but not nearly enough to continue paying for her Upper East Side apartment. She could only count herself lucky her lease renewal had come up the same week as her disgrace at Reynolds. She’d been on the fence about keeping up the apartment, thinking a larger place closer to Kincade’s home would be better, and hadn’t re-signed her lease yet.

Now it was the one decision that had worked in her favor.

Shep’s Martinizing came up on her right and she pushed through the front door. Old man Shepherd sat behind the counter, his dry cleaning days long past. His sons worked the back now.

“Little Louisa Mills, how are you?”

Louisa didn’t miss the still-sharp gaze, despite the rheumy brown of his eyes. “Good, Mr. Shepherd. I’m good.”

“Dante tells me you’re back in the neighborhood. For good, I hope.”

Although she had no doubt word of her failure had spread like wildfire, she had no intention—ever—of telling anyone she was basically unemployable on the entire island of Manhattan.

Kincade’s wife, Gretchen, had seen to that.

So she swallowed past the dismal truth and put a broad smile on her face. “I’m happy to be home.”

“We’re glad to have you back.”

That gaze sharpened even further and Louisa imagined herself shrinking before him.

Did he know all of it? Had Gretchen’s influence somehow extended here, too?

“I have need of your help, young lady.”

She nearly laughed out loud at the idea of being young at thirty-six, but knew old habits died hard in the neighborhood. Mr. Shepherd was eighty if he was a day, and she supposed thirty-six still looked fairly young from his side of the desk.

“What is it?”

“I need you to do my books. My sons—bah!” He waved a hand. “They know nothing of taxes. Or numbers.”

“But I’m not a bookkeeper, Mr. Shepherd.” She was a day trader and a damn good one. She’d managed billions of dollars in financial portfolios, for God’s sake.

“You know numbers, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then you do my books.” Old man Shepherd pounded his hand on the counter, then reached under it to pull out a ledger and a checkbook. “I’ll pay you now. In good faith for the first month.”

“I haven’t said yes.”

He steamrolled through the argument, and Louisa didn’t miss the avid stares that came from the back of the dry cleaner as his two youngest sons, Eddie and Steven, watched the exchange. “And when you finish here, you manage the finances for Dante’s restaurant. And my daughter’s convenient store.”

She smiled at the butchering of Annie’s “convenience” store, but knew what he offered would keep her busy.

And the check would go a long way toward calming her nerves at the lack of income.

This job would tide her over and give her time to think of what to do next while keeping her mind busy. Some task—any task—would be more welcome than the constant berating she’d been unable to shake from her mind.

“And now that you’re back in the neighborhood, you need a house. Mrs. Weston is selling her brownstones on Cherry Street.”

“Why?” Intrigued, Louisa leaned across the counter. Mrs. Weston had owned her “brownstones” since she and her husband bought it after the war. The widow was getting up there in age, but Louisa had no idea why Mrs. W. would want to sell it instead of passing it on to her children.

“Go see her. She tell you all about it.”

Within minutes, Louisa was on her way, her arms full of the business suits that she used to wear like armor. Her favorite—a power suit in vivid red—sat on top of the pile, a colorful reminder of what she used to have.

Whether it was the mocking reminder of who she used to be or the equivalent of challenging a bull with a red cape, Louisa didn’t know. But as she left Shep’s, she turned right instead of left and headed for Cherry Street. For the first time since Kincade had given her the necklace, it didn’t feel like a lead weight in her purse.

In fact . . . it might just be her ticket to a future.

A loud shout as she turned onto Elm pulled her from her thoughts, and she caught sight of three boys huddled together on a busy playground. She didn’t stop, not wanting to seem odd by staring at children who couldn’t be more than about ten playing at recess, but something in the set of the three, separate from the others, captivated her.

She slowed even further, almost unaware of doing so, until she stumbled on the plastic of her dry-cleaning bag. She managed to keep herself from falling, but the bag flew from her hands, tossing up a cloud of dirt as it landed in the patchy grass along the sidewalk.

With a soft curse, she bent to pick up the suits. Irritation speared through her stomach as she saw several of the suits now bore brown dirt stains through torn plastic. While she might not have need of them at the moment, she certainly didn’t want them ruined.

Muttering to herself, she gathered up her clothing and caught sight of the boys staring at her as she regained her feet. Large, solemn eyes caught hers, and she followed each boy’s stare in turn, something tugging deep inside of her as she looked at each of them.

The smallest finally spoke. “You okay, lady?”

She couldn’t have held back the laugh if she’d tried. Was she okay? With her life in ruins and her goddamned future right back where she’d started?

Without warning, the laughter sprouted tears and she began sobbing, right there on the sidewalk in front of Park Heights Elementary.

In front of three small boys who couldn’t be more than nine or ten, but who had the most somber eyes she’d ever seen. Old eyes.

Somehow she knew each of those pairs of eyes had seen things a child should never see.

The largest of the three—who’d remained silent and still throughout the exchange—hopped up from the small circle they’d been sitting in, a dandelion in his hands. He crossed to the fence and stuck the flower through the chain.

“Here.”

She took the flower—weed, she well knew—and held it up. Her fingers brushed across his for the briefest moment and she marveled at the strange sensation that shimmered over her spine before gripping her tight. “What’s this for?”

“It’s for you.”

And then the little imp turned and ran back to the other boys, who were already on their feet. Once the third reached them, they all ran toward a woman blowing a whistle to signal the end of recess.

Louisa stood there and watched, not sure why she was so captivated by the trio, but unable to look away. But at the last minute, just before the boys filed back in the school doors, the tallest one turned around to look at her. He flashed her the most heartbreaking smile and waved.

As she lifted her hand, that feeling shifted once more, this time deep inside, to squeeze her heart.

And in that moment, she sensed her future was about to change in ways she’d never imagined.

Chapter One

The first thing he noticed was her legs.

Some men—most men, he quickly corrected himself—were breast men. Others liked asses. Even more were suckers for a red-hot pair of lips. While he enjoyed every part of a woman, he’d been a leg man since his twelve-year-old self had stayed up late one night, sick on the couch, and watched Julia Roberts strut her stuff down Rodeo Drive in a microscopic miniskirt and tank top in Pretty Woman.

Nick Kelley ran a hand over his stomach and fought the rising sense of interest. He’d watched the woman—who was she?—fake smile her way through her date’s dumb jokes, flirty smiles, and chair position that continued to move closer to hers.

Those killer legs were crossed, visible past the wooden legs of the table, topped off by what he fondly thought of as fuck-me heels. His mother would have smacked him in the head for that one—some thoughts were meant to be kept private for a reason—but he did his imagined penance by shifting his gaze to her face.

He’d looked at her when the pair had walked in, quickly cataloguing the fact he’d never seen either of them, before he’d amended the thought on the woman. She did look familiar, and it had nagged at him for the last hour why he couldn’t place her.

He knew she hadn’t been into the End Zone before, so why was he so convinced he knew her?

Long blonde hair waved down her back, and she wore a prim sweater set over a black pencil skirt. She was more librarian than bombshell, but hell if he wasn’t fascinated all the same.

As her uninterested brown eyes measured her date’s chair when it shifted another notch closer, Nick refocused on his work.

Not your problem, he mused to himself as he continued to build his final Guinness for the young financier he’d overheard bragging to his friends about his recent business trip to Dublin. The kid was buying and Nick pulled a pretty penny for the beers, so it was all in a night’s work.

And hell, everyone wanted bragging rights to something at twenty-five. He wasn’t even ten years past that mark, but he remembered the time well.

Finishing up the last build, he added the tab to the kid’s credit card and passed down the beers, satisfied to watch the lot of them—all in their Friday suits—traipse their way toward a knot of well-dressed young women.

Laughter and conversation echoed throughout the bar and that subtle lightness that meant summer was on its way hovered in the air. Memorial Day weekend was a week away, and he’d heard more than one conversation about reservations on the Hampton Jitney or houses down the Jersey Shore.

After he’d left Brooklyn for the NFL, he’d never have believed it, but Park Heights had come back, in a big way. What had been a crumbling old neighborhood had been reborn, as Manhattan’s young workforce tumbled over the bridges to live and play.

Hell, even his place was a story of bringing something back to life. The End Zone’s former owner, Chili Samuels, had practically gifted him the crumbling structure five years earlier. Although the old man had claimed it was because they went way back—Nick’s father having dragged him into Chili’s establishment through much of his youth—Nick knew better.

Other than great bones, the bar formerly known as Sam’s Place was nothing more than a dive, and Chili wanted nothing more than to get out from underneath it. Nick and his brothers had gutted the place practically down to the studs, then rebuilt everything from the ground up.

“We’re hot tonight.” Patty, his chief barmaid, sauntered up to the counter. Fifty if she was a day, her dark corkscrew curls hid a brain that could calculate a bar tab and tip at twenty paces, all while keeping exact count of how many drinks she’d served to each of her patrons.

“Yet you manage it like a pro.”

“Darlin’, I’ve been serving drinks since before I could have one myself. Nothing ruffles me.”

“Music to my ears.”

She grinned and patted her hair. “And yuppies with shiny credit cards, ordering high-end drinks, are music to mine.”

Nick shot her a wink, took her order for table twenty-five—refills he’d already committed to memory—and set about pouring wine and mixing a Sazerac. As he worked, his gaze drifted from the age-old dance going on with the young bucks and worked its way around the room in a steady progression.

He’d had the skill young and had further honed it during his years playing football. That ability to look, retain, and assess in rapid order. It was a quarterback’s bread-and-butter—the only way to ensure nearly every pass didn’t end up in your opponent’s hands—and he was damn good at reading his progressions.

Whether a natural skill or one he’d quickly developed because of his old man he didn’t know, but he had it.

His gaze settled once more on the blonde librarian, and he fought the nagging sense of familiarity that kept chewing at him. Was she a friend of one of his brothers? Although it seemed unlikely Fender would date a woman as buttoned up and polished as this one, Landon might know her. Was she one of his brother’s geek goddesses Nick had somehow forgotten?

“You got my Sazerac, Nicky?” Patty tossed a glance over her shoulder before lowering her voice. “The natives are restless tonight.”

“You know this one takes some time to make.” He nodded toward a glass already coated with Herbsaint before returning his attention to the bitters that finished off the drink.

“He’s so loaded he won’t notice if you skip the two-glass routine. Hell, he won’t notice if you just give him a glass of whiskey and be done.”

“You know who has his keys?”

“Already overheard his friend telling him this was the last round and that the car service was scheduled for ten.”

Nick glanced at his watch—estimated the guy could still do himself a fair amount of harm in the next thirty minutes—and eyed Patty. “See that Hector follows them out, will you?”

“You got it.”

“And send out two plates of potato skins on the house. It won’t sober him up, but it may slow him down a bit.”

“Will do.”

Nick handed over his masterpiece and reset the ingredients for the Sazerac on the back wall of the bar. He was a good bar owner—he didn’t rip off his patrons and he tried to watch out for their dumber choices—but he couldn’t fix how they’d feel the next morning.

As he turned back to face the room, Nick gave himself a moment. The bar was hopping tonight, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the view. This was his. The bar he’d built from scratch, sprouted from the seeds of professional football, after the actual dream of playing was ripped away from him.

This was good. Real and as solid as the teakwood under his fingertips.

And, in the five years since he’d opened the bar, it had become his new dream. One built as neatly with muscle and bone, sweat and labor, as football had been.

His gaze stopped once more on the pretty woman who’d captivated his attention all evening, her body language showing increasing disinterest. Her date’s chair had moved even closer, and Nick toyed briefly with heading over to say something to lighten the mood until a shout from the front door snagged his attention.

“Yo, boss!” Hector nodded toward the door and lifted a thumb. His head bouncer didn’t often ask for help, and Nick muttered a curse before he took off at a quick clip through the bar.

The sense of pride that had filled him as he gazed over what he’d built shifted, then swelled into something more.

This was his bar. His space. His rules.

And he protected what was his.

Emma Vandenburg Bradley shifted in her chair once more and tried to keep any note of encouragement from her words, facial expressions, or body language.

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 small 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.

She was on the slender side—too slender, though he’d had many a girlfriend who’d assured him there was no such thing—and he sensed the state was self-inflicted vs. naturally designed. A light hollowness filled the spaces under her cheekbones, and her makeup couldn’t quite hide the circles under her eyes.

Who hurt you?

Unbidden, a memory of his mother filled his thoughts. The first time he’d seen her, actually, at the ripe old age of ten. He, Landon, and Fender had been out on the playground at recess, and a woman walking by had dropped her dry cleaning.

She’d looked so sad, Nick remembered.

He didn’t understand the whys of it then—still didn’t fully—but he’d known the look all the same, and he’d never forgotten it.

Funny that the look on Emma’s face reminded him of that day. The urge to leave her in peace was strong, but she’d already tried to give him the bum’s rush more than once. Somehow he sensed letting her fall asleep in his office wasn’t the way into her affections.

And when had that thought taken root?

Nick shook it off, his voice gruff and a little too loud when he finally spoke. “You doing okay?”

Her eyelids fluttered open, and she struggled to sit up from the depths of the couch his brother had lovingly dubbed “the Monster.”

“I must have dozed off.”

“Sorry it took me so long. Hector got a lead on where that asshole outside might have gotten his supply, and I wanted to check it out.”

“You’ve got a business to run. You don’t need to babysit me.” She sat up straighter. “Did you turn up anything?”

“Nothing. Whoever might have been here slithered out in the commotion.” Nick fought down the irritation. He knew the drugs and occasional crime came with the territory of owning a bar. But fuck, he’d be damned if he was going to be complacent about it. Refocusing on Emma, he added, “And I’m not babysitting you. You were hurt at my place and I’m going to see you get home okay.”

Whatever protest sprang to her lips never manifested as he hefted the tray of brownies. Fascinated, he watched as her dark eyes—well, one dark eye—narrowed in clear interest. “Patty sent these in with her regards. I figure you can eat with one hand and keep this ice pack on with the other.”

“Are these Stewey’s brownies?”

“Yep.”

“Then you figure right.”

He sat down next to her and handed her the plate. Even with the shiner, a look of sheer ecstasy filled her face at her first bite of Stewey’s gooey goodness, fondly known around their neighborhood as “crack.”

So Emma knew Stewey and his legendary brownies, which meant she was familiar with the neighborhood.

“Are you from around here?”

“Was. I’ve been in Chicago for a long time.”

“And now you’re back?”

She nodded around the mouthful of brownie, then spoke after delicately wiping her lips. “It’s changed a lot. For the better, I think. Although these brownies have always been a highlight of the neighborhood.”

Before he could ask her when she’d lived here, she pressed on, the gaze out of her one open eye clearly speculative. “You’ve really made something out of this place. Although . . .” a small smile hovered around her lips, chasing those hollows under her cheekbones away, “ . . . I think that desk has seen better days.”

“I made a lot of changes in here, but I couldn’t get rid of Chili’s desk.”

“Why not?”

“He claimed Joe Willie Namath sat on the edge of that very desk the week before he won the Super Bowl.”

“And that’s a reason to keep it?”

“It’s got ass magic.”

“Excuse me?” She began to choke on her brownie and he patted her back, immediately intrigued by the warmth under his fingertips.

Shaking off the thought—he was helping her for cripes’ sake—Nick refocused on his point. “Ass magic. That potent combination of believed good luck and nostalgia that makes people hang on to utter crap.”

“Well, when you put it that way . . .” She hesitated for a moment. “How’d you come up with this tidbit of insight into the human psyche?”

“Have you ever noticed the things people hang on to?”

“Memories are powerful.”

“They are, but I’m talking about the human belief in talismans. Inanimate objects we believe have some sort of innate power.”

He’d seen it over and over again in his years in sports. Special jerseys or a specific pair of cleats. Or worse, odd game-day rituals that often involved something gross, like too many hard-boiled eggs, or vomiting in a particular toilet stall.

In many ways it brought a strange sort of comfort—all humans had quirks—but at the same time, he fundamentally chafed at the thought that he needed an external source of power.

He made his own luck, forged his own path, and he’d be damned if he needed some charm or ritual to do it.

And still, he hung on to Chili’s desk, proving he was as vulnerable as the next person.

“So you feel this way yet you hang on to that desk instead of heading down to IKEA and getting a snazzy new one.”

He couldn’t hold back the grin at her logic—and the immediate way she boxed him in. “Proof I’m a sucker, too. Such is the power of ass magic.”

She polished off the last of her brownie before an impish spark filled her uncovered eye. “I suspect you’ve left a lot of ass magic in your wake, then.”

He’d grown used to the idea that people knew who he was, but her absolute lack of acknowledgment up to now had him thinking she was unaware of his NFL career.

The fact that she wasn’t was a huge surprise.

“I don’t have any Super Bowl rings.” Nor did he have a career in the NFL that spanned decades. Despite having come to grips with his exit from pro sports long ago, it never failed to surprise him how that reality could reach up and grab him by the balls every now and again.

“No, but you are the hometown hero.”

“Then Park Heights is aiming too low.”

Nick watched her face, but she held it as still as a poker ace. Her only tell was the furtive glance at the plate of brownies.

“Have another.”

“I do not need two of Stewey’s brownies. I shouldn’t have had one.”

“Live on the edge.”

The small smile that hovered about her lips faded as she firmly planted her hands in her lap. Nick had no idea what he’d said, but something doused the comfortable camaraderie between them.

“Would you like something to drink? I keep a few things stocked back here.”

“I’m fine.” She grabbed the water off of the small end table he kept parked next to the Monster. “I’ve intruded on your hospitality enough. I should get going.”

“Humor me and keep that ice pack on a little longer. I gave you a pass while you ate the brownie, but you need to keep the cold on it to avoid swelling.”

“I think I’m too late.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He reached forward and ran a fingertip across her cheekbone, the raw, red flesh shooting off another shock wave of anger through his gut. Ignoring that flare, he kept his voice soft. Easy. And at total odds with the fury that churned in his stomach. “Between ice and medicinal brownies, you should be better than you think.”

He knew he didn’t have a right to touch her—he didn’t know her—but the moment his fingertip met the soft skin of her cheek, need and desire nearly overwhelmed him.

Who was she?

He saw the lines of her neck contract as she swallowed, before breathy words came out in a rush. “And superstition. Don’t forget that. I’ve now been exposed to the ass magic of Nick Kelley.”

“Maybe I can show you a different kind of magic.” Before he gave himself another moment to think, he leaned forward and took.

Chapter Three

Emma sensed Nick’s actions before he moved, as if she hung suspended over a cliff. Nerves rumbled in her belly while anticipation infused her limbs with a heavy sort of gravity.

And then his mouth was on hers, drawing her in effortlessly, and she was soaring.

The incessant throbbing in her cheek faded, replaced with the desperate need to breathe in the man next to her. With his mouth, he dragged a response from her. And with the gentle pressure of his lips, he coaxed forth the needs she’d kept long buried.

His tongue met and merged with hers, an artful dance of need and desire. And as one moment spun into the next, the terrible, heavy weight of failure that had hung about her neck and shoulders for so long faded.

This man knew nothing of those days. Knew nothing of her keen sense of disappointment, the pain of bone-deep loss or the horrible, off-the-rails loss of control that had consumed her since her divorce.

He simply shared the moment. Shared his body. Shared himself.

With one final push against the walls of her mental museum, Emma focused on the moment at hand and reveled in the experience. Hesitantly, she ran her hands over the heavy fingers that rested on her shoulders, then, growing bolder, shifted over the firm flesh of his forearms. And as she continued her exploration, Emma tilted her head, allowing him better access to her mouth.

Another wave of need burst through her like sunshine, and a hard gasp caught in her throat at their erotic play of tongues.

She heard a light groan from the depths of his throat, delighting in the hot, heavy sound of need, and it pressed her on even more urgently than before. Her hands continued their exploration over the thick muscle of his biceps before she settled her fingers on the hard planes of his shoulders.

This was a man in his prime.

The thought was fleeting—abstract, even—yet powerful in its truth.

His fierce devotion to his business. His unwillingness to allow her to leave unescorted. Even the sculpted body beneath her hands was yet another example of how he lived his life.

Hard. Unyielding. And intent on doing what was right.

Her mental flight of fancy shifted, morphed as one of his hands drifted from her shoulders, down the skin of her throat to cup her breast. His motions were tender, yet firm, as his fingers floated over the material of her blouse and she leaned into the press of his thumb over her nipple.

Need cratered through her body at light speed and the last vestiges of thought vanished as he matched the thrusts of his tongue with the exquisite torture of his hands.

Had she ever felt anything so delicious?

Even as the memory of Stewey’s brownies still lingered on her tongue, she knew the flare of heat between them was sweeter than any dessert.

And far more fulfill—

The moment evaporated as a hard knock broke the moment, followed by a heavy holler through the door.

“Nick!”

A soft curse fell off the lips still pressed to hers before Nick sat back, disengaging his hand from her breast. “I’m sorry. Really, I am.”

Desire hazed the grayish blue of his eyes, and his breath continued to exhale in ragged puffs. But as another heavy knock sounded at the door, Emma watched him reach deep inside for the legendary focus he was known for. “What’s up, Hec?”

“Got a lead on that asshole from earlier. Worm’s outside, but we’re losing time.”

Emma nodded toward the door, finally trusting herself to speak. “Go. Please do what you need to do.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Go. Really.”

On a muttered curse he stalked toward the door and flipped it open. As she watched him walk away—her brief interlude in an otherwise uneventful year—Nick turned to look at her. “I’ll be right back.”

She just nodded, not trusting herself to say anything else. No matter how hard she tried, Emma knew herself.

And knew she’d run at the first opportunity.

“Make sure you put that ice on your eye.”

She nodded once more, counting off the seconds until she could escape.

“Fuck it to hell.”

Nick shifted the flowers in his hands along with the box of more of Stewey’s brownies as he climbed the front stoop of his mother’s brownstone.

He’d barely slept for two days, his interrogation with Hector and some neighborhood lowlife running into the early morning hours of Saturday. He’d followed that gem up by spending most of Saturday watching security feeds, all while trying to run a business. The work would have been mind-numbing at best, but he’d had to watch the feeds while sitting on the Monster, Emma’s subtle scent torturing him throughout the viewing of that footage.

As he’d suspected she would, she had vanished the first moment she’d had a chance. Even with Patty’s reassurances that she’d put Emma in a cab and paid for it out of the petty cash fund behind the bar, he was still spitting mad.

Why had she left?

And why the hell couldn’t he place why he knew her?

He’d tortured himself with images of the two of them on the couch, interspersed with the fleeting sense that he knew her.

Remembered her.

Had spent time with her.

Was that why she’d disappeared at the first opportunity? Had he offended her because he didn’t remember her?

Even as he tested the theory between every other restless thought, he shook it off. They didn’t know each other, it was as simple as that. And because he’d been stuck chasing leads all weekend, he hadn’t connected with Tommy to ask him if he knew anyone named Emma Bradley.

But damn it all if the puzzle of a prim, gorgeous blonde named Emma didn’t have him caught up.

Nick reached for the heavy door handle, juggling his cargo, and couldn’t quite shake the urge to knock. The brownstone on Cherry Street had been home for many years, but in the last few he’d come to fully think of it as his mother’s house.

Garlic and the yeasty scent of baking bread assaulted him the moment he stepped through the door as the sound of baseball from the living room, Puccini from the kitchen, and his brothers’ loud argument over an umpire’s call from somewhere in between hit him like a wave.

“Hey, Princess! So glad you finally decided to show up.”

With his hands full, Nick couldn’t offer up the normal finger gesture he’d send Fender’s way, so he settled for a mumbled, “You’re an asshole,” and headed for the kitchen.

And stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of his mother.

Her normally bright smile was dimmed as she stared into a pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove. He knew she hadn’t sensed his presence yet, and he took the stolen moment to really look at her. The slender lines of her neck curved as she stared into the pot, her shoulders drooping beneath that slim column.

Unbidden, a wave of panic slammed into his gut, but before he could say anything, she caught sight of him. Arms extended, the storm clouds in her gaze faded in the light of her smile. “Nick!”

Her still-strong arms wrapped around his waist, her head coming to the top of his chest. He stiffened for the briefest moment—as he always did—before sinking into her embrace.

Damn, but it was good to be home.

Louisa Mills might not have been the mother who brought him into this world, but she was the one who’d ensured he faced it with dignity, grace, and a certain “give ’em hell” attitude that had served him well.

She squeezed his waist once more before stepping back, her movements brisk and efficient, as always. “Here, let me take those.”

Despite appearances, Nick couldn’t keep himself from searching her face once more. Something had her upset, even if she was bound and determined to hide it. But with the sure knowledge she wouldn’t talk until she was ready, he shifted gears. “I’m sorry I’m late. Bad weekend.”

“What happened?” Mama Lou looked up from where she settled the bakery box on the counter.

“Had a bad drunk who mixed something dirty with his cocktails on Friday evening, thereby becoming the night’s main event.”

Her warm brown eyes narrowed even as her voice stayed calm and even. “Did he bring it in with him?”

“That’s what Hector and I spent until around three A.M. trying to figure out. Hec got a line on a guy through an acquaintance and hit him up for some information. It took me damn near all of yesterday to review security footage, but I don’t think the deal went down in my place.”

He and Hec had talked it over and Nick was ninety-five percent sure the End Zone was clean of the problem. He still needed to watch about an hour more of video feed, but chances were slim he’d housed the exchange.

Still. None of it changed the fact he didn’t want to be around the ugliness and waste of lives that came with addiction.

He’d lived with it for too long, he’d be damned if his bar would provide a backdrop for that sort of thing.

And why the hell did this have him so riled?

He owned a bar, and this wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with something like this since opening his doors. It was rare—people knew he ran a tight ship—but things did happen. And not everyone could keep their vices from veering into troubling waters.

And then he hit on it: Emma.

She was the reason he was so upset. He had a distaste for drugs in any form—knew they were a trigger to memories he’d prefer to leave buried—but his inability to settle was tied to something more. Something like the gorgeous woman you had in your arms.

It had been a kiss—a kiss along with the promise of a bit more—but the taste and feel of her hadn’t left his mind for longer than two minutes at a time.

Which made no sense. Hell, he’d been copping feels since he was fourteen and Melissa Jennings had let him stroke her glorious breasts underneath her school uniform.

So why had those moments in his office felt less like the forbidden and more like something perfectly right?

The words were almost out of his mouth to ask his mother if she knew the Bradley family before he stopped at the sound of voices. The makings of a heated argument traveled down the hallway toward the kitchen, followed swiftly by his brothers. They’d moved on from the bad sports call, and Landon had taken over, his lecture on computer safety bouncing off the back of Fender’s head.

“I’m serious, Fender. You may think no one wants the information you have in your office, but you need to store your financials properly.”

“I back them up.” Fender bent his long, lean form inside the refrigerator as he snagged a handful of long necks. “Just like you set up for me.”

There was no winning when Landon went on one of his tears, so despite the princess comment from earlier, Nick formed a wall of solidarity with his brother as Fender handed him one of the beers. “Lay off the geek speak, McGee. We get it. And when we fuck it up, you’re here to fix it, like always.”

“What he said. You know we worship at your geeky altar, L.” Fender’s bottle weaved in Nick’s direction, the beer wobbling dangerously close to spilling, when Mama Lou smacked them both from behind.

Along with the swift punishment, her tone announced she was firmly on Landon’s side. “Your brother has a point. You’re both businessmen now, and the community depends on you. Take care of all facets of your business or you’ll be finding yourself making some rather large apologies someday, when you have to go door-to-door telling the neighborhood their credit card information was stolen.”

Nick avoided the urge to roll his eyes that usually accompanied her demanding tone. Not only could his mother sense it through those magical eyes in the back of her head, but she was right about the security. And just like that—even more swift than his mother’s backhand—adulthood reared its head. He was a businessman. A damned good one. And he owed the people who parted with their money inside his walls a safe environment.

Wasn’t that the real reason why he was so bent about the possibility of drugs inside his bar?

Glancing down, he realized he still held the bouquet in his free hand. “These are for you.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need to clean up that mouth.”

He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. “You know you love us anyway.”

“Of course I do.” With a small smile twitching the edges of her lips, she pointed toward the stove. “So stir my sauce while I get these in water.”

Nick heard the muttered “suck-up” bouncing off the butter-yellow walls. Before he could respond properly—his hands flower-free and ready for finger gestures—the doorbell rang, and then Fender’s singsong tone echoed through the kitchen. “Get your game faces on.”

Yep, Nick thought with a grin. His mother’s weekend band of misfits had just arrived.

Louisa Mills had been hosting Sunday dinner in the kitchen of her Cherry Street brownstone for over two decades. After she’d gone home to wallow in Brooklyn after the “Kincade Disaster,” as she’d come to think of it, she’d taken stock of her life. Who she was. What she wanted. And, most importantly, who she was meant to become.

It had all become clear the day she stood inside Old Mr. Shepherd’s dry-cleaning store and he’d told her about Mrs. Weston’s brownstone for sale. She’d taken the turn for Cherry Street instead of toward that dismal apartment she was renting, and that was when she’d found her future.

When she’d met her boys.

Her gaze drifted to them as it always did, one by one, as she catalogued the men they’d grown into. Looking at them now, it seemed almost easy. But at the time, she’d had no idea what she was doing. Or if she was the right woman to raise them.

But something had called to her that day when she saw the three of them on the playground. So tough, yet so frightened underneath the bravado.

Just like me, she’d thought.

And as she’d looked into each of their eyes—Nick’s pale blue, Landon’s serious brown, and Fender’s bold, dare-me green—she’d known they were hers.

Nick set a serving plate of brownies on the table, the move pulling her from her reverie almost as fast as Emily Weston’s hand as it snaked out and grabbed one of the rich treats. Keying back into the banter around the table, Louisa didn’t miss the distracted haze that filled Nick’s eyes.

He was upset when he’d come in, and she understood why, but it seemed like something else was bothering him, too.

His father?

She dismissed the thought as quickly as it appeared. Arch Kelley had abandoned his paternal role long ago, the job infinitely less appealing when his son’s fists grew strong enough to return the man’s blows.

Arch had come around a few times after Nick made the NFL, looking for a handout. But Nick had put a swift end to that, and the man hadn’t returned. Last she’d heard, he’d moved on to somewhere in Florida, and she was glad of it.

Glad the ghost had vanished for parts unknown.

By the time they made it to dessert, their usual Sunday afternoon conversation had morphed, as it always did, through a number of topics: from Landon’s latest freelance gig doing programming security for a major auction house in the city, to Fender’s restoration job on a Pontiac GTO, to Nick’s plans to expand his business.

“You really think you’ve got a shot at the Unity Brewery? I thought Vandenburg was going to hang on to that place until he dies.” Dave Maxwell, their neighbor and one of Park Heights’s newer widowers—damn, resident, she meant resident—grabbed a piece of garlic bread, his gaze speculative. “Especially now that he’s got his daughter helping him run it.”

Louisa had heard the same about Emma Vandenburg’s return to Park Heights, and was surprised Nick hadn’t, if the clear notes of shock on his face were any indication. Her son owned one of the major nodes on the Park Heights grapevine, so the fact that the news hadn’t traveled his way was not only surprising, but suggested Vandenburg was downplaying Emma’s return more than Louisa had realized.

Wasn’t the man happy to have his daughter home?

She’d hated the years Nick lived away while he played. She’d encouraged him, of course, but it hadn’t diminished how much she missed seeing him.

Nick’s surprise shifted easily, his ability to change gears on the run as evident as always. “Vandenburg has a great product, but doesn’t know jack shit about marketing it. Hell, his brewery’s named after Brooklyn’s motto and he’s done nothing to play that up.”

A resounding cry of “In unity there is strength,” rose up at the table before Nick shot them all a big grin. “I knew I kept you all around for a reason.”

“It’s your gain, Nicky. One of the big breweries tried to gobble him up a few years ago.” Mrs. Weston, the original owner of their brownstone and current resident of the top-floor apartment, laid down the law as only she knew how. “Peter’s been a fool to hang on to that place so long. He should have gotten out years ago. Now his sorry ass is going to have to sell it to you for a song.”

Although Louisa knew it wasn’t quite that easy—Peter didn’t have to do anything—the return of his daughter to Park Heights would likely throw a crimp in Nick’s plans. He’d had his eye on the brewery for over a year, working and saving to make his offer.

Would Peter’s daughter ruin that, now that she was back in the picture?

Before Louisa could gently reprimand the older woman, Father Thad jumped in. “Now, Emily. That’s unkind and you know it. Pete’s struggled terribly with Marcy’s passing.”

“So what was his excuse before, Thaddeus? The man’s an ass.” Mrs. Weston waved her wine glass, the move decidedly solid for almost ninety years of living. “And he should have gotten out when the getting was good. Like I did.”

Mrs. W’s exaggerated wink showcased some rather heavy eye shadow, but Louisa knew it was hard to argue with the truth. Emily had rather gleefully sold the brownstone years before, contracting in residence on the top floor as part of the sale. The situation had worked out surprisingly well for all of them, with Mrs. W. knowing where all the hidden quirks of the house were, including backward taps, while also supplying ready babysitting before the boys were old enough to stay home alone.

She was still the closest thing they had to a grandmother, and Louisa had been grateful for her every day.

Her gaze drifted once more over her sons, then to Emily as she dove for a second brownie. She watched Father Thad’s thoughtful gaze as he stirred sugar into his coffee before his rich baritone echoed in agreement with Fender’s continued complaint of a bad call against the Yankees.

Dave got into the act, his quick grin and easy demeanor appealing.

Fascinatingly so.

Pushing the thought away, she stared down at her own cup of coffee, lost once more in thought. She’d made her bed a long time ago, and she had no right to think about Dave.

In it or otherwise.

The phone call she’d received three days ago had made that fact more than evident.

Emma smoothed her skirt and fought the rising tide of anxiety that churned in her stomach. She’d skipped breakfast, thinking food would make her feel worse, and now sorely regretted her haste. The coffee she’d drunk on an empty stomach had soured quickly, and she pushed her mug away when she caught a whiff of the cold brew.

With nervous fingers she brushed her hair behind her ear, accidentally hitting the tender spot near her eye and cheekbone that still throbbed from her Friday night run-in.

The run in before you ran out, her conscience taunted her as her hands drifted away from the mottled bruise. The bruise her father had been bitching about since the moment he saw it.

“You’re here early.”

As if she’d conjured him up, Peter Vandenburg walked into the conference room, his steaming mug in one hand and a donut in the other. The donut was his third this morning—she’d noticed the first two were missing, their O-shaped greasy spots evident when he’d opened the box upon his arrival—and she wondered how he’d been managing since her mother’s passing.

What had started out as grief five years before, and an unwillingness to cook for himself, had shifted into a devil-may-care sort of daily living that included copious amounts of sugar, butter, and anything else he could find that came out of a fast-food window or from a bakery counter.

She’d tried discussing it with him, only to be cut off with swift anger and grumbled complaints and questions about who the parent was here.

But she worried.

Worry that had only escalated with his latest decision to sell the brewery—a bit of news he’d dropped on her over dinner at the diner the previous afternoon.

“I’m here early to try and convince you once more what a bad idea this is,” she said.

“I’m done being a businessman. Done with the Unity and running a sinking ship. I want off, and I’ve found just the buyer.”

“It’s only a sinking ship because you refuse to invest in it. And you didn’t want off before. Even after Mom died, you weren’t ready to sell.”

“I want off now.”

She looked at him—really looked at him—and was humbled by what she saw. The once-vibrant man now hunched, the heavy paunch around his waist seeming to pull him down. His thick, wavy, blond hair—courtesy of his Dutch ancestors—had gone a sickly yellow, white peppering the edges. But where she saw it most clearly was his eyes.

Their warm brown had hardened, becoming dull and jaded with disinterest.

Her father had always been a hard man, but losing her mother had changed him. And when she looked past the physical, Emma knew she hadn’t helped the situation with the choices she’d made in her life.

She’d missed her mother’s illness, choosing to stay in Chicago, believing things couldn’t have been that bad until it was too late to pretend any longer. Her own problems had been a crushing weight at the time, and she’d readily accepted the continued reassurances from her parents that her mother was fine. Hindsight had provided the lesson—her mother had kept the truth of her diagnosis quiet in deference to Emma’s miscarriage and subsequent marital problems.

And now she not only was an ungrateful child, but a divorced woman, too. One who had come home, her failure in full view of her father’s disapproving gaze.

“So why’d you wait until I’d completed my education, ready to come back and help you? Worse, you dropped this on me without even giving me a chance to give an opinion.”

“Education?” Disdain coated his words as thickly as sugar coated the damn donut in his hand. “You went to learn a trade your family’s had for generations, after you flitted around for nearly a decade. Then you let that school come in the way of your marriage, pushing your husband farther and farther away. Now you think you’re going to magically fix everything here? It’s too late.”

“The Siebel Institute is one of the most respected courses of study in the world,” Emma tossed out, repeating one of the arguments she’d tried repeatedly the day before. “And there’s nothing magic about proper training and hard work.”

Her father’s gaze flitted to the box of donuts before settling back on her. “You’d have been better off working hard to fix your marriage.”

“Cole and I had problems, Dad. Problems that weren’t going to get better.”

“If you’d tried harder. Maybe tried for another baby.”

He’d intimated as much before, but had never said the words. She was shocked that they had the power to slice so deep. Like looking at a photograph and then seeing someone in person, the memory of losing the baby never quite compared to the sharp clarity of the real thing.

The old Emma, the one who’d foolishly believed her marriage had a future, had thought the same thing once—that another child could help heal the marriage. Women miscarried all the time, and while painful and personal, it didn’t necessarily spell the end of having a family.

Except Cole had been unwilling to try. Excuse after excuse had piled up until she’d finally had to acknowledge the truth: The life she’d believed in wasn’t meant to be because the man she’d expected to share it with had already checked out well before the miscarriage.

“A baby wasn’t meant to be for us.” Emma spoke the words carefully, desperately hoping to end the conversation there. She could talk about the baby—it had taken a while, but she could do it—so it was a surprise to realize the pain was still so fresh when talking to her father.

On a deep breath, she went back to her initial argument. “Look. We don’t need to move forward with a sale. Siebel is an incredible institution. Every major brewery counts graduates among its staff.”

“Then you’ll have no problem getting a job.”

The conference room phone buzzed, effectively ending the round. A numbness settled over her, the result of yet another skirmish in the circular argument with her father that she seemed unable to end. She’d worked her ass off for the last few years to make a change. To prove her worth to her husband, her family. But most of all, to herself.

It might have been a bad move to come home, but she’d be damned if she was going to hide, with her tail between her legs.

So why’d you run from Nick’s bar the other night?

The thought rose up, swift and immediate, crushing her chest with swift blows and taking her “I am woman hear me roar” routine down a peg.

He’d had things to do. Problems to deal with. He didn’t need her loitering in his office while he handled those problems.

But those heated moments in his arms were never far from her thoughts.

She owned the fact she’d run, but the past few days had her reconsidering her actions. And in her bolder moments, thinking maybe she should take a walk over to the End Zone for the bar’s weekly ladies’ night, later that same day.

Bolstered by the thought of decisive action, she reached for the phone. “Yes, Cynthia?”

“Mr. Santola and his client are here.”

Her father piped up before she could reply, his voice firm. Unrelenting. “Send them in. Weatherford, too.”

Emma stabbed the off button on the phone before summoning up one last salvo. “We don’t have to do this. I’ve got connections, and I’ve got credentials now. I know we can get a loan to float us for a bit longer. I can turn this around. I can make something of the Unity once again.”

“It’s too late.”

For too long, she’d assumed her choices were done, and her life was set in stone. But bad choices weren’t set in stone, and a life could be remade. She’d remade hers, damn it. She’d done it, and she was done cowering. And fucking done apologizing.

“This brewery is my inheritance. I’m not going to give up this easily.”

Her father’s gaze drifted toward the conference-room door, his face a mask of hard lines once more as the door swung open. “Then fight with them about it.”

Tommy Santola came through the door first, his warm smile and stocky build exactly the same as they were in high school. She stood, her hand going out in greeting before her gaze caught on the large man following Tommy through the door.

Her breath caught in her throat, but this time it was with feminine knowledge instead of wistful imagination. She knew those broad shoulders. Those long, strong fingers. Those firm lips.

She knew the power and passion that lived inside that impressive frame.

But most of all, she knew the determination that lived behind those blue eyes.

Nick Kelley had come to buy her future.

Chapter Four

During his first practice after being drafted, Nick had taken a tackle from behind. They weren’t practicing at full strength, but the raw nerves of a bunch of rookies had caused the collision all the same.

One minute he’d been on his feet, reading the field and lining up a pass, and the next the ground was rising up to meet him at double speed, and he was laid out flat, a three-hundred-pound payload on his back.

He’d seen stars that day, and still considered it one of the worst hits he’d ever taken in the pros.

But even that—the big one that had set the stage for the rest of his professional career—hadn’t packed the same punch as seeing Emma Bradley standing across the conference room.

She’d applied makeup, but he could still see the greenish-yellow tinge of a bruise around her eye. The sickly color was a perfect match for the pitch and roll of his stomach.

What the hell was she doing here?

The excitement that had carried him to Tommy’s office and on to the brewery faded at the sight of her.

In a flash, the puzzle that had haunted him all weekend fell into place.

Vandenburg. Emma Vandenburg, not Bradley. His lab partner in eleventh-grade chemistry. The moment it clicked, he couldn’t stop the rush of memories or the supreme sense of playing the fool.

Why hadn’t he placed her?

Somewhere in the back of his mind, in the soupy gray matter that had remembered her all along, lived that soft smile. The delicate features. And that subtle grace that still seemed slightly out of place for a small neighborhood in Brooklyn.

Why was she here? Or back here, really.

Tommy moved them farther into the room, and Nick didn’t miss the tight-lipped confusion that painted his friend’s face as he settled a thick, leather attaché case on the scarred conference-room table. The table matched the rest of the room, the dingy, aged walls an odd frame to Emma’s long, still form. Floor-to-ceiling windows that rimmed the perimeter looked out over the production floor. Even at the early hour, the lines were moving, packaging what looked like bottles of Unity’s premium line, based on the thick brown bottles dropping in neat rows into open cardboard containers.

Nick knew he should say something, but just like after that badass hit from behind over a decade ago, he’d momentarily lost his ability to speak.

Friday night’s sweater set had been replaced with a prim blouse that made his fingers itch, since the thin silk did nothing to hide the lush curves underneath. Lush curves he’d cupped in the palm of his hand.

“Nick?” Tommy’s puzzled tone and light press on the back had him moving around the edge of the table toward their hosts. Nick shook hands with Peter and his lawyer before Tommy extended a smile to the last person in the room. “You remember Emma? It’s been a while, but high school’s not that distant a memory.”

The voice that had utterly deserted him squeaked out on a tight hitch as he extended a hand. “It’s been a long time since Mr. Pope’s chemistry class.”

One eyebrow lifted, the move at odds with the quiet woman from Friday. “So you do remember.”

“Your name. You got married.” Nick wasn’t sure why that knowledge skewered him—or his near-Neanderthal shot of jealousy at that simple fact—but it did.

“I did. I’m not any longer.”

Emma turned to Tommy and gave him a large hug. “It’s good to see you, Santa.”

“You, too.”

Although she’d abruptly ended the discussion on her marriage, Emma’s hug—and use of Tommy’s nickname—was genuine. But where Nick would have expected some easing of the tension that gripped the room, it only got worse, the air heavy with the expectation of a battle.

“When did you get back?” Tommy took over the conversation, the smooth skills he’d honed as an adult, coupled with a natural ability to make friendly small talk, went a long way toward defusing the social bomb that seemed to have landed in the room.

Although Emma’s comments were ostensibly aimed at Tommy, Nick sensed her attention was squarely centered in his direction. “I finished up my degree at Siebel and decided it was time to come home and put it to good use for the family business.”

The temptress from Friday night had vanished, replaced with a hard-eyed negotiator who was clearly sizing him up. Despite the sensual kick of awareness, Nick refused to hold back. “These plans have been in the works for some time.”

Emma’s gaze flashed toward her father, the move so quick Nick would have missed it if he weren’t watching her so closely. “So I understand.”

Unbidden, snippets of Sunday dinner came back to him. His mother’s motley crew had dissected his opportunity with the Unity, and if he’d given more attention to the conversation—and less to his memories of a warm temptress on his office couch—he’d have prepared far better for the meeting.

“You really think you’ve got a shot at the Unity Brewery? I thought Vandenburg was going to hang on to that place until he died. Especially now that he’s got his daughter helping him run it.”

Helping him run it? He’d dismissively assumed his family meant someone to manage the books or answer phones until the sale went through. Hell, the woman had a degree from Siebel. There was no way Vandenburg would be dumb enough to sell now. Not when he was sitting on someone who had the highly specialized knowledge to manage the brewery and its product.

His voice as smooth as the black silk shirt that was his trademark, Tommy pointed toward a stack of papers on the conference table and said, “I’ve spent the last week working through the points of the contract with Mr. Vandenburg’s attorney. Today’s session should be quick. A formality, really, so we can jointly review the details before we move to finalize the financials.”

Nick stared out the window of the conference room and brought the blur of motion on the production floor into focus. Thousands of gallons of beer flowed beneath them, rich with the heritage of the Unity Brewery, and soon to be his.

He’d dreamed about this moment. Had worked and planned and saved to make this purchase.

And as he stared across the scarred table at the misery stamped on Emma’s face, he realized this dream—like all dreams—came with a price.

Papers?

They were already drawn up? With today’s meeting nothing more than a formality to review any lingering discrepancies?

Emma hadn’t doubted her father when he insisted he wanted to sell the brewery, but she saw now just how much he’d skirted the truth. And how far he’d traveled down the path of killing her legacy.

The thick stacks of legal papers in the middle of the conference-room table held her in a hypnotic grip.

Legal separation.

Division of assets.

Bill of divorce.

Memories of a long, sleek conference-room table replaced the scarred one she’d sat at as a small child, the Chicago skyline sharp against a bright blue sky as images filled her mind’s eye. Cole sat across the table, his suit pressed into impeccable lines, and he methodically took everything they’d worked for.

Everything they’d built together.

Questions had screamed in her head that day. Why should he get the apartment? Why didn’t he want the dining-room set? Why didn’t he want her?

She hadn’t asked any of them.

Instead, she’d nodded quietly, followed her lawyer’s gentle prompts of where to sign her name, and listened to him explain how to collect her check for Cole’s buyout of their apartment.

She didn’t ask questions. She couldn’t recall even uttering a word beyond a few polite thank-yous. Instead, she’d signed her name on page after page of documentation that dissolved her marriage.

Emma Bradley.

Bradley.

B-r-a-d-l-e-y.

A small sense of irony threaded through the incessant screaming in her head. No matter what he took—no matter how hard he negotiated—Cole wasn’t allowed to take his name back.

She’d kept it because of the lingering memory of how much it had meant to her to take it in the first place. The dreams she’d embedded in their future. And maybe, if she were honest, for a bit of spite, too. The one thing he couldn’t take away, no matter how much he might want to.

How funny, then, that the small, vengeful impulse—so foreign to her, so alien to her personality—only added to her current problem. She was no longer a Vandenburg. So how the hell was she going to keep her assets this time?

Legal separation.

The words drummed through her mind, as harsh and cold as they were the day Cole had asked for one. What her father was doing with the Unity was no different.

Only it was.

It had to be.

“I’d like to see the prospectus.”

Her father waved a hand at the center of the table. “Like it matters, Emma. The business is as good as sold. Kelley’s shared his intent. He’s made a sound initial offer, and we’re moving on.”

Philip Weatherford, the brewery’s long-time attorney, reached for a copy, but Nick beat him to it, his long arm stretching effortlessly across the table to hand her the thick sheaf of papers. “Here. Please take all the time you need.”

Their fingers brushed as she took the papers and, unbidden, a memory from high school replaced the surreal moment. Kind eyes. Nick Kelley had kind eyes. He’d had them at sixteen, and that much hadn’t changed.

Even if he did want her family’s brewery.

Desperate to keep that in the forefront of her thoughts, she focused on the papers in her hand.

Division of assets.

She scanned the specifics, detailing the property, the packaging facility they had a share in over in Jersey, even the formularies for the various beers they produced. All of it was lined out in precise terms. Legal terms.

Unbreakable terms.

Bill of divorce.

Although this meeting wasn’t the equivalent of a divorce, it might as well have been, for all the finality of what her father was prepared to do.

Without warning, a small flame flared to life inside of her. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, it sparked of its own accord, birthed from the disaster of her old life. Images rushed through her mind in a confused wash as her heart beat a rapid tattoo.

That conference table in Chicago as her marriage dissolved.

The small, one-room apartment that still looked like it belonged to someone else, dominated by that fucking dining-room table and matched sideboard she didn’t even want.

And the self-loathing during her date on Friday night, that small inner voice inside of her screaming for her to get out, but not quite knowing how.

She was done. And oddly enough, it was the man who sat opposite her—the one who so clearly wanted what her father was more than willing to disregard—who had started it all.

His gentle smile. His insistence on caring for her after the wayward punch outside his bar. His warm, sensual lips.

And those eyes.

Nick had started her down this path, and as that flame flared higher, she couldn’t give him what he wanted. No, she amended to herself as her next step came into sharp relief, she wouldn’t give him what he wanted.

“I deserve some time on this.”

“The terms have been agreed to, Emma.” Tommy’s voice was soft, his normally sharp demeanor nowhere in evidence.

“And I appreciate that. All the work you and Philip have already put into it. The good faith Mr. Kelley has brought to this process. I appreciate all of it. But we need time.”

“We don’t need any time.” Her father’s sneer was impossible to miss.

“Then I need time. I can block this.”

“Like hell you can.”

Her father was out of his chair, his hand slamming on the table, but Emma stood, unwilling to back down. “Like hell I can. And I will. You’ve been out of your mind since Mom died. And lest you forget, I own her shares, so you can’t railroad me and assume I’m okay with it.”

Her father’s face reddened with anger and embarrassment. “Ten percent can’t block a sale. I have the majority.”

“But I can block this indefinitely, and you know it.” A deep shot of remorse, completely at odds with her panic at losing her future, mixed with all the weight of wet cement. This was important to Nick. She saw it in his eyes. In the earnest set of his shoulders. In the formal dress.

He wanted this. But damn it, she wanted it, too.

And now they stood in each other’s way, at yet another crossroads of her life.

Like that hit so long ago, Nick wasn’t sure what had blindsided him. He wanted to be angry. Hell, he was pissed and steamed and ready to punch something.

But he couldn’t quite shake just how impressed he was by the sight of Emma Bradley, pulled up to her full height and going toe-to-toe with her old man.

Pete Vandenburg had been a bother from the start. Father Thad had nailed part of the issue at dinner—the man hadn’t been the same since he lost his wife. But grief had pushed him to an entirely new level. Throughout the negotiation, his behavior had swung wildly. At times he’d been as truculent as a bull, and at other times he’d worn the gentle demeanor of a man who was old and tired and simply wanted to be done with it all.

Vandenburg’s lawyer made some quick excuses and pulled Pete and Emma from the room, his request for a break more than welcome by all.

“What the hell, Tommy?” Nick tossed his prospectus on the table, the thick sheaf landing with a hard thud. “Can she do this?”

“Afraid so.”

“Block the sale entirely?”

“Pete still owns majority and can ultimately push this through. But she’s right, she can slow it down some.” Tommy stood and walked toward the coffee. “More than some.”

“Do I walk?”

The words were like crushed glass on his tongue, and Nick fought the dismal sense of failure that accompanied the question. This was his dream, damn it. His fucking future.

“How bad do you want it?”

He shot Tommy a dark look. Aside from his mother and his brothers, no one knew what he’d sacrificed for the Unity except Tommy. He’d saved and planned, working endless hours to learn the ropes. Owning a bar had given him a leg up, but the intricacies of running a business, managing distribution and sales, understanding human resources and insurance—he’d worked on it all.

And still there were pieces he didn’t know. He’d assumed he could learn as needed, but the bravado that had carried him to this moment seemed hollow. Worse, it felt hollow—knowing that having what he wanted meant taking the same from Emma.

“How about a quarterback sneak?”

“Tom—” Nick fought the urge to gouge his fingers into the scarred conference table and stood up instead. “This is so not a game. And I’m nowhere near an end zone.”

“Hear me out.” When Nick only shrugged, Tommy pressed on. “And keep with me on the football analogy. You’ve covered the yardage and gotten the ball all the way downfield. Even Emma has to admit she didn’t come back here to fully take over the business. Hell, she just got her degree. She needs time in the brewery.”

“So?”

“So give it to her. Buy Pete’s ninety percent and leave her to her ten. Keep her busy with the beer, and you run the rest.”

“Sneak my way into the business?”

“I see it more as waging a campaign for the win.”

What win? This was his life, not a game. He’d confused the two for far too long, but he was damned if he was going to do so again. “No way.”

“Why not?”

“It’s—” The words dried up in his mouth, a memory from so long ago clawing at the corners of his mind.

You’re my kid. You’ll always be my kid. You have my name.

Nick pushed the scene that followed from his mind. “I’m not settling on this.”

Tommy shot a look toward the closed conference room door. “I don’t think Emma is, either.”

“Then I need to find a way to convince her.”

“The Unity isn’t the only game in town. I’ve had my eye on a few things for you. That small vodka producer we discussed last month gave an indication they’d be open to selling. And with the bourbon partnership they made last year for joint distribution, we could probably put together a decent proposal that would see a return pretty quickly.”

“It’s not the same.”

“No—”

Nick held up a hand, waving Tommy off. “I appreciate it. You know I do. But this was the one.”

“Then you’d better start summoning up that world-famous Nick Kelley charm.”

Chapter Five

Emma let the conversation swirl around her, her father’s dismissive comments at the conference table further proof of how little he respected her. He’d let her walk in here this morning, unaware of how far his decision to sell had gone. There were papers, for heaven’s sakes. A good-faith agreement.

And a sense of finality from her father she didn’t fully understand, yet couldn’t deny.

When had he become so cold?

If it were simply a disagreement about selling the family business, Emma knew she could have taken some heart. A difference of opinion born out of different life stages and wrapped in the grief of the past few years.

But this was something more.

His behavior—and his willful stubborn streak that refused to even listen to an alternative opinion—bordered on cruel.

“Why do you want this so badly?”

“I could ask you the same.” Her father shot back the words in a near snarl.

“Because it’s our family business. Because my great-grandfather built it out of nothing, and my grandfather turned it into something special. Because I love it.”

“You love it so much you ran away from it to Chicago. You left me to care for your mother while you and Cole played house for a few years.”

And there they were.

Emma sat back, her father’s parting shot hovering in the air between them. Philip had the kindness to move off to the edge of the room, but there was no ignoring the pain, sadness, and anger that permeated the small space.

Nor was there any way she was offering one more apology. She’d done that far too many times, all to no avail. The guilt she lived with was her own, but she’d be damned if she was going to keep taking it from her father.

The memory of her time in Nick’s office on Friday night came back to her. That cheeky grin as he spoke of the fabled “ass magic.” His reverence for Chili’s old desk. And the photo of his family that hung above it. In those few, small tokens, she saw a man who valued family, who valued those who came before him.

Turning from her father, she focused on the lawyer who’d guided the Unity since before she was born. “Philip, what is your impression of Mr. Kelley?”

“Same as the rest of the neighborhood. He’s our local legend. His bar is the hottest thing this side of the bridge.”

Emma shook him off, her voice growing more urgent. “Yes, he’s the local football god. But what else? You’ve spoken to him up to now?” She shot a glance toward her father. “I can’t believe this is the first meeting.”

Philip had the grace to blush before he nodded. “No, it’s not. And of course we’ve spoken. Took him on a tour of the facilities a few months back. He was full of questions.”

“Damn good ones,” her father mumbled.

“What do you think of his character?”

“I like him fine.” Philip stopped, considered. “He’s a good guy, and he doesn’t have to be, you know what I mean?”

She did know what he meant. It was the same kindness he’d afforded her after her bad date and that wayward punch outside of the End Zone.

The image of that cheeky grin faded into the fierce self-possession she detected when they were outside his bar. Nick’s determination to get answers and ensure nothing inappropriate was happening inside his doors had been palpable. He had respect for tradition, and he had a sense of what made something good and worthwhile.

Perhaps she’d been looking at this problem all wrong.

“Then let’s make a deal.”

Nick watched the beer coming off the production line, the steady tinkling of bottles against the conveyor as they passed strangely hypnotic. He and Tommy had left the conference room with the intention of giving Emma and her father some space, and Tommy had booked it for the front door to make a few calls. Uninterested in texting his brothers or making any calls of his own, Nick had wandered through the first floor of the brewery, his aimless walk bringing him here.

The bright yellow labels indicated the Unity’s pale ale was coming off the line, a summer special that had been a hit in his bar three years running. He’d stocked up on his last order, unwilling to run out in June, like he had for the past two years. The beer was yet more proof that even with Peter’s lack of interest, the Unity held its own.

The same young people who’d spilled over the bridges into Brooklyn over the past decade—the ones who’d embraced Brooklyn’s renaissance and contributed to its rebirth—loved the borough’s heritage, and the Unity had profited from that. Their regular lineup had several tap spots in pretty much every bar in Brooklyn, his included.

“You ready?” Tommy interrupted his thoughts, his gaze flitting briefly to the line before focusing on Nick. “Philip just texted me they’re ready for us.”

“To sign the papers?”

“He didn’t say.”

Nick had signed enough contracts in his life to know nothing was a sure thing, so rather than prolong the inevitable, he followed Tommy back to the conference room. Peter, Emma, and their lawyer had taken the same seats as before, their stiff postures and crossed arms hard to ignore.

“Should we begin again?” Tommy reopened his prospectus, but before he could start the discussion again, Emma interrupted him.

“I’d like to propose a modification.”

“Of the sale?” Tommy remained perfectly still, a move Nick might have admired if his future weren’t hanging in the balance.

“I’d like three months.”

The words fell, scattershot around the room, and Nick could have sworn he felt a hit clean through his heart. Three months? He’d already dicked around with Vandenburg’s terms for the past four. And even once the papers were signed, there was still the finalization of the contract, the loan paperwork, and the final transfer of the payment.

“Mr. Kelley’s put considerable time and good faith into this process. Three months is excessive,” Tommy shot back. Under other circumstances Nick might have smiled at the “Mr. Kelley” routine.

But not today.

Not now.

“With that in mind I’d like to propose a fair trade for Mr. Kelley’s time.” The faintest smile tilted the corners of her lips at the use of his last name, and Nick almost smiled in return.

“Lay it out.”

Her gaze shifted to him, that ghost of a smile falling as she stared at him across the scarred wood.

Nick knew the look in her eye. Understood the mix of calculation and avarice that hovered there, barely visible, but there all the same. Emma might not have a lot to bargain with, but she wasn’t entering this negotiation empty-handed. Between her mother’s shares, her knowledge of the family business, and the additional knowledge she brought to bear with her degree, she had something to bargain with.

“Mr. Kelley’s clearly been well-intentioned in his desire to purchase the Unity, but he has no practical experience.” She shot Tommy a quelling glance, stilling the protest that sprang to his lips. “Running a bar and understanding the distribution elements are only one facet. I’m proposing Nick takes the next three months to learn the business, top to bottom.”

Nick sat back, unwilling to show just how deeply her words stung. He’d worried about the same since starting down this path, reading as much as he could get his hands on and drilling his sales reps every chance he got. None of it compared with practical experience.

But he sure as hell wasn’t going to admit that here.

“What’s in it for me? You don’t want to sell, and a three-month stay of execution isn’t going to change that.”

“No, I don’t. But if I give up my legacy, I’d like to see it go into qualified hands.”

“So what do I get out of this?”

“Education. Knowledge. The benefits of my degree.”

Something dark began to swirl in his stomach. He’d skated through school, getting by, but never fully excelling. And now she wanted to put him through that again? “What are you proposing?”

“I’ll teach you all I know. I’ll also share my full curriculum from Siebel. Three months should be enough time for you to learn the business basics. It’ll also give me a bit more time to put my feelers out and find something new.” Her attention drifted to her father before she seemed to catch herself. “By the time Labor Day rolls around, I’ll give you the same test I took at the end of my operations-and-technology course.”

“And if I pass, you sell the brewery?”

“I won’t stand in my father’s way.”

What he’d pegged as calculation and avarice had returned to her gaze, but Nick reconsidered his assessment. There wasn’t greed there, but a weird, desperate hope that had him believing Emma Vandenburg Bradley would be a worthy opponent.

“And if I don’t pass?”

“Then maybe you need to ask yourself why you’re buying a brewery.”

Two hours later Nick wasn’t sure if he’d been laid low or won the lottery. His roller coaster of a morning hadn’t worked out as he’d planned, but he could hardly call it a total blowout either. He was about halfway through his first lesson in Brewery 101, and he couldn’t find any fault with Emma’s teaching.

Or her attitude.

She’d promised to teach him, and so far she had. He’d taken more notes and learned more in the past ninety minutes than he had in the past three months of online surfing and salesperson hounding, and they’d barely gotten started.

“You ready to go in?”

He eyed Emma, clad in a half-zipped suit that looked like something hazmat crews wore, and nodded, his own matching yellow suit rubbing against his clothes every time he moved. “Sure.”

“I know Philip gave you a tour of the floor, and we discussed the basic flow of the process on the whiteboard in the conference room, but you need to see the entire production line. How and where the real work’s done. It’s not just the bottling line.”

“Beer looked pretty real to me.”

“The beer is real. But the process of getting it into those bottles is what really interests me. That’s where the fun stuff happens.” The frustration he’d seen earlier was nowhere in sight, replaced instead by a wide smile that even managed to dull the sharpness of the bruise that still rimmed her eye.

She was beautiful. Even in the half-zipped suit that wrapped around her lower half like a shapeless, yellow sack. What struck him, as a small ray of light filtered over her from the windows that perched high above the factory floor, were the dimensions of her beauty.

Yes, she was attractive. Classically so. But as he looked closer, he had to admit the slender frame, high cheekbones, and light wash of freckles over her nose were more window dressing than the true reason for her beauty.

It was her eyes. Dark and mysterious, they shifted from situation to situation, holding back the secrets of her thoughts. In the conference room, she’d held them poker-face still, even as she made her offer. And now they were lit with the air of a determined teacher focused on the task at hand.

“Nick?”

“Sorry.” He shot her a big grin, the same one he used to flash at sports reporters after a game. “You mentioned beer, and I got distracted.”

She pointed toward a door at the end of the hall. “Let’s go.”

Nick followed behind her, his eyes skimming the way her skirt bunched slightly beneath the suit. A mental image of the thighs exposed just beneath that yellow material shot a bolt of heat straight through him, and he nearly knocked his head on a low entryway as they stepped into a cavernous room full of tanks.

Fender loved teasing him about being a leg man, and Nick usually shot back a rather dirty response about Fender’s lack of imagination for stopping at a woman’s breasts. Well aware his body would do him no favors when he had to zip up the monochrome suit, he shifted his attention. The enticing image of Emma’s legs faded, although he did toss a mental bone to Fender as his gaze lingered oh-so-briefly on her breasts before he shut down the lingering attraction.

She’d proven this was nothing more than a business transaction, and he’d do well to remember that.

He had to remember that.

She pointed toward the large tanks while she finished dragging the zipper to her neck. “We make the wort in here. These are the mash tuns, and once we get the proper temperature and cooking time, we’ll lauter the wort.”

“And then ferment it once it’s been separated out from the grains.”

“That’s right.”

Although the conversation wasn’t exactly the same, a long-forgotten memory of a day they mixed chemicals in class shimmered between them. Nick had no memory of the actual experiment, but he could still see Emma’s proud look when he’d correctly identified the proper sequence of reactions. “You always look surprised when I get something right.”

“I don’t always—” She broke off, the depths of her eyes warming to a rich chocolate. “Chemistry class. The week before spring break.”

“Yep.”

“To be clear, I’m not surprised you got something right. But I do remember that day. You seemed so discouraged every time we did a lab project, and it was nice to see you smile. It was even nicer to see you get an A on that lab.”

“It was nice to be right for a change.”

Her shoulders stiffened before she stepped back. “Being right’s not always all it’s cracked up to be.”

A small blush crept up from the neck of her suit before she turned away and climbed up a small metal ladder next to one of the tanks, stepping off midway onto a narrow platform. “If you come up here you can better see what’s happening.”

With the subject of school firmly closed, Nick followed her up, the metal ladder clanging beneath his feet. Although he’d noticed it the moment they’d crossed the threshold, he keyed back into the smell. A heavy, almost cloying scent permeated the room, the air thick with anticipation. Which was an odd way to think of it, Nick admitted to himself, yet spot on.

Transformation happened in this room.

“Look through the window here and you can see the mash as it’s heated, and the mash rake keeping everything evenly distributed.”

Nick mentally walked through the brewing steps he’d done his level best to memorize, and had to admit a book was a far cry from the real thing. There was life inside that tank. Products from the earth that they’d heat up, extract, and take the best of.

“What do you do with the grain after the wort’s extracted?”

“The Unity has agreements with several farmers to provide the used grain as feed. We also provide several tons a month to the horses for the mounted police.”

“No shit?”

Her eyes widened before a hard, throaty laugh spilled out. “Actually, that’s something of a literal, yes, shit. Especially after the horses get done with it.”

As jokes went, it was crude and unexpected, but after the strange morning they’d shared, he was happy for the break.

“I’ve read about this, but it’s something else to see it happen.”

“My father hasn’t given you a tour?” Her tone remained casual—and her smile still broad—but Nick sensed the bigger question beneath her words.

“Philip provided a walk-through when I first showed serious interest in the sale. Your father didn’t seem interested in joining us.”

“My father’s not the most accommodating of men on the best of days. And I’m not sure he’s had a single one of those since my mother passed.”

Although he’d always considered his mother one of the nodes on the Park Heights grapevine, it had come as no small shock when he’d realized about two years after buying the End Zone that he knew a surprising amount about the ins and outs of the neighborhood.

People talked, and when they had a few drinks in them, they talked even more. And people had talked when Marcy Vandenburg had gotten sick. Her illness had been just one more bit of news in the endless neighborhood gossip that passed through his bar.

“I’m sorry. About your mom.”

“Thanks.”

Emma pointed to the ladder, an effective end to the conversation. “Why don’t we head back down and we can keep going? There’s a lot you haven’t seen, and you should.”

He wanted to say something else—the loss of a parent was a huge thing—but he didn’t know what to say, and he’d only feel awkward trying. People got sick. The ones still living likely didn’t want to be reminded of that. And yet something in her gaze made him hesitate.

“We should move on.”

Nick nodded and reluctantly went first, the steps creaking beneath his feet as he descended the ladder. The warm room seemed to envelop him, the air thick with the heavy scent of the mash.

Emma came up beside him. “People either love or hate the smell in here.”

“I like it.”

“You’re not grossed out?”

“I was raised on the scent of sweaty football pads and locker rooms. Few smells can compete.” Nick ran a hand over a large brass tank.

“You never seemed all that bothered by the sulfur in chemistry class, either. Now I know your secret.”

It was funny to remember those days that seemed like a lifetime ago. He hadn’t thought about his high school science class—or his lab partner—since high school, but now that he did, he could remember his moments with Emma. They’d been paired randomly with their partners through luck of the draw, and he’d gotten the quiet girl who kept to herself.

Nick had never concerned himself much with the politics of high school. He’d recognized even then the adulation of his fellow students was because he was good at sports, so he’d never put much stock in it. Which was likely why the adulation had stuck.

What had seemed like a lack of interest on his part was steeped in the reality of his life. High school was easy compared to dodging Arch Kelley’s moods. Spending the first ten years of his life with an abusive drunk ensured there wasn’t much high school could throw at him.

So he’d done his time and focused on the things he cared most about—playing football and making Mama Lou proud—and the rest had sort of passed in a blur.

Like Emma?

Nick watched as she inspected a large dial on the side of one of the wort tanks before writing something down on a small clipboard attached to the wall. How had he missed that the woman in his arms on Friday night was Emma Vandenburg? Although it had been a while since they’d been lab partners, it hadn’t been that long. Yet she’d vanished from his thoughts as if she’d never existed.

A small frown marred the edges of her mouth, and he stepped forward, his suit squeaking with the movement. “Everything okay?”

“You mean besides the fact that I’m writing down time, temperature, and status of the wort on a clipboard?”

“What’s wrong with that? Clearly you’re taking measurements of some kind.”

“On a clipboard. Like it’s 1972.”

Tommy had warned him that the Unity was a bargain because of the age of the facility, but he hadn’t fully appreciated what that meant. Hell, a lot of things in Brooklyn were aged—the new renaissance throughout the borough was about refreshing those treasures for a new time and a new generation.

“Maybe we could look into changing that.” He unzipped the top of his suit and pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket. “I’ll make a note of it.”

When she only stared at him for a long beat, he pressed on. “Everything else is okay?”

Their gazes lingered for a few more moments before she seemed to catch herself. “Yes, things are progressing fine. This batch is right on schedule.”

They moved around the room, Emma doing the same with each subsequent tank before they came to a large door at the opposite end to where they’d started. She reached for the handle, but he laid a hand over hers.

As she turned to look at him, those expressive eyes struck a chord somewhere deep inside him, like a clock striking the time. Cavernous and echoing, it resonated through him, vibrating with motion and a need for action.

“Why’d you make a deal with me?” he asked.

“Because you’re Nick Kelley.”

For reasons he couldn’t fully identify, the wry comment struck a nerve. Removing his hand from over top of hers, Nick stepped back. “Got it.”

Emma turned the heavy door handle, the motion nearly completed when she stopped. Once again he was struck by the ethereal beauty that seemed to frame her in a warm, sort of muted glow. Like a ghost had crossed between them, his lips tingled from their kiss Friday night, the sense memory nearly as heady and intoxicating as the moment had been.

She had been heady and intoxicating.

And now here they were, a few days later and on opposite sides of a shockingly wide chasm.

“That is part of the reason, you know. You are Nick Kelley, hometown hero. You’ll bring some cachet to the Unity, especially here in Brooklyn. And you’re also the devil I know.” The smile that didn’t reach her eyes faded, replaced with whispers of acceptance. “And for reasons I don’t fully understand, you seem as attached to this place as I am. Philip’s a good guy and so is Tommy. They support you.”

“Or they support the money I’m willing to put down.”

Her gaze was hard and penetrating as she stared up at him. “I may not know or understand all your reasons, but you’re not buying this place just for an investment. There are a hell of a lot better ways to get a return.”

“Why do you think I am buying it?”

This time she did turn the door handle, her words echoing in her wake as she passed through the portal. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Louisa scanned the list she’d prepared on Sunday night and booted up her computer. She might have been out of the rat race for two decades, but the discipline and focus that had marked her ascent in the business world had never left her. She kept a running to-do list—updated every Sunday night—of what needed to be completed for the week. Business was separated from personal, which was further separated into tasks for the boys, the house, and herself.

The boys.

She shook her head as she admitted to herself that her sons occupied less and less time on her to-do list. They were men—long grown—and they were well able to take care of their lives. Oh, she still nagged at each of them to get their annual physicals, and always confirmed they didn’t need help with their tax returns, but she was no longer the one who made their dentist appointments or took them shoe shopping. Nick, Landon, and Fender were abundantly capable of taking care of themselves.

Longing for those early days when they first became a family filled her before she firmly tamped it down with a steady mix of pride and common sense. Her boys were wonderful men. Still a bit rough around the edges, and more affected by their childhoods than any of them would readily admit, but grown and successful, each a man in his own right.

They’d each made their lives into something strong and valuable, their interests shaping who and what they’d become. All while the four of them had made a life together. For both those blessings she’d be eternally grateful.

Kincade’s betrayal had nearly broken her, but the gift of motherhood had put her back together, piece by piece. And in the glue that was the love of her sons, she’d become stronger than she was before. More vibrant. And far more able to love than she could have ever imagined.

With one last glance at her to-do list, Louisa fired up her e-mail. She’d glow in her boys’ accomplishments later, when she got the update on whether Nick’s deal finalized at the Unity. For now, she had things of her own to finish up, tasks to complete before she headed out for the day. She wanted the borough presidency, and at noon she would be speaking at a local business owners’ luncheon in Sheepshead Bay.

Her e-mails finished loading, and she did a quick scan for anything urgent when her gaze hit on a subject line that stopped her cold.

BROOKLYN DESERVES BETTER.

But it was the glance at the sender’s name that had memories two decades past revisiting in her mind as if they’d happened only yesterday. To the days before motherhood, and PTA meetings, and annual tax prep for half of Park Heights.

Back to the days when she’d been an adulteress, intent on loving another woman’s husband.

Chapter Six

Bright afternoon sun streamed through the windows of the bottling room as Emma walked Nick through the last stages of the brewery tour. While she’d understood on a very real level how important the Unity was to him, she had to admit that three hours after she’d deliberately set out to bore him to death, he seemed more interested than when they’d started. Which boded quite well for him and their deal.

Damn.

The first hour had been plenty awkward as they shared a few odd moments along with those reminisces from high school that kept intruding. But even she had to admit those distant memories of him had nothing on the man he was now.

Interesting.

He was interesting. And interested, if the past three hours were any indication. He had a curious mind, and he’d leaped to several conclusions she’d already been thinking about as improvements.

It would be easy to assume Nick Kelley was a one-dimensional man. A good man, as Philip had been quick to assure her, but a retired sports star playing off his semicelebrity right here in his old neighborhood. How humbling to realize that he wasn’t easily contained in one small box, outlined by a narrow list of defining characteristics.

In fact, how humbling to realize the man she’d painted in her mind over the past fifteen years had somehow morphed into some sort of fantasy instead of a person.

Had it been because of Cole?

She certainly hadn’t spent her marriage pining for another man. And the day she’d inadvertently mentioned going to school with Nick had been nothing more than innocent conversation. Yet Cole had taken it the wrong way, and as the marriage went more and more sour, images of the hometown hero had changed Nick in her mind.

“I told you this was the best part.” Nick expertly drew two pale ales from one of the sample kegs they kept at the end of the brewery tour and handed her one. He took a long sip from his glass, and she noted the light stubble that had begun to grow along the lines of his chin and neck.

“I won’t argue with you there.” She took her own sip, the taste comforting and familiar, a soothing balm to the odd train of thought. “Although I’m afraid a few sips are my limit. I’m running on a seriously empty stomach.”

“I thought I was the only one getting hangry. Let’s go grab something then.”

“Hangry?”

Those blue-gray eyes that were so compelling shined a pale, nearly translucent blue in the bright sunlight. Even with their mercurial color, the humor behind them was unmistakable. “You’re so hungry you’re liable to get angry.”

“That makes an odd sort of sense.”

“Answer me one question before we go: Why beer?”

“Why beer what?”

“What’s the appeal? I realize it’s your family and in the blood, but I just listened to you for three hours, and you love this place. You love beer.”

She considered for a moment, more than a little surprised by the question. And even more surprised to realize no one had ever asked her before. “It’s my life. I remember coming here, my grandfather carrying me around on his shoulders when I was little.”

“Legacy.” Nick held up a finger. “There’s one.”

“The smell.” She leaned into her beer and took a long sniff. “I love the smell.”

Nick held up a second finger. “Not what I was expecting, but okay.”

“You don’t love it?”

“Sure. It’s beer. But sexist as this may sound, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a woman say the same thing.”

She shrugged, well aware her interests weren’t, strictly speaking, a career choice for a lot of women. “It’s not the beer itself, but what it means. The beer-making process goes back millennia. And that scent . . .” She breathed deeply of her glass. “It’s natural. Real. Like the scent of tea, or tobacco, or wine. It’s a product completely of the earth.”

Nick sniffed his own glass, his eyes closing briefly before his gaze settled on her.

“Interesting point.”

“And you can’t discount the very best quote in the world.”

“Which is?”

“Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.”

“Ben Franklin?”

She shook her head, “It’s generally attributed to him, but from what I’ve been able to find, not really his. But I like it anyway.”

“It’s a good one.”

“It’s what we do. We make happiness in a glass. I get to do that, every single day.”

It was silly and simple, and she’d tried explaining that thought to a few of her friends at Siebel, only to get more than a few cockeyed looks. So she’d shut up about simple joys and had gone about finding hers once again. Finding her center.

She wasn’t about to explain that to Nick, but in her degree she’d found herself once more. Although she and Cole had still been together, their married life had been falling to pieces around them, and her education had been the one thing in her rapidly vanishing world to provide grounding. She’d gone back to her roots in order to remake her life.

So it was more than gratifying to see the understanding light up in Nick’s eyes. He extended his glass, clinking it lightly with hers. “To happiness, then.”

“To happiness.”

The toast still lingered in her mind fifteen minutes later, as Emma found herself walking into the welcoming, garlic-scented air of Gino’s Pizzeria. The lunch crowd had dissipated, and except for a woman and her children at a table in the back, the place was empty.

“Emma! Nick!” Gino’s withered voice still carried as he smiled at them both from behind the counter. “I hope you came hungry.”

Nick patted his stomach. “Always.”

They put in their orders and took the empty glasses Gino handed over the counter. Once both had filled up at the self-serve counter, Nick picked a spot on the far wall.

“Thanks for the time today. You didn’t need to do that, and I appreciate it.”

“You think I’d welch on my end of the deal? And on day one?”

“No, but—”

“I meant what I said earlier. I’ve been operating under the assumption I’d come home from Chicago with a degree and a job at the brewery. My father’s decision to sell to you has put a big kink in that, and I need to get my feelers out to find something.”

“I still expected you’d want me to lose.”

“I want the brewery, but I want it fairly.” She took a sip of her Coke, the sweet, bubbly, sugary drink a boost. “Besides, my pride’s on the line.”

“And mine isn’t?”

She didn’t anticipate such a direct rebuttal and had to admit she hadn’t considered her deal from his side. It might be embarrassing to have her personal stake go up in flames, but what about Nick? How would he feel if he lost the brewery? In her rush to make a deal and get that stay of execution he’d mentioned, she hadn’t thought through all the angles.

As sympathy wrapped around her like ribbons, she fought for some levity. What else could be done? They’d made their agreement and were both in it now. “Well, all I know is I don’t want you going around telling anyone I’m a bad teacher.”

Gino’s grandson approached their table, a tray with their lunch held high. The boy worked quickly, but Emma didn’t miss his worshipful stare at Nick. She also didn’t miss Nick’s gentle smile and kind word for the boy as he laid down three slices for Nick and one for her.

Was she really looking to go toe-to-toe with the hometown hero? Nick Kelley was part local celebrity, part sports god, and now well-known neighborhood proprietor.

Once the boy left, Nick reached for the shaker of pepper flakes. “I’m not changing my mind, Emma. I intend to learn everything you throw at me, and pass your test.”

“Then let’s eat our pizza. We can discuss those ideas we both had for improvements.”

Nick let himself in the back door of the End Zone and headed straight for his office. He hadn’t anticipated spending the majority of the day over at the Unity, and he had a list of inventory that had to be ordered before five.

To be fair, he hadn’t anticipated anything about today. He’d thought he would walk out the Unity’s doors the proud new owner of a brewery, and instead he’d had a sizeable lesson in patience, humility, and good old-fashioned chemistry.

The literal sort of chemistry—he almost laughed at the irony, although he couldn’t deny that Emma fascinated him.

What the hell was he doing buying a brewery?

The thought had dogged him all day, and he’d dutifully tamped it down, refusing to give in to the layer of doubt that only grew as Emma Vandenbu—nope, Emma Bradley, walked him through the Unity.

The woman knew her shit, that was for damn sure. She understood every facet of the brewery, and knew how to make a product. There was no way Peter Vandenburg knew just how accomplished she’d become. If he did, he’d be a fool to continue with the sale.

And Nick had no fucking idea what to do about that.

She deserved her legacy. Or a shot at it. But damn it, he wanted his future. He had plans. And they didn’t involve backing off for a pair of warm brown eyes and killer legs.

The sound of voices hit him before he even had the door open, a hard punctuation to the unsettling thoughts he couldn’t shake off.

“The zombies can’t win that early. It makes the game look rigged.”

“The game has to get progressively harder. This is one of the key areas early on where a player levels up. They have to feel a sense of accomplishment.”

Nick pushed open the door, not surprised to see his brothers attached to his couch. Fender sprawled in the corner, and Landon sat at the edge, a laptop balanced on his knees. “I vote for the zombies.”

Fender shot him a pointed glare. “You would.”

Both had helped themselves to sodas from his small office fridge, and Fender gestured with a Mountain Dew. “It’s discouraging to a kid. They just get into the game and they get eaten by . . .” he leaned forward, “ . . . a great gaping maw of blood and guts. It’s nasty.”

Landon shrugged. “It’s the zombie apocalypse.”

Curious to see the great gaping maw of blood and guts, Nick circled the couch to look at Landon’s screen.

“I think nasty is why this brand of entertainment appeals to ten-year-old boys,” Nick said. He leaned forward, attempting to confirm he was seeing what he thought he was. “Is that a finger dangling from the mouth?”

“Yep. Awesome, isn’t it?”

Nick patted Landon on the back. “So this is what you do in that loft studio all day.”

“You’re damn right I do. Or at least I do when I’m not programming jewels that explode once you get three of them in a row.” Landon snapped his laptop closed. “And one of these days, it’s going to pay off.”

“Speaking of paying off, when do I start getting my free weekly shipments of beer?” Fender’s smile was genuine, his normally stoic resting face lighting up at the thought of beer.

“Hell yeah.” Landon leaned forward. “Fuck the zombies. How’d everything go today?”

Nick searched for the right words in the face of his brothers’ enthusiasm. He’d thought he was okay with it—the deal with Emma and the request for time that would give him a more thorough overview of the business—but something held him back.

“Not as I’d expected it to.”

“And?” Landon pressed.

“Vandenburg’s daughter is back and she’s not interested in selling.”

“Emma?” Landon asked.

“You know her?” Nick shot back, his earlier embarrassment returning in a flood. How had he been so stupid to forget her?

“Last time I checked, you did, too.” When he said nothing, Landon pushed on. “Does she have a choice?”

“Technically it’s Peter’s to sell. But with her mother’s shares, she can make a stink and hold things up for a while. Potentially jack with the price.” Although, to be fair, he admitted to himself, money hadn’t been a part of the discussion.

At all.

It had been about the facility. The product. The legacy.

“So what’s next?”

“You’re looking at the newest apprentice at the Unity Brewery. Today was a tour of the facility and the beer-making process. Tomorrow’s an outing with one of their sales guys. I’m not sure what’s on for Wednesday.”

“I heard Emma’s back.” Fender took a long sip of his soda. “I also heard she was in here Friday night.”

Nick wasn’t sure why the comment stuck in his craw, and he refused to analyze it. Instead, he went on the offensive. “Who knew there was that much gossip going down in your body shop?”

“You’d be surprised, but I didn’t get it at the shop. Patty told me when she foisted a plate of potato skins on me earlier.”

Damn his best barmaid and her ability to read a room like a football field. The woman missed nothing, and somehow always managed to see opportunity in the middle of a mess. He should be grateful, as that’s how he’d gotten her to stay on in the first place, when the End Zone wasn’t much more than a dream. But, damn it. . . .

“Patty also said Emma spent some time in your office. Something about a black eye out front.”

Ignoring the deliberate hunt for information would only make Fender hunt harder, so Nick did his level best to play it off. “That asshole I told you about Sunday. The one on something Friday night?”

“The one Hector threatened to pop his arms off?” Landon’s voice was tinged with the anticipation of the grisly. Clearly a trait he’d channeled into his zombies.

“That’s the one. Emma was leaving the bar and ended up on the wrong end of the asshole’s fist.”

Undeterred, Fender pressed on. “And you took care of her.”

“Got her a few Advil, and Patty fussed over her.”

When Fender said nothing else, Nick headed for the minifridge. He’d learned long ago to leave off arguing with his brother. The asshole won every round anyway.

He skipped the Mountain Dew in favor of a water before settling into his office chair. “You’re not here for a recap of my day, so to what do I owe the pleasure? And who wants to help me order olives?”

“I did enough inventory of my own this morning to cross my eyes, and I hate olives. But I do love a good seafood boil.”

“One’s typically not found at the other.”

“Thank God.” Fender breathed. “Anyway, Mac Owens was in the shop today and told me about the one his brother’s throwing tonight over in the park. Ten bucks a head and all the seafood you can eat.”

Nick eyed Fender over his water bottle. “Your excitement to attend this event wouldn’t have anything to do with Mac’s recently single sister, would it?”

Fender’s eyes practically glowed. “The way I hear it, Becky’s already moved on. But a smart man always confirms gossip before accepting it as fact. L’s playing wingman for me. Assuming, of course, he doesn’t mention kid-eating zombies.”

Landon’s wink was subtle, but happened all the same. “Nah. I’ll just talk Star Wars all night. It’s my greatest pickup line.”

They’d added height and years, but Nick had to admit the conversation hadn’t demonstrably improved since grade school. While he’d assumed there would come a point when games and soda were a thing of the past, he couldn’t deny the sense of home and comfort that came with spending time with his brothers.

“When does it start?”

“Seven, on the great lawn.”

Nick glanced at the list he’d left beside his computer. He had to have everything in by five anyway, and he had coverage on the bar tonight. Maybe a few beers and a shit-ton of shrimp would do something about his funky mood. “I’ll swing by Landon’s and we can head out from there.”

If there was one truism in life, it was this: Food, music, and beer could always draw a crowd.

Emma shook her head at the throng of people that filled the great lawn in Overlook Park. The centerpiece of Park Heights, the Overlook had been part of the master-planned design of the community well over a century and a half ago. Just like in Prospect Park and Fort Greene Park and the other public spaces that dominated the neighborhoods of Brooklyn, the denizens of Park Heights came together around the open air, scattered war monuments, and lush lawns of the Overlook for everything from sunbathing to movies to picnics.

“I’m glad you came.” Becky Owens gave her a brief, side-armed hug that nearly tripped them both off the sidewalk. “It’s too nice a night to sit inside an apartment with questionable air conditioning.”

“I won’t argue there.”

Emma shot a glance toward her recently re-acquainted friend. Although the two of them had been a few years apart in school, Emma had remembered the bright smile and easygoing attitude immediately upon opening her door to her neighbor across the hall.

They’d already managed a few wine nights since she’d moved in, and Emma appreciated the easy camaraderie as well as Becky’s seemingly understanding nature. She hadn’t asked about Cole, or Emma’s life in Chicago. Instead she’d given Emma updates on the old neighborhood and all the latest gossip.

With that gentle understanding—and one too many glasses of Cabernet—Emma had finally offered up some of her former life, gratified when her tale of a marriage gone bad had been met with sympathy and kindness instead of pity. She’d even told Becky about the baby, and had been met with a warm sympathy that felt like shared sadness.

“My brother said he was planning on a party. He wasn’t kidding.” Becky wrinkled her nose. “Of course, between Skip and Mac, there’s little chance of anything interesting happening.”

“I guess older brothers would have a way of deterring romance.”

“Especially when they’re both built like matched sides of beef.” Becky let out a sigh. “Oh well, maybe I can create a diversion to get a few minutes alone.”

“There’s a rather cozy alcove behind the band shell, if I remember correctly.”

Becky hip-bumped her. “You remember very correctly.”

They came upon the crowd, and Emma was pleased to see the kegs she’d sent over earlier were set up and flowing. A pale ale and a dark stout she fondly thought of as giving Guinness a run for its money had both drawn a crowd, and even a small line.

Skip’s wife, Jodie, was taking money at a small table and waved them both through. “You contributed the beer, Emma. And since Becky nearly took off two fingers shucking oysters, she’s earned her keep as well.”

People smiled at Emma as they moved into the crowd, and she ran through her memories, trying to match faces with names. Some she remembered as if she’d seen them the day before, but others took some mental digging.

“Who is that?” Becky’s voice intruded as she pressed a plastic glass of stout on Emma.

“Who?”

“That guy over there with Nick Kelley and Landon McGee.”

The hard trip of her pulse nearly had Emma seeing stars, and she tried to take a few, unobtrusive breaths. Of course Nick was here. He was enmeshed in the local scene, and half of Park Heights was here. He’d mentioned heading back to the bar to do inventory, so she’d assumed she’d have an evening free, outside his orbit. Maybe inventory didn’t take nearly as long as she thought it would. Or maybe it had been an excuse.

She toyed with saying something to Becky, but held back. While she’d been willing to share some details about her life in Chicago, she wasn’t ready to discuss her increasingly confused feelings for Nick Kelley.

“Who?”

“That big guy with the arms.”

Emma suspected she knew the answer, but knew for certain when she looked across the grass at the thick, barrel chest and well-muscled arms. “That’s Hector. He works for Nick.”

“How have I missed him around?”

“I’m not sure. He stands guard out in front of the End Zone.”

“Look at you, getting back in the groove of the neighborhood.”

Becky tugged at her arm and pulled her toward the men. “Let’s go say hello.”

Chemistry.

His body was on high alert as Emma approached their group with Becky Owens. He had the vague thought that Becky looked pretty and Fender had picked a good night to talk to her before Nick’s attention shifted to Emma.

And the rest of the park fell away.

She’d left her hair down and it waved around her shoulders in sort of half curls that made his fingers itch to touch. With a tighter grip on his cold bottle of beer, he ignored the sensation. The two of them were on opposite sides of a rather large problem and no amount of attraction, or chemistry, was going to fix that.

No matter how often the feel of her lips whispered over his.

Landon did the honors, with a big hug for Becky and another for Emma. His brother had always dismissed his easy, geeky charm that instantly put everyone at ease, but there were days Nick envied him. Nothing ruffled Landon. In the zombie apocalypse that was life, Landon just knew how to get by, his brains intact.

“Skip’s got a good turnout.”

The inane comment was out before he could pull it back, and Becky shot a glance toward her brothers. “The haul’s been good this month and he wanted to do something to kick off summer. We have a family wedding next week over Memorial Day weekend, so he had to settle for a Monday night.”

Landon pointed toward two large crowds, one playing bocce and the other cornhole. “It doesn’t look like anyone is complaining.”

The conversation flowed easily, shifting from topic to topic. Even the normally quiet Hector got into the conversation, his rare laugh echoing more than a few times.

“How many boats does your brother have now?” Emma’s gaze was directed toward the Owens brothers, and it gave Nick a chance to really look at her.

A light breeze caught the ends of her hair and the impressions he’d had earlier formed and reformed as he took in the slender lines of her body. What she’d managed to hide in prim business clothes was now evident in the sleeveless summer dress.

The woman was too damn thin.

The lab partner he’d remembered from high school hadn’t been overweight, but she ate. She was solid and healthy and, unbidden, a memory of the day he’d seen the edges of her bra as she bent over the wash sink filled his mind’s eye.

In that moment, he’d been captivated, a rush of teenage hormones gripping him. Up until then, he’d not given her much consideration. Sure, she was a girl. And she was nice enough and smart enough, and she was decent-looking. But for some reason he hadn’t really noticed Emma Vandenburg before.

Or not that way.

And then she’d leaned over the sink, the light curve of flesh pressed against the lines of her bra, and he’d been hooked.

She was out of his league, the smart girl who always seemed to know all the answers and kept to herself. She was friendly enough, but Nick would no more have asked her out than he’d have volunteered for the school yearbook or debate team. Smart people did those things, and that wasn’t him.

“You in?” He turned back into the conversation at a sharp elbow from Landon.

“In?”

“They’re lining up for the boil.” Landon inclined his head. “Over there.”

“Sure.”

That fog of memories still wrapped around Nick as they walked toward the large set of tables in the middle of the green. He hadn’t spent much time thinking about high school since he’d walked out the front doors the night of graduation, so it was more than surprising to realize how many of his memories were still intact.

“Nick. Yo, Nick.” Hector’s voice was low, his movements subtle as he moved into position next to him. “That asshole from Friday night. He’s over there.”

“Where?”

Hector’s gaze shifted toward the far edge of the green, to a group of people huddled together on blankets. Nick made the guy immediately, then hung back for a closer look as their group moved on.

“You want me to distract him? Find a way to get him over here?” Hector’s voice was a low growl.

“Let’s keep an eye on him. I’d like to get a sense of his friends. Who he runs with. Where there’s some bad behavior, there’s likely more.” Nick scanned the rest of the asshole’s group, but didn’t see anyone he recognized or remembered from Friday.

“He made bail fast.”

Nick was about to respond when the moment shifted, quick as lightning. The woman who shared the blanket with their target had her face turned up to him, saying something, when out of nowhere the guy nailed her with a swift kick to the ribs. Nick moved before he could even think to check himself, Hector’s heavy tread beside him, moving in unison with him.

“What the fuck was that?” Nick had the guy in a firm grip, moving him decidedly away from the woman.

“Get off me, asshole!” The same wiry strength they’d noted Friday night, when the guy fought Hec’s hold, was in evidence. Nick kept a firm grip, his legs spread to maintain his balance and the minimal upper hand he held via the surprise intervention. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Nick refused to let go, as a snarl he barely recognized slipped from his lips. “Why the hell did you kick her?”

“She’s mine!”

The struggling didn’t stop, only grew more violent as Nick dodged an attempted bite. The guy’s friends surrounded the blanket, circling, while Hector did a damn fine job of standing in their way. But it didn’t stop the shouts.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Fuck off, buddy!”

And murmured underneath the bravado of the asshole’s friends were comments from a few of the others. “Is that Nick Kelley? Zach pushed too far this time.”

Landon and Fender flew into the middle of the group, their shouts heavy as they took up sides with Hector. It was Fender’s voice that finally penetrated through the wash of adrenaline that had his ears ringing. “Nick! You want to tell us what’s going on?”

“Check her.” Nick dragged on the guy’s arms again, his grip growing strangely manic. “See if she’s okay.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Landon fall to a crouch, his brother’s gaze steady on the woman. A hard pair of hands gripped his shoulders when Hector came around and took hold of the still-struggling asshole, releasing the man from Nick’s grip.

“Nick, man. Stand down!” It was the urgency in Fender’s grip that got through more effectively than his words.

“Yeah.” Nick shook his head. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Fender didn’t release him, but his hold did soften before he tugged enough to pull them out of the line of fire. Hector waited a few more beats before pushing the guy aside. His friends were standing by to intercept him, as were a few of Brooklyn’s finest, on patrol in the park.

Nick wasn’t a man to use his fists to solve his problems, but the barely leashed violence that had gripped him the moment he saw the asshole—Zach?—kick his companion had come on with all the subtlety of a charging rhino.

“You’re the instigator of this, sir?”

“I saw him kick the woman with him. I stepped in.” Nick fought to catch his breath, his words tripping from his lips on a hard exhale. He vaguely recognized the cop who stood before him, but couldn’t place a name. “I own a bar here in Park Heights. The End Zone? Guy was in my place Friday night making trouble there, too. He was clearly on something.”

“You call it in?”

“Yep. He was removed from the premises in a squad car.”

The cop made some notes in his notebook before asking Nick to stay where he was. The sounds of the park gradually came back to him, filtering through the adrenaline pounding in his ears.

How had he lost control like that? He was a big man and a trained athlete to boot. He didn’t use his fists to solve problems, damn it.

Hadn’t even attempted to in years.

“Come out and deal with me like a man, boy!”

Ma had ignored the outburst as long as she could, but by the third night she’d had the cops on speed dial. What she hadn’t counted on was Nick’s escape out the back alley so he could confront his father smack in the middle of Cherry Street.

The bass drums the marching band beat on the opposite end of the field while he practiced had somehow transferred to his chest. The hard, rapid beat drove him on, his feet thick with the tempo as he did his own march toward Arch Kelley.

The streetlights threw off their golden glow, crisscrossing his shadow over his father’s. As he moved closer, those shadows blended and merged, until it was hard to see where one started and the other ended. He was as tall as the old man now.

When had that happened?

Of course, Nick supposed it made sense. His adoption had gone on for a while. Landon and Fender’s paperwork had already gone through, but his fucking father had pushed and pushed, claiming he wasn’t giving up his rights to his son.

“Get the hell out of here.” Nick reveled in the element of surprise—likely the only one he’d get—as Arch turned from the window, another bellow dying in his throat.

“You got no right to talk to me like that. I’m your father. I want to know how you’re doing.”

“Fine. It doesn’t give you a right to stand out here raging like an animal.” Nick held his ground, even when his father stalked closer. “What are you on?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Blue eyes so like his own clouded with confusion before Arch pulled himself up to his full height. “You’ll talk to me with respect, boy.”

“I’ll give you respect the day you deserve it.”

The words spilled out, that thick, bass drumbeat growing louder in his veins. He didn’t sass his father. He’d learned that lesson—and had hidden far too many bruises to forget it. But fuck it all, his father had harassed Mama Lou.

And that wasn’t going to happen again. Ever.

“You’re my kid.”

“Kid or no, law says you can’t come around here.”

Something flickered in his father’s eyes, deflating the pushed-out chest before it puffed up once more. “I don’t care what the goddamned law says. You got my eyes. My nose.”

“The one you bloodied the last time you came around here?”

Arch moved up into his grill, but Nick held his ground. He wouldn’t cower.

“You’ve got my fucking blood.”

“Why the hell do you care? You’re only here because you ran out of whatever you’ve been drinking tonight. What else did you add? A little coke this time to perk yourself up?”

“You don’t know nothing. You don’t understand.” The punch came out of nowhere, and Nick dodged it, his reflexes better since he’d been running his agility drills with coach after practice. Without checking the impulse, his own fist flew, his father stumbling backward from the hard strike to his stomach.

Nick pushed forward, the thick wall of flesh that was Arch Kelley giving way as Nick used his newfound strength. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He wasn’t going to be beaten and abused. He had a future.

With that thought, the fire in his belly that pushed him forward faded, and Nick checked his next punch, pulling his arm before stepping away from his father.

He had a future.

Mama Lou had given him one.

And because he did have one, he stopped, holding his hands tight at his sides, fists clenched so hard he wondered he didn’t break his fingers from the pressure.

His father stared up at him, his pupils small dots in eyes that had gone dim with defeat.

“Nick!” The scream came out of nowhere, near his ear before a small, whirling dervish of determined female moved between him and his father. “No, sweetie. No!”

His father leaned over and spit on the ground. “You need a woman to fight for you?”

Nick pulled Mama Lou to his side before he pushed her behind him. “I fight my own fights. I’m rid of you. Go the hell home.”

“You’re mine. You’re my legacy.”

He hadn’t slept that night. Nor did he sleep in the weeks that followed. He’d catch a few hours on the couch after school, but that was it. When night came, he was ready.

But Arch Kelley hadn’t come back, and Nick refused to go looking for him. It had taken more than a few years to quell the ever-present feeling the old man would return, and other than a few outreaches once he turned pro, his father had kept his distance. With time Nick had come to see the events of that night in a different light. Despite Arch’s bluster, Nick wasn’t his father’s legacy. The harassment and physical attacks had resulted in the court’s ruling that Lou could foster him and eventually adopt him as well. She’d been persistent as a bulldog, using his father’s lack of support, addiction, and tendency toward violence to resolve his problems to their favor.

And they’d both come out with the upper hand the day the judge signed the papers that said he was officially her child.

Nick had never known the truth, but he suspected there’d been some sort of payoff as well. That information hadn’t bothered him—no matter how many ways he’d attempted to turn it—which had been another revelation of sorts.

Nick might carry the old man’s name, but in every way that mattered, he had a new life. One that had shaped him and molded him into a man of value, character, and worth. Louisa had given him the values that had influenced his life. Football had taken those values and rounded off the rougher edges, shaping his character. But coming to recognize his worth was his own doing.

He’d never have had any of those things had he stayed in Arch Kelley’s controlling, abusive clutches.

“You okay?” His brothers rarely pushed—joking was the preferred method of communication among their trio—but Landon’s gaze was serious.

Damn, but the memory had come on strong. He’d long ago accepted the realities of his childhood, but it never failed to surprise him how it could reach up and swipe at him with the right provocation. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Sure.”

The cop who’d taken his statement told him he could go, and assured him they’d take a closer look at the jerk making trouble. Landon had already rounded everyone up, and Nick was surprised to see Emma in the midst of their group. Those enticing freckles over her nose wrinkled in distaste, and her gaze was dark with a wash of questions and accusations.

The day he’d chalked up to halfway shitty moved firmly into the realm of fucked.

He was on a waiting period in his quest to purchase the Unity. His father’s ghost had risen from the shallow grave he normally tossed it in. And now he looked like some meathead brawler who attacked random strangers.

Suddenly Landon’s zombie apocalypse looked like one hell of a place to escape the shitstorm that his life had become.

Chapter Seven

The burger was thick and juicy, with the proper ratio of ketchup, onions, and good, old-fashioned American cheese. Even with the delectable combo still fresh on her tongue, Emma couldn’t shake off the horror of what she’d seen in the park.

That man—the same jerk who’d given her the black eye—had kicked his girlfriend. Or was it his wife? Who the heck knew, and their relationship status had no bearing on such an ugly action.

He’d kicked her.

And she, Emma, had stood there and watched it happen.

No matter how bad things had gotten with Cole, she’d never feared for her physical safety. He’d done a hell of a job emotionally, but she’d be lying if she didn’t admit to getting in a few verbal licks of her own. In the end, they’d both realized they weren’t meant for each other and ended the marriage.

But she’d never feared for her physical safety or imagined, for a single moment, he’d harm her.

Yet Nick had seen the risk. He’d understood what was happening on that blanket and had acted in a heartbeat, leaping all over the guy who’d turned on his girlfriend. In that moment, Emma understood something she’d only sensed on Friday night.

Nick Kelley was a protector.

He didn’t simply own the End Zone. Nor was he just an aspiring business owner in Park Heights. He was part of the neighborhood, focused on contributing to it, and making it better. She’d seen that firsthand in their discussions today. It was like he saw something beyond the investment in the Unity—beyond a financial return—that involved expanding the brewery’s role in the community.

Her grandfather had understood that. A part of her remembered when her father did as well. But somewhere along the line, Peter Vandenburg had come to see the business as a noose instead of a lifeline.

Was it possible Nick was the better choice for the Unity? She’d resisted asking herself that from the moment Nick had walked into the conference room and confirmed his intentions to buy the business, but it would be sheer ignorance not to consider it. He had chosen to make Park Heights his home after retiring from football. Since then, he’d become part of the fabric of the community, and a key thread in its renaissance. She might not like her father’s decision to sell, but she could hardly argue with his selection of Nick.

A happy shout pulled Emma’s attention from her thoughts, and she glanced around the bar. It was Monday night so the crowd was small, but it maintained that steady hum of quiet groups of people enjoying themselves. Conversation and laughter filtered into the atmosphere, everyone seeming to enjoy their evening.

Emma’s impressions of the crowded bar on Friday night gave way to a clearer view of the inside of the End Zone. The feel of an old fashioned watering hole, so evident from the thick mahogany bar with its brass rails, was consistent throughout the rest of the place. Scarred wooden tables filled the space, and large, comfy booths ran the length of the walls. The lighting was warm. It was easy to see why denizens of Park Heights regularly found their way to Nick Kelley’s doorstep.

“More fries all around.” Patty dropped two plates of warm fries on the table before setting a large plate of cheese fries in front of Fender. “Just the way you like ’em.”

“You spoil me.”

“You won’t be saying that when you’re having an angioplasty at forty.”

Fender stood up and placed a big smacking kiss on Patty’s lips. “You sweet talker, you.”

Patty swatted him on the side of the head before bouncing off with a smile. Emma was pretty sure the byplay wasn’t new, the easy familiarity between the two barely drawing a glance from the rest of the table.

She wasn’t, however, so sure about the angioplasty. Fender’s large, lean frame seemed to be nothing but muscle clad in a black T-shirt, jeans, and an attitude. The man probably worked out enough to handle a bit of extra cheese. The real surprise was the easy and teasing nature that seemed to soften those bad-boy edges. The boy with the memorable name and electric green eyes had grown into a fascinating man. Emma hadn’t missed several longing gazes tossed in his direction when they’d made their way to the back of the bar.

Nor had she missed his unwillingness to linger on any of them for more than a wicked smile.

The lighter crowd had given them a chance to snag a large round table along the back wall, prime real estate to enjoy the view. Their group spread out before her in easy conversation, their original six expanding to include Tommy and his wife.

“What the hell happened tonight?” Tommy reached over and snagged some fries. “Olivia and I were halfway there when we got Landon’s text with the change of plans.”

“That jerk I told you about. The one in here last Friday night. He was at the park.”

Nick’s words were clipped, his attention returning quickly to his burger. Despite the clear “no trespassing” signs, Tommy pressed on. “And?”

“And Nick beat the shit out of him.” Landon quickly summed up the events, his tone casual, even as he kept his attention on his brother.

Emma watched it all, fascinated by both what was said and what wasn’t. Fender and Landon managed the table, their quick smiles and easy words as much a sign as their physical positions. They’d literally and figuratively closed ranks around their brother.

With the gregarious good nature that had made Tommy Santola the king of the playground at eight and Park Heights’s most promising real-estate professional a quarter century later, he lifted his beer. “To shit-kicking assholes, then.”

The rest of the table lifted their glasses in toast, cries of “hear-hear” overlapping with the clinking of heavy glass.

Emma took a sip from her glass, her gaze drifting over to Nick. The misery stamped on him since the fight in the park hadn’t vanished. If anything, it had grown more pronounced. The round table made it easy to see everyone, but no matter how many times she tried to get his attention, he deftly avoided her gaze.

Was it the adrenaline crash?

She dismissed the thought as soon as it came. Something was bothering Nick. And five minutes later, when Landon ordered a second round and Nick leaped up to make the drinks, her instincts were confirmed.

She kept her interest casual, but her seat at the table gave her a direct line of sight to the bar. He worked the stick, pouring beer refills before getting a fresh glass of wine for Becky. But when he finished the order, he handed everything over to Patty and made a beeline for his office.

Nick repressed the urge to slam his office door, pushing it closed with barely a thud. Damn, why couldn’t he settle? Landon’s idea to get some food and a few drinks had been a good one and he’d thought he would have calmed down by now. But fuck it all, his hands still shook and he couldn’t get rid of the buzzing in his head.

Or his father’s voice.

Arch Kelley’s bellow still echoed in his mind, imprinted on him as surely as the memory of that awful night when he’d beaten back his father.

“You’re mine. You’re my legacy.”

Damn it.

He gave in to the urge to throw something and hurled the foam football he kept on his desk at the far wall. It hit the brick at the far corner of his office before bouncing on the hardwood and settling against the couch.

Legacy.

His father had said a lot of other things throughout his life. What a stupid shit he was. How he’d never amount to anything. How he thought he was better than everyone. The words changed to fit the old man’s mercurial moods, surfing the highs and lows of addiction.

But his father had loved the idea of Nick as legacy. A freaking human memorial to the fucked-up, wasted life of Arch Kelley.

Nick understood the cause, knew it was his father’s condition that was responsible for the endless streams of ugly words. Mama Lou had seen to that. She’d innately sensed what her boys needed and, despite Nick’s embarrassment at going to see a psychologist, she’d insisted on the visits.

So he’d gone. For her, he’d have done anything. He’d sat through the sessions, angry and sullen and mad at the world, but he went. Until the day something had broken wide open, and all the fear and hatred and mind-numbing terror that he’d end up the same as his father had come tumbling out.

A hard knock broke into his thoughts, and before he could move behind his desk in an attempt to look busy, Emma’s head poked through the door. “You okay?”

Nick hovered there, between the door and his desk, frozen to his spot. “Sure.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Sure. Right. It’s just—” Emma stopped, as if wrestling with a decision, before firmly stepping into the room and closing the door. “It’s just that I need to leave, but I wanted to talk to you. About tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Tomorrow? The vague memory of their plans coalesced in his mind. “Right. The sales meeting.”

“If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to.”

“I’m in, Emma.”

“I know. It’s just that it was a tough night. And you’ve got a lot going on running this place. I just wanted you to know you had a pass tomorrow. If you wanted it.”

A pass.

Whether it was the words or the moment or the mere fact she was handy, Nick had no idea.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A perfect reason to kick me out of the Unity.”

“No. I . . . No.” She stopped, her voice growing firm. “That’s not what I meant. We dumped a schedule on you today and didn’t even stop to think that you have other things going on. There’s always another sales meeting. Another chance to go out with the sales team. It can wait.”

Wait.

As if he wanted to wait one more fucking minute for his life to start. His future. “No, it can’t wait.”

“Fine, then. I’ll see you at eight.”

A small spark fired in the depths of those chocolate eyes, and it lit something inside of Nick. She didn’t deserve the jerk routine, but damn it all if he could hold back the sudden rush of emotion and frustration and need that filled him.

Something shifted as he stared at her. The attraction he’d tamped down earlier beneath a thin veneer of control. All of it flared to life—a match to that spark he saw in her eyes. Heat. Passion. Need.

Emma Bradley—fuck it, no, she was Emma Vandenburg—had something buried beneath that surface, and he was suddenly too charged up to keep that thin veneer in place.

Right now, he wanted to see if he could make her moan.

His gaze roamed over the slim lines of her body—the rose-colored sleeveless dress hugging her curves like a caress. He skin was a pale alabaster, smooth and untouched, a match for her pale blonde hair.

For the moment, Nick hesitated. Did he dare touch her? Did he even have a right? Their kiss on Friday night had existed in the blessed oblivion of ignorance. But if he kissed her now . . .

If he kissed her now, he did so in full understanding of the situation they found themselves in. Opposite sides of a chasm that had a clear loser.

“Nick?”

His name on her lips captivated him, and all thoughts of what might come vanished in the sight of her. In this moment, they still stood on opposite sides of that chasm, a strange sort of limbo that trapped them both.

Yet in that prison both were still free to choose.

And he chose her.

Emma.

Nick moved into her, the moment of hesitation vanishing as if it had never been. His hands wrapped around her wrists, capturing them as surely as he planned to capture her lips. He saw her eyes widen for the briefest moment before something else rose up, expanding her pupils in the muted light of his office.

Desire.

And then there was no waiting. No more wondering. No more heated thoughts left unfulfilled.

His lips came over hers, her slim form pressed to his office door as he pressed his body into hers. Their height difference had him bending toward her, and the contrast in their physical sizes struck him once more. She was so fragile.

Yet strong.

In the long, slender lines of her body, he sensed the same power that fired her personality. Like titanium, she had a deceptive strength, one that could hold great weights without breaking.

He wanted to explore her, but something held him back. Some line he innately sensed he couldn’t cross, for fear of never returning. So he held tight to her hands, pleased when she linked her fingers with his and hung on.

Male.

The word whispered through Emma’s thoughts over and over as Nick Kelley ravished her against his office door. His lips danced over hers—at times firm, at others soft and yielding, playing to a wicked tune.

He was so male. So strong and physical, his body an absolute contrast to hers. Where she had curves, he was straight, layered in muscle and sinew. Where she moaned softly, from the very depths of her throat, a hard groan echoed as his tongue dueled with hers. And where she pressed against the door, no match for his strength, he cradled her with his body as if she were the most precious of gifts.

So this was desire, she marveled, half dazed with his mouth a brand against hers. This was what they wrote songs and books and poems about.

His fingers tightened over hers and she was tempted to unlock them, allowing her hands free rein over his body. The hard lines of his back, tapering to the slim lines of his waist. The thick ropes of muscle that corded his forearms. The firm lines of his buttocks, taut as she pulled him tighter against her body.

She imagined it all, but something held her still, her hands firmly wrapped in his.

This joining, yet not, had its appeal. As if she hadn’t fully committed herself to her attraction for Nick, but rather, danced just at the end of a tether. She could still pull back. Could still be pulled back by the winds of change and the great, sucking sound of her life as it currently stood.

That alone nearly had her pulling away from the kiss, but Emma held her ground. She’d not miss this glorious moment because of the ongoing fight with her father, or her lingering embarrassment over a marriage gone bad, or even the confusion about battling Nick for the Unity.

Oh no.

To walk away from this moment would be a betrayal of every dream, every fantasy, she’d ever had. And she wasn’t quite ready to wake up.

Another wave of desire buffeted her as his tongue wrapped around hers. Her entire body responded, from the heat that pooled at her very core, to the tight press of her nipples against her bra. The silk of her dress wrapped around her legs, torturous chains that kept them from fully experiencing each other.

Yet one more tether against the reality of giving herself fully to Nick. Even as she wanted to whimper at the sensations he could bring to life with just a kiss, Emma knew it was for the best.

She wanted him.

The sensation wasn’t new. She’d wanted him years before, when she didn’t even understand the needs of her body, but did somehow sense that the raw, restless feeling that would settle low in her stomach was different. Was foreign and adult. So she’d buried it beneath shyness and a lack of understanding about the feelings of a woman trapped in the skin of a growing girl.

Now that she did understand, she wanted him with a fierceness that bordered on madness. A wholly female need, matched to the male wrapped in her arms.

But giving in was tantamount to losing. Losing the Unity. Losing her future. And, if she wasn’t mistaken, losing herself.

The thought nearly had her pulling back when a hard knock echoed at her back.

“Nick!”

He lifted his head, his vivid blue eyes hazed with such blazing desire, Emma nearly reached up and pulled him back down, the whole world—her very future—be damned.

“Nick!”

“What!” The shout came out as a growl, the air vibrating with his frustration.

“You’re needed out front.” The joking that had layered Fender’s voice earlier was gone. Even through the thick wood door, Emma heard the tension.

“For what?”

“Cops are here.”

Louisa settled into the thick-cushioned chair in her bedroom and sifted through the images in the box, the photos worn with age. She didn’t have many and for the life of her she had no idea why she’d kept them at all, but the designer shoebox was the only thing she had left of her time with Kincade. A few scattered photos. Three playbills from shows long gone from Broadway. And a pressed rose wrapped in tissue paper.

Nearly a quarter century had passed since that time. Those days when she loved another woman’s husband. She’d ignored that fact when they were together, instead believing his words that he and his wife lived separate lives. They’d fallen out of love years before and only stayed together for the public pretense of it all.

And for their children.

She’d believed him, of course. The whole office knew of the shrew he’d married. Her legendary attitude that dripped with disdain at office parties or outings with clients. Her silver-spoon-fed existence that had rendered her cold and heartless.

Louisa had believed it all.

Only it had been fed to her with a plastic spoon that would snap in half all too quickly.

Ten months they were together.

Ten glorious months when she’d forgotten about her working-class roots and her single life and her lack of children. Ten months when her ambition was seen as a quality to be prized and her work ethic an asset rather than unfeminine. Ten months that would lead to the greatest ruin of her life.

The faded image of the two of them, captured forever on film, stared back at her from the box. She’d believed that time was over. That the events that had ultimately ruined her career and her life in Manhattan were well and truly behind her.

But Gretchen Reynolds seemed determined to dredge them up. Some sort of lingering payment for a debt that had never fully been repaid.

She’d moved on. Had come to understand in the years after her life imploded that what was waiting for her in her future was far more fulfilling—and far more wonderful—than anything she’d ever imagined for herself. Motherhood three times over. A community that prized her for exactly who she was and the skills she possessed. And a home that was warm and welcoming, a haven each and every time she closed the door at night.

How odd to discover all of it had been a mirage. An oasis in the desert, holding her captive and showing her what real love, commitment, and devotion were all about, only to vanish when she got too comfortable.

A mirage, because now that reality had shimmered to life, she had to pay for her sins. The bill for ten months that had happened a lifetime ago had now come due.

And she had no idea how she was going to pay the price.

Chapter Eight

Cool air wrapped around them as Nick walked Emma down one of the main streets of Park Heights. He was careful not to touch her, but his arm kept brushing against hers as they maneuvered down the sidewalk, stepping over concrete lifted by tree roots and dodging garbage cans set out for the morning pick up.

He felt clumsy. Oafish. And far too big to be walking down the street next to Emma.

He also still felt the crazy wash of heat and need that had pulsed between them in his office. Fender’s interruption had likely come at the right time, but it was frustrating to have to excuse himself from Emma’s arms to talk to cops. Again.

It came with the territory, of course. He owned a bar. No matter how much he watched out, in an effort to avoid trouble, people still found a way to get into it. And their drunk and high patron from Friday night fit that to a T. At least this time the local precinct had promised to put a few vice detectives in the area, monitoring to see if there was something bigger going on than a few bad customers.

What he hadn’t expected was for Emma to still be waiting when he finished up answering more questions and pulling a copy of Friday night’s security tapes.

“Making notes so you can convince your father not to sell?”

Hurt had clouded her eyes before she shot back. “Actually, I was waiting for a friend to finish up after a shitty evening.”

The comment hit its mark, and he offered up a small smile. “I’ve got brothers for that. You know. When I’m acting like an insufferable ass.”

She shot a wary gaze toward Fender and Landon, her tone softening. “Landon’s got an early presentation, and Fender seemed like a little boy who lost his balloon when Becky jumped at the chance to have Hector walk her home.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“I suspect he will. Doesn’t mean he’s not feeling a bit pinched tonight. Which means you’re stuck with me.”

He’d hardly considered it stuck, but kept that to himself. He’d then dispatched Landon back to his apartment, left Fender to finish one final round with Tommy and his wife, and offered to walk Emma home.

The business district of Park Heights had given way to a more residential feel, and warm lights reflected from the faces of brownstones and the windows above scattered darkened storefronts that still lined this part of the street. Traffic—both auto and pedestrian—was steady, and they passed more than a few people one or both of them knew.

If those people were surprised to see Nick Kelley walking Emma Vandenburg along High Street, they didn’t say. But he’d hear it anyway, the gossip finding its way to Mrs. W., and then his mother, by morning.

“It’s a shame the boil was a bust. It’s a nice night. Neighborhood will empty out now that summer’s almost here.”

She glanced around, her gaze on the tree-lined street instead of him. “People still jet for the summer?”

“A good number of them. The weekends get really quiet.”

“Must be a nice change of pace. It’s a good time to learn the ropes at the Unity.”

“Look . . . about that.”

She did turn to him now. “About what?”

At the full pressure of her gaze, the words dried up in his mouth. What exactly was he about? An apology for kissing her? For wanting to do more? Or was it an apology for the way he was hell-bent to buy her family legacy?

“I’m sorry. About before.”

“Want to run that by me again?”

“I didn’t . . . I mean . . .” That oafish sense that hadn’t fully left him seemed to affect his tongue, and he finally stopped moving, willing a deep breath into his lungs. “I’m sorry I jumped at you. On you. In my office. You were trying to be nice and I was—”

He broke off at the sheer affront that covered her face, pink heating her cheeks to a vibrant shade visible beneath the streetlamps. “What?”

“You can’t seriously be that big an ass? You pulled the caveman routine in your office when I knocked on the door. Then you added a layer of wounded bear over the caveman routine after the cops left. But right now? Right this very minute? You’re square in asshole territory.”

Asshole? What the hell? “I’m trying to apologize for acting like a caveman.”

“You didn’t want to kiss me?”

“I—” He stopped and dragged in another lungful of air. “I wanted to kiss you.”

“So why the apology?”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

Emma stilled at that, whatever she was about to say clinging to her lips, unspoken. He watched, fascinated as any number of emotions played through the depths of her eyes before something like courage straightened her shoulders. “Because you’re not attracted to me?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“I saw how you looked at me. Before. In the park. I was out of line and you were shocked and disgusted by my behavior.”

“I wasn’t—”

Nick held up a hand. “That bastard wife beater needed to be dealt with, and I happened to be the one near enough to do it. I know it was offensive, but I’d do it again.”

“Offensive?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “What is it you think you saw on my face?”

“Before. At the park. I attacked that guy and it bothered you.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I acted like an ape, right there in the middle of the fucking great lawn.” And I saw your face. That mix of disgust and shock as I attacked someone else.

Her head did the slightest snap at his expletive, but she recovered admirably. “It didn’t bother me. In fact, if you had any idea how not bothered I was by the ape routine, you’d be surprised.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m just sorry you got to him first. Becky and I were more than willing to take a few swipes at his sorry ass.”

“Yeah, well, now his sorry ass is in jail.” At the jingle of a bicycle bell, Nick moved back, allowing enough distance for the rider to pass. On a dark mutter he blurted out his real concern. “Until he gets out and it all starts again.”

They stood there for a moment, the distance between them on the sidewalk seemingly endless before Emma moved up and closed the gap. “Until he gets out?”

“No. Yes.” Damn it, when had he lost all ability to put together a coherent thought? “Guys like that, they don’t learn. Bringing the cops just makes them madder.”

“Cops seemed pretty serious about punishment. A punishment he deserved.”

“Until there’s something else that takes their attention. He’s an addict, and he’s got a violent streak. At the end of the day there’s not much the cops can do about it.”

“You speak from experience?”

A light breeze whipped up, wrapping around them both. The light scent of her—something fresh like lemons, but softer—hit his senses as he tried to process her words. “It’s just the way things are.”

“I see.”

He didn’t think she did, but now wasn’t the time to press it. Because to press it was to explain his own past and all the reasons he was so sure in his knowledge.

Pushing off his heels, he extended a hand to get them moving again. That light breeze continued to blow and he fought the urge to lean over and bury his nose in her hair to inhale that amazing scent.

“This is my stop. Thanks for walking me home.” Emma came to a halt at the stoop of her building, the large brick edifice rising up behind her. He’d been inside a few times and remembered the units as clean, if somewhat shabby.

“Sure.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the Unity, and we’ll meet up with Seth then. We’ll do the morning sales call, and after that he’ll take us out on his day’s meetings.”

“That sounds like—” The comment vanished as she launched herself into his arms, her mouth finding his with impressive precision. Like a wave crashing to shore, he wrapped his arms around her and held on.

The heated kisses they’d shared in his office had come on just as fast, only this time they were layered with something else.

Something more.

The melancholy of the evening, coupled with the heated taste he’d already had, had mellowed into a dark, raw yearning he hadn’t ever felt before. But when she pulled back, her lips tracing a path over his jaw, Nick knew what it was to burn with a greedy, desperate desire.

Her lips feathered over his ear, a husky whisper sending shivers down his spine. “Thank you for walking me home.”

“You’re welcome.” Nick gave himself one final moment to indulge that crazy desire to breathe her in before stepping back and shoving his hands in his jeans pockets.

It was only when the front door of her building closed firmly that Nick removed his hands from his pockets.

And found they were shaking once again.

Emma pressed her hand to her stomach as she sifted through a few early morning e-mails in the small office she’d taken for herself at the Unity. She’d gotten an early start, finally throwing in the towel around five A.M., when sleep had proven elusive. The broken snatches she did manage had been filled with restless dreams of Nick.

Hot, wicked dreams that played out their moments in his office into a carnal finale that, even now, still lingered in her memories. An alternative ending that didn’t include cops or Fender’s solid knock on the door. In her version, their hands finally unlinked, giving them free rein over each other’s body.

Clothing vanished.

Time stood still.

And the top of Nick’s desk held a special sort of magic that had nothing to do with nostalgia and everything to do with the electricity that flowed between the two of them like snapping wires.

Chugging down more coffee, she willed her pulse to slow down. Those moments weren’t real. She and Nick hadn’t made love. Nor had she made any improvement in clarifying things between them.

Nope. Things were as clear as mud, which meant she had to figure out a way to navigate the rest of the time they would spend together. Because no matter how tempting, there was no freaking way she was making that dream a reality.

Even if she was the one to plant a goodnight kiss squarely on his lips. And then whisper in his ear like some sultry siren of days gone by.

Had she really done that?

When the shape of Nick’s ear weighed heavy on her lips, a powerful sense memory she couldn’t forget if she tried, Emma knew it was true.

Which took her right back to square one and the reality of her life. She wasn’t some siren from days of old, but a confused thirtysomething on the verge of losing her job and her family business, sporting a coffee buzz layered over a sleepless night and a case of arousal that would give a teenage boy a run for his money.

“An insult to teenage boys the world over,” she muttered to herself as she downed the last swallow of coffee.

Since there was nothing to be done for it, she pushed the discomfort aside and focused her thoughts on the other item that had kept her awake: that quiet comment she knew hadn’t been meant for her.

Until he gets out and it all starts again.

While she didn’t fully know his background, the Park Heights grapevine had always produced fruit. And Nick, Landon, and Fender had become known around the neighborhood as the boys Louisa Mills adopted. All had come from broken homes.

How broken, was the real question.

The intercom system they used throughout the brewery echoed from the ceiling, alerting her to a call. When she picked up, Seth’s muted voice quavered from the other end.

“I’m not going to make it in, Em. I ate something really bad last night.”

“At the boil?”

“Nah. Tracy didn’t want to go so we ordered in sushi. I’ve been paying for it ever since.”

Since he still sounded like the sushi was having its revenge, she quickly jotted down the details of his meetings and promised an update later. Emma hit the coffeemaker on her way out and headed for the conference room. It looked like she was running the sales meeting solo today.

Becky twisted the thin sweatshirt in her hands and wondered what the hell she was doing standing out front of the End Zone on a bright Tuesday morning. She’d begged off an hour of work claiming an appointment, even as she knew the call was unnecessary. She’d make the time up on the back end. She always did.

The design firm she worked for kept loose hours and a basic expectation you’d get your work done by the time it was due. Which hours you worked to get there was up to you.

She knocked on the door, the thick wood hard beneath her knuckles. As she waited for an answer, she took a moment to take in the front entrance. She was rarely here during the day, but it was nice to see how well kept the property was.

She still remembered the days when Chili was running it. The bar had been something of a shabby eyesore—but to be fair, most of Park Heights was back then. It was funny how the neighborhood had changed. Transformed, really.

Sort of like her.

And damn, there it was.

Again.

She’d considered herself past her old memories, but they’d come back with a vengeance last night. Whether it was the incident in the park or meeting Hector, she wasn’t sure. But those memories had risen up with all the force of hot lava spewing from a volcano.

“We’re clos—” His comment faded as Hector opened the door, pulling it wide. “Hi.”

“I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to bring your sweatshirt back.”

“Sure.”

“I’m . . . um . . . I’m sorry I ran off so fast last night. I wasn’t expecting . . . Well, I didn’t know.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Becky had already figured him as a man of few words, but the lack of response bordered on insulting. “Did you know?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She handed over the sweatshirt, but ended up standing there, her arm extended when he didn’t take it.

“I said you could keep it. You didn’t need to come find me.”

“Well, it’s yours and I’m here. So good-bye.”

She shook the sweatshirt at him, pleased when he finally took it. Without waiting for any more delightfully stilted conversation, she turned to go.

And was stopped by a large hand on her shoulder.

Her gaze drifted over the wide expanse of the back of his hand, the olive skin dark against the paler tones of her shoulder, exposed by her summer tank dress. She stilled, the heat of his fingers penetrating her with a warmth that sizzled through her body with all the subtlety of an avalanche.

But oh, how she wished it didn’t.

She wished she didn’t understand that funny way attraction had of warming you up, heating you from the inside out, creating a blaze that had little to do with body heat and everything to do with the heat generated between two bodies.

And oh, how she wished even more that the moment she’d prayed for—waited for—for nearly a decade would wait just a bit longer.

Another day. Month. Year. With anyone besides Hector Rodriguez.

Slipping out from his hold, she turned to face him once again. A million thoughts remained unspoken as she stared at that face, some elements so familiar even as the lines and planes and angles were decidedly different.

“I didn’t know.” The husky timbre of his voice ran shivers down her spine. “Honest.”

“I believe you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not any more than I am.”

Before she could make an even bigger mess of it, Becky took off, cursing herself with each step. She could have mailed the sweatshirt. Or given it to Emma to pass off to Nick. Or she could have kept it as he’d offered.

But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d played Russian roulette with her memories.

And had the singularly unpleasant sensation of eating a mouthful of lead.

Chapter Nine

Nick considered himself a man of stamina and sharp focus. He’d learned the skills early and channeled them into professional sports. When football had given way to the rest of his life, he’d been amazed to find the same set of skills served him just as well in learning to run a business and manage his finances.

Fender called it “fucking adulthood” with a wry smile and deep laugh. Nick just assumed it was life.

But nothing—not two-a-day practices in the dead of summer or signing off on his first business loan—had anything on Emma. The woman made a whirling dervish look slow.

Since he’d arrived at the Unity that morning, they’d managed a conference call, did a quick check of the lines, did several readouts on the developing wort, and then a full briefing on their sales calls for the day. That took all of an hour, and they’d been on the move ever since.

He’d made an idle suggestion to stop for lunch around one and had gotten the fish-eye for his trouble, along with an admonishment that they’d be late for their next meeting.

So here they were.

The minor-league ballpark recently erected about six subway stops from Park Heights rose up before them. He’d been here several times; the easy trip and old-fashioned ballpark made watching Brooklyn’s newest Double-A team, the Brooklyn Kings, a fun way for him and his brothers to end a day. It was closer than heading to Coney for a Cyclones game, and it was fun to see some of the local talent earn their stripes.

“They already have the pale ale on tap. What’s the point of coming here?”

“Seth’s concerned that they want to cancel the contract after this year. We need to convince the stadium manager to keep us in her lineup.”

Nick didn’t miss the us, but pushed on. “I thought stadium pours were generally negotiated for several years at a time. The stadium’s only two years old. Why’s the contract up so soon?”

“Because my father refused to listen to good sense when Seth brought him an opportunity for a ten-year lockup. Which is why we’re here, proverbial hats in hand, trying to convince the powers that be to stay with us.”

Nick opened the doors to the corporate offices a split second before her, extending a hand to wave her through. The outfit she wore looked like something minted around 1952, but the calves peeking beneath the skirt were sexy as hell. He gave himself an extra moment of pure male appreciation before following her.

The office was small, the space simple. Historic images of Brooklyn baseball lined the walls, from the Bridegrooms of the late 1880s to the Dodgers of the mid ’50s.

He might have spent the majority of his life obsessed with football, but baseball came in a close second. Add in Landon’s computerlike skill in quoting nearly every stat there was, and he could probably account for years of his life spent talking about, playing, or watching baseball.

“Is that a tear in your eye?”

Her tongue was firmly planted in her cheek, but Nick didn’t miss the curiosity that tinged the question. “I’m an all-American guy. And I do love my baseball.”

“You seem excited to be here.”

“Aren’t you?”

She shrugged before glancing around. “I guess. It’s one more office in a world full of them.”

“It’s a baseball stadium.”

“Yes. A nice new one, at that.”

“And Unity beer is poured for the baseball games played here. It doesn’t get more all-American than that.”

“Okay.”

“Just okay?” Nick fought the urge to goggle and lost. “You cannot be serious.”

“Is this something else about sports, like ‘ass magic,’ I need to understand?”

“Yes. No.” Nick stopped when he saw the smile hovering around her lips. Before he could call her on it, a woman called into the lobby for them.

Nick followed Emma towards a set of double glass doors. He knew this was a big meeting, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to mess with her a bit. Tugging on the back of her prim, proper, business-suit jacket, Nick slowed her progress enough to lean forward and whisper in her ear.

“Join me in my office one more time and I can show you just how magical that desk is.”

Emma fought the urge to strip off her suit jacket and fan herself. Damn the man—even when she thought she had the upper hand, he managed to find a way to unseat her.

Unsettle her.

And bring all that crazy, arousing need straight back to the surface, even after she’d worked so hard to hold him off.

She’d kept a respectful distance. She’d dug out the ugliest, most prim business suit she could find from the back of her closet. And for her coup de grace, she’d forced him to go without food.

The distance he would have expected, since their prior evening had ended awkwardly. And the outfit still showcased her legs, which even she knew deserved some credit. But the lack of food?

The man was a freaking machine.

She was ready to chew through her sleeve, and he was chatting up Scarlett Rodgers like she was the best thing since sliced bread.

And Scarlett was lapping it up, every freaking crumb.

The woman was attractive, and she had an excellent reputation since joining the Kings for their inaugural season. She was sharp, and she knew how to run the ballpark, from the chalk lines on the diamond to keeping the very last seat in the very last row spotlessly clean. Seth had prepared Emma for a fight.

Yet here they were, laughing and talking about the season like they had all the time in the world. Which they sort of did, since she’d forced Nick to skip lunch.

Tactical error, no question about it.

“I’ve been to the End Zone. You run a fine place. I am curious why you’re out on a sales call for the Unity?” Emma didn’t miss Scarlett’s pointed gaze as it drifted between herself and Nick. “Is this a new tactic? Local celebs are good for closing the deal.”

Emma knew it for what it was—a negotiation tactic designed to wear down one’s opponent—so she pasted on a smile and leaned right on in. “Nick’s evaluating the Unity as a business investment. My father and I are seriously interested in opportunities for expansion, especially where I’m looking to take the business for the next generation.”

If Scarlett was surprised by the news she kept it to herself, but did lean in as well. “Can I take this to mean you will be in business another decade?”

“Did someone suggest otherwise?” Nick’s voice was deadly calm, the jovial, easygoing smile from before nowhere in evidence.

“It’s hardly a secret.” Scarlett shrugged and sat back. “Seth did a good job tap dancing around the reasons for initially wanting a two-season contract, but it wasn’t hard to figure out. Your father’s not as visible around the community as he once was.”

Every bit of common sense she possessed told her to keep her mouth shut. But it was the instincts she’d begun to listen to of late that had Emma leaning in even closer, her palms on the edge of the desk.

“My father’s lack of interest in the business these past few years has been unfortunate. His grief over my mother’s passing has clouded his judgment, and rather than bring in help when he needed it, he’s made some poor decisions. I’m prepared to fix that.”

Emma’s instincts were rewarded as Scarlett laid down her pen and folded her hands. “How?”

Thirty minutes later Emma practically skipped as she followed Nick and Scarlett down several stairwells to the ball field. Nick had jumped at the offer of a tour, and Emma wasn’t immune to the opportunity to see the field from another dimension.

The scent of freshly mowed grass wafted toward her as they walked along the edge of the dugout. Nick had kept up a steady stream of questions, but Emma let them buzz around her mind like lazy bees as she filtered through the day.

Meetings. Calls. Deals.

Nick had joined her for all of them, adding comments and questions where he had them, but otherwise allowing her to manage the work. The man was an asset, and he’d already given her several leads around town for Seth’s team to pursue in the coming weeks.

He’d also given her space, allowing her to respond to Scarlett’s questions without hogging the discussion. Cole had struggled with that. Even something as simple as a dinner party with friends had turned into a battle of who could tell a story faster than the other. Like anyone cared that much about their dumb vacation stories or a new restaurant they’d visited.

A grounds crew tromped toward the field, and she stopped to let them pass. Scarlett excused herself to talk with one of the men, and Nick continued on toward the outfield. The shift in dynamics was enough to pull her from her thoughts, only to gin up an even bigger question.

Why was she comparing Cole to Nick?

Cole had been her husband. Nick was a man she was at odds with. No amount of attraction was going to change that. Nor were things going to magically work out.

A hard breath caught in her throat and Emma forced it back. If things working out were increasingly taking up room in her mind, she needed to nip that one.

Hard.

There was no happy ending with Nick Kelley. There was no happy ending, period, but it sure as hell wasn’t with the god of Park Heights.

And oh, what a magnificent specimen he was. Her body still quivered like an arrow slammed into a bull’s-eye as their heated moments from the night before rushed back to the forefront of her thoughts. What would it be like to sleep with a man like that? To fall into his arms, their naked skin pressed together? Those strong hands pulling sensation after sensation from her with little effort?

“Emma?”

Scarlett’s voice penetrated the feverish thoughts. Oh God, she’d been caught daydreaming about Nick. “Yes?”

“I appreciate the changes you outlined earlier. I’m not going to regret the partnership we’ve signed?”

“Of course not.”

“I’m glad you’re on board with the business. It was a shame to think it might not continue.”

Although Scarlett had a solid streak of hard-ass, Emma couldn’t quite write her off as cold. Yet this was the second time the woman had prodded her about trouble at the Unity. Testing her instincts once more, she pressed. “Did Seth say that?”

“Not at all. He was quite diplomatic.”

“So why the concern about my business?”

“Brooklyn’s smaller than it looks. And I’ve made it my mission to get to know the local businesses that make sense as partners for our ball club. Your company’s on a rather short list.”

“You signed a contract with us.”

“I did, but when I offered a marketing partnership to Seth at a deeply discounted rate, he politely declined, insisting he was only interested in negotiating the beverage rights.”

“What sort of marketing partnership?”

“Signage, program advertisements, and a suite for your use at half our home games.”

Emma held back the need to let her jaw drop—barely—and focused on the question beneath the question. “And Seth declined?”

Or her father did. Unwilling to dredge up the drama that was her personal and professional life, Emma focused instead on the opportunity. “Is the offer still on the table? I’d like to reevaluate the marketing package.”

“Perhaps.” Scarlett’s attention drifted to the outer edge of the diamond, where Nick was speaking to one of the groundskeepers. For the briefest moment Emma had a sense she’d say something else and stayed silent.

“Why don’t you and Nick plan on being my guests on Thursday night? I’ve got the Owner’s Suite for the evening and would like to have you. You can see for yourself if you think it’s a good opportunity. Feel free to invite others.”

She nearly declined—the idea of spending even more time with Nick a mixed bag—but appreciated the olive branch even more. “That sounds like fun.”

Scarlett glanced toward Nick once more before turning back to Emma. “Look. I know it’s none of my concern, but I know what it’s like to fight a battle with your family. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re on board. The Unity’s a gem for the borough, and it would be a shame to see it go away.”

“Come to Papa.” Nick stared at his eggplant parm sandwich like the starving man he was and leaned in for a huge bite. As he chewed, he eyed Emma across the table. She’d been quiet since they left the ballpark, her focus seemingly scattered as she’d checked her phone and ordered her own sandwich with a distracted air. After the rush of activity that had barreled them through the morning, straight on through lunch, it was a little unsettling.

“Scarlett’s a ballbuster.”

Emma glanced up from her meatball sub. “She’s tough. I liked her.”

“I did, too.” Nick took another bite of his sandwich as an idea sparked. “She’s got a tough job.”

“Managing a ballpark?”

“Working in a man’s world. Professional sports are notoriously a man’s domain.”

“You think a woman doesn’t belong there?”

“Hardly. But a woman does stick out. I’d imagine she has to work twice as hard for respect at the ball club. I saw it in the few women who worked in positions in professional football. There was always this sense they were trying to prove themselves.”

“Were they?”

He shrugged. “Isn’t everyone? Anyone with a lick of ambition is always trying to get ahead.”

“Or get a shot.”

“And if you don’t get one?” It wasn’t a particularly cheerful question, yet as he probed, he wasn’t sure if he was asking Emma or himself.

“Are you scenario planning for when you get the Unity?”

“It’s just a question.”

“Is it?”

Nick wasn’t sure why he’d started down this path, but suddenly it was important to him to get underneath their conversation with Scarlett. The woman’s comments on the last negotiation had made it clear Peter Vandenburg had maneuvered things behind the scenes. More details he hadn’t shared with Emma. “Forget the future for a minute. Isn’t the brewery similar to the ballpark? I can’t imagine the Unity is a bastion of female partnership and camaraderie.”

“My situation’s a bit different. Everyone knows me.”

“And still they’re not jumping to get on your side now that your dad’s anxious to sell.”

That was when he saw it. That same stubborn spark that had set her jaw last night finally kicked in. “What are you getting at?”

“I’m curious is all.” Nick took the bite of his sandwich, the move half hunger and half a deliberate way to bait her a bit more.

“About?”

“Why you’re not more pissed off at your father. And why you agreed to our arrangement in the first place. And most of all,” he sat back and wadded up his napkin, “why you’re content to toddle me around instead of telling me to fuck off.”

“I’m not—” Wide-eyed shock gave way to anger—bright, vivid anger that blazed through her, pushing her to her feet. “I’m not toddling you around. I’m trying to live up to my side of our deal.”

“You’re sure making it easy on me.”

Nick had no idea why he was baiting her the way he was, except for the fact that somewhere around the middle of the discussion with Scarlett—when Emma more than held her own—something pissed him off. He hadn’t set out to intentionally compare them, but once the thought rooted, he couldn’t shake it loose.

The two women had faced off, Scarlett, so bright and attractive—fierce even—clad head to toe in black, and then there was Emma, by contrast. She’d paired a dated suit with what he’d gleefully admit were a killer pair of heels, but the suit had nearly faded her out.

Until she’d settled into the negotiation. It was there he’d seen the same sparks she’d already shown him she was capable of. Yet when they’d walked on the ball field the quiet mouse had returned.

She wore the lioness far better.

As if to prove his point, Emma practically quivered as she stood there, hovering over her chair. But confusion was layered in the flush. “You want me to make it hard on you?”

“I sure as shit don’t want you to roll over and play dead.”

“I’m not.”

“Looks like it from where I’m sitting.”

That delightful flush that provided some fucking contrast to that shit-all-ugly business suit flowed from her neck down her throat over the upper part of her chest. Nick’s gaze roamed over that pink expanse, fascinated by the secrets he knew lay a bit further south.

Were her breasts pink, too?

The heavy breaths that had fired her anger shifted under his perusal. He saw the moment anger flashed over, that gorgeous flush growing a shade rosier.

It was all he could do to sit there, watching as this weird, but decidedly powerful, attraction literally spun out between them. The strands might be invisible, but he could almost swear he saw them gleaming a vivid gold in the sunlight if he tipped his head just so.

He leaned forward, his fingers reaching for hers to pull her back into her seat when a heavy shout stayed his hand, suspended in midair.

“Nick! What a pleasant surprise.”

Chapter Ten

A loud, brittle voice crackled in her ear, as jarring as being pulled from a deep sleep. Emma fought to surface, the adrenaline rush of anger and arousal still rooting her in place. Hadn’t they been fighting?

So why did she suddenly feel hot and flushed and decidedly friendly toward Nick Kelley?

Nick stood, smoothly stepping toward the owner of the voice, and the move was enough to finally shift her from her position. As she moved to the side, she saw him bend nearly in half to press a kiss to a thin, papery cheek before moving on to his mother.

Oh God, it was his mother.

What had she seen?

“Mom. Mrs. W. You know Emma Vandenburg.”

Emma pasted on the smile she always associated with greetings to the elderly and turned to the two women. She hadn’t seen Emily Weston since she was young, and she’d never formally met Nick’s mother. “Mrs. Weston. It’s good to see you again.”

“Peter’s daughter all grown up and lovely.” The older woman pulled her close, the warm embrace a complement to the gleeful note that threaded through her words. “It’s good to have you back in the neighborhood.”

It was only when she turned to Nick’s mother that Emma’s voice dried in her throat. What did she call the woman? Her last name wasn’t Kelley. Nor was she a Mrs. Or was she?

As if sensing her discomfort, the woman extended a hand. “I’m Louisa. It’s lovely to meet you.”

Emma nodded, grateful for the save. “Likewise.”

She and Nick quickly made room for their new arrivals at their table, and it was only after they were settled that Emma realized that the large tray one of the counter boys carried, hovering behind their party, was for these two small women.

“It’s late for lunch.” Emily plopped herself down in the empty chair next to Emma’s and reached for a steak sandwich that would likely give Nick a run for his money. “Shouldn’t you young people be working right now?”

“We were working,” Nick interjected smoothly before snatching a tater tot off the woman’s plate. “Emma’s a slave driver and scheduled meetings through lunch.”

“I’m not—” She stopped and smiled. “I’m trying to show Nick the brewery’s not all fun and beer.”

“So far she’s failed miserably. She donated two kegs to the park boil last night, and today she took me to the Kings stadium and got me a tour of the ball field.”

Louisa didn’t say much, but Emma didn’t miss the gentle scrutiny. Her attention seemed kind, yet Emma was still relieved when it moved on to Nick. “I understand there was some excitement at the park last night.”

Nick’s eyebrows lifted. “Landon?”

“No, it was Fender, actually. He was still mad about it when he came ’round for breakfast this morning.”

Emma took in the subtle cues between Nick and his mother, a world of communication passing in what they didn’t say. Clearly Landon was the vocal one, yet it was Fender who’d shared the night’s events. And how nice that he stopped over for breakfast.

They might not be related by blood, but Nick and his family were a tight-knit group.

Although she’d done her level best to compartmentalize the events in the park, they’d swirled in her thoughts all day. Nick’s defense of the woman who’d been attacked. The frustration he’d carried through dinner. And then those explosive kisses. And underneath it all, that telltale comment that played over and over.

Until he gets out and it all starts again.

Did those close family bonds make his upbringing better? Or would it make those memories harder to bear?

“Your father still have a stick up his ass?” Emily’s mouth was full, but the put-down was unmistakable.

The question pulled her from her thoughts, jarring yet highly effective. “Excuse me?”

“I was so sorry to hear of your mother’s passing, though. Marcy was a good friend.”

Despite the original jab and the lingering punch every time her mother was mentioned, Emma found something about Emily Weston hard to resist. Unable to hold back a laugh, she said, “Well, if by ‘stick up his ass’ you mean is he still generally miserable, you’d be on the mark.”

“You think Nicky here’s going to be successful in winning him over?”

Emma eyed Nick, unaccountably pleased to see his stiff shoulders and slight grimace at Emily’s unorthodox questions. “He should be worried about winning me over.”

Emily’s quick laughter filled the restaurant before she patted Emma’s hand. “You’re a feisty one. Your father should be happy you’re home.”

He should be happy. Or even content. But Peter Vandenburg was neither, and her attempts at gamely managing the old woman’s barbs faded. “My father should be lots of things he isn’t.”

“You can put that one on a T-shirt,” Emily said.

The urge to flee was strong, but Emma reached for her drink and settled in to wait out the awkwardness, only to have Nick steer the conversation onward.

“Hey, Mom, how’d the luncheon go in Sheepshead Bay?”

“It went fine.”

“I’m sure you wowed them with your speech.”

Emma reached out, scrabbling for the conversational lifeline. “What were you speaking at?”

“Mom’s running for borough president.”

“It’s not definite.” Louisa played with a chip on her plate. “I haven’t fully decided.”

“What do you mean?” Nick turned toward his mother, and it was the first time Emma noticed some cracks in the veneer. Where Louisa had been embarrassed by Emily’s forward questions, a fleeting darkness ghosted her eyes before she reached for her sandwich. “The borough presidency is a big job. And running for it requires a lot of focus.”

“Which you have.”

“I’m still deciding if I want to overhaul my life that way. I have a few more weeks to formally declare.”

“She’s just being modest.” Emily waved a hand as she reached for her soda. “I’ve been at her all week that she’s being silly. Come to dinner tonight and help me convince her.”

“I’m not sure I’m free,” Nick mumbled.

Emma watched the byplay, fascinated and absolutely sure something else was going on under the surface when Emily’s laser gaze turned to her. “You too, Emma. I’m making fried chicken, and Landon and Fender are already in.”

“Oh, Mrs. Weston, I couldn’t—”

“Impose. Sure you can. You’re new back in town, and you need a bit of meat on those bones.” Emily gave a hard nod before she picked up her enormous steak sandwich again. “You’ll come. Seven at the brownstone. We’ll eat in Lou’s kitchen.”

Emma glanced toward Nick, who just shrugged his shoulders.

It looked like she had dinner plans.

A cab rumbled past as Hector crossed the street to the End Zone. He’d spent most of the day there, moving stock and doing a bit of security review on the weekly tapes. Around three he’d gone back to his apartment to get a few hours down before heading back. Why, he had no idea, since it was his night off, but something about the routine and the noise was what he craved.

Another cab behind him honked at someone who wasn’t moving fast enough, but he ignored it—the noise was as much a part of his neighborhood as that crazy quiet that descended around three each morning. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared at it before shoving it back into his jeans. If he looked at it one more fucking time he was going to toss it into the damn street.

Why the hell did he keep looking at it, like some sad sack of shit?

He had Becky’s number. She’d given it to him last night, before . . . Just before. But she’d been more than clear this morning that she didn’t want to hear from him.

Like he blamed her.

The FUBAR Rodriguez boys didn’t get numbers from nice girls like Becky Owens.

Rebecca.

He’d bet her name was Rebecca.

She sounded like a milkmaid. One with pale skin and wide blue eyes. Which she basically had, only there was no farm in sight in their crowded, oversettled burg.

He’d always liked it—had always believed he liked it. The anonymity and the noise and the bustle. It wasn’t quite Manhattan—Brooklyn had more trees—but it was a good place to get lost.

Only of late it had begun to feel crowded instead of anonymous. And his life had started to close in on him, his past sins whispering to him as he walked home at night after closing up for Nick, or catching him unaware from the corner of his eye as he stood out front at the End Zone, checking IDs and dealing with yuppie bastards.

And then she’d walked into the park.

He’d seen her before. The End Zone catered to most everyone in town under forty, and quite a few over it as well. She didn’t quite fit “cool blonde” territory, but every time she’d been in it was obviously date night. The last one had been a tool, but it still wasn’t any of his business, so he’d watched from a respectful distance.

And then last night she’d walked straight up to their group, no tool or spiffed-up yuppie bastard in sight.

Hector reached for his phone again, managing to still the urge to pull it from his pocket, the metallic edge warm from his body heat.

She didn’t need this. And he so didn’t need this. But for the first time last night, the demons that had dogged him of late had faded into the background, forgotten in the light of her presence.

And God help him, until last night, he hadn’t realized just how much he craved the light.

The scent of fried chicken greeted Nick just before he pushed through the swinging door of the kitchen. His mother hovered nearby as Mrs. W. stood over the deep fryer, a platter of chicken already heaping on the table beside her.

“Smells good in here.”

Emily glanced up from the fryer. “It’s going to smell even better when the corn bread comes out.”

Nick moved in and gave her a kiss on the cheek, their standard greeting since he was ten. “I never knew you were born south of the Mason-Dixon line.”

Emily waved a wicked-looking set of tongs at him. “I’m born-and-bred Brooklyn, and don’t you forget it.”

“So how’d you learn to make fried chicken like a debutante?”

“We all have our secrets, Nicky boy.”

Emily smoothly flipped several pieces in the oil, and Nick fought back a smart-ass retort. On the subject of secrets, there were no doubt lingering questions about why he and Emma were out for lunch. And he still hadn’t fully filled his mother in on the situation with the Unity, although if Fender was there this morning, he’d likely spilled it all in clear detail.

He and his brothers had a code about what they didn’t tell their mother, but that list was surprisingly short. What had included cigarettes, makeout sessions, and fistfights at fifteen had morphed a few decades later, but not by much. And the town grapevine usually gave up their secrets anyway.

“So, Nicky. What do you have cookin’ with Emma?”

And there it was—the very conversation he wanted to avoid.

“Nothing’s cooking, Mrs. W.”

“I’m not blind.”

“And I’m not spilling.”

She gave him a solid smack on the back of his shoulder before shoving the tongs toward him. “I need more oil upstairs. Flip these for me.”

“I’ve got oil.” His mother was already headed for the cabinets when Emily’s tart voice stopped her.

“No, you don’t. I used it.”

Nick could only shake his head. “I’ll go get it.”

“Are you calling me old, young man?”

“No ma’am.”

Mrs. W. shoved the tongs at him once more. “Then turn my chicken and don’t let it burn.”

In moments she was through the door and headed up to her apartment. They heard the heavy clunk of the elevator they’d had restored a few years back, the thunk-thunk-thunk echoing back toward the kitchen.

Nick turned the chicken as he was asked, no novice after helping out in his own kitchen at the End Zone. “She’s subtle.”

“As a freight train.”

He eyed his mother, his smile falling as he caught sight of her. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Yeah, but I asked first.”

Her acknowledgment she held something back slammed into his gut. Laying the tongs on the platter, he moved toward her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He pulled her into his arms, not for the first time realizing just how small and slender she was. “You’re not sick? Or something like that?”

Bone-deep fear washed through him, obliterating everything in its wake. Was something really wrong? Friends had already dealt with aging and sick parents. Heck, Emma’s whole life had changed with the death of her mother.

“No, sweetie.” She pulled back and looked up at him, her gaze softening. “No, nothing at all. I’m fine.”

“Then what is it? The borough presidency?”

“No.” Her gaze shut down as she pulled fully from his arms. “I’m still deciding on that.”

“I thought you decided.”

His mother snapped up the tongs, turning the chicken in a few quick, hard jerks. “It’s a big job.”

“Which you can handle.”

“That I need to think about.”

Nick stepped back, not quite sure what to do, since pretending he was busy with the chicken was no longer an option. His mother had always been so open with them, the idea that she even had a secret, or a concern or, hell, just something bothering her, was a tough pill.

“How are things going with the Unity?”

“Not like I expected.”

“Fender suggested as much.”

The fear that had lodged like a tight ball in his stomach exploded on a rush of energy and unleashed temper. “What the hell else did the mouth say?”

“Nick?”

“Seriously. What the hell was he doing? Sitting here like an old lady gossiping in your kitchen over breakfast? Did you serve him some fucking coffee cake, too?”

“Nicholas James, you want to run that one by me one more time?”

“You have a question, ask me. Don’t go snooping with my brother.”

Slamming through the door, he headed for the family room and the escape of a ball game. He’d apologize later. Right now he wanted some fucking air.

Emma juggled the small bouquet in one hand and a plate of cookies in the other. She’d whipped up a double batch of chocolate chip after she got home, figuring she could use half as her contribution to the evening and the other half as a peace offering to her father.

She needed to talk to him about the contract at the Kings stadium and hadn’t yet settled on her approach. If nothing else, the cookies would occupy his mouth for the few moments she had to make her case. When the inevitable guilt followed at her unkind thoughts, Emma pushed it back. She could add the remorse and blame to the same pile she carried over not being here for her mother. One more tick in the “Emma sucked at family” column.

“You need help with that?” Landon did a quick leap up the front stoop of the brownstone and extended a hand, taking the bobbling bouquet off her hands.

“Thanks.”

He easily juggled the flowers with the two bottles of wine he carried and a backpack slung over one shoulder. In that rush of motion, Emma took a quick minute to take in the long, lean form of Landon McGee.

The geeky boy she remembered had certainly grown up into an attractive man. He was still thin—she suspected he cursed the inevitability of genes on that one—but he had filled out those scrawny lines with a solid frame. Nicely toned biceps peeked out from beneath the edge of his T-shirt sleeves, and well-worn jeans hugged his slim waist.

But it was the eyelashes.

Long and spiky, they framed rich, dark eyes, the color of espresso. Combined with his easy smile, both added just enough to the lean lines of his face to make a woman look twice.

The smile tipped up at the corners as he gave her a wry grin. “I heard you’d gotten roped into fried-chicken night.”

“You heard?”

“Mrs. W. texted me to bring extra wine. She used that time to gleefully tell me she’d seen you and Nick at lunch, she’d invited you to dinner, and we needed to fatten you up.”

Since that pretty much matched her lunch to a T, Emma only shook her head. “I’m not sure if I’m terrified or if I’ve missed this.”

“This?”

“I was in Chicago for over a decade. I didn’t even know my neighbors on either side of me.” With a wry smile of her own, she added, “Which isn’t exactly a shining testimony to my own skills at neighborly bonding.”

“Town gossip can be a bit much.”

“Brooklyn’s not exactly small.”

“No, but our neighborhood is. And there’s nothing Park Heights likes more than someone who comes back home to it.”

There was an odd sort of sense in his comments, and his warm smile made it easy to ask his opinion on her bigger concern. “I think Mrs. Weston’s trying to play matchmaker.”

“Probably.”

“I don’t need matchmaking.”

“You single?”

Although he had to know the answer, she played along. “Yes.”

“Then you’re going to have a hard time convincing anyone else of that fact.”

Landon pushed open the door and waved her on through. “Brace yourself for the madness that is dinner at my mother’s.”

“Madness?” Her comment died on the wave of noise that assaulted her from the interior of the house. The brownstone was large, a legacy from Park Heights’s wealthiest residents at the turn of the twentieth century. Emma had passed this street her entire life, but had never had the pleasure of entering one of the brown edifices that rose four stories toward the sky.

She wanted to think she was cooler than gawking at her surroundings, but the house was magnificent. In a city renowned for its lack of space, the interior of the brownstone was large, warm, and engaging.

A huge sectional couch dominated the room, colorful throws on both sides of the “L” along with vivid, matching pillows at various intervals. A flat screen on the wall blared a Mets game. The space flowed into a large dining room, with a table that could easily seat twelve. The entire area was bookended with open stairs on one side next to—was that an elevator?—and swinging doors on the opposite wall.

Louisa Mills came through the swinging door of the kitchen, a frown on her face before she caught sight of the two of them. The frown vanished, but Emma didn’t miss the quick impression of sadness and frustration.

“Emma. Landon. Come on in.”

Landon extended the bouquet. “Emma brought you these flowers.”

“They’re beautiful.” She took them from Landon, her smile bright before she pulled Emma into a tight hug.

Strong arms wrapped around her, so motherly that Emma fought the sudden tightening in her throat. When was the last time she’d sat through a family dinner?

Cole’s parents hadn’t lived any closer to them than her own parents, and as their marriage declined, they’d made fewer and fewer visits to see them in Phoenix. While she and her mother-in-law hadn’t developed a close relationship over the distance, they cared for each other, and Emma had always enjoyed the woman’s company.

Yet she’d lost that, too, as she and Cole divvied up the pieces of their lives.

For reasons that now seemed silly, she’d allowed her deteriorating marriage to influence every other relationship that mattered in her life. Was that the real reason she hadn’t come home during her mother’s illness? Had it been easier to blindly accept both her parents’ insistence that everything was well, all the while hiding from them what was really happening in her life?

She had told them about the miscarriage, of course, but had chosen to keep the details brusque and impersonal, as if keeping the facts at an emotional distance would make them hurt less. The dissolution of her marriage had received the same treatment.

“I’m glad you joined us tonight.” Louisa gave her one final squeeze. “Even if Emily’s invitation was a bit unorthodox.”

“I’m glad to be here.” The dour memories faded in the warmth of Louisa’s hug. She was glad to be here, grateful for the invitation and the warm welcome. She briefly wondered where Nick was, but the doorbell was already ringing to announce more guests. Jumping into action, Emma answered it, surprised to realize just how excited she was about a dinner invitation, the warm welcome, and the fried chicken that loomed in her very near future.

When Emily hollered from the kitchen that she needed help putting together the corn bread, Emma followed Louisa through those swinging doors and mentally added corn bread to the list of good things.

Chapter Eleven

Nick still sulked, a beer in hand, in the third-floor sitting room. Voices drifted up to him as his mother warmly greeted Emma, and still he stayed where he was. Once upon a time this had been Landon’s room, but his mother had turned it into a small den so she could watch TV at night closer to her bedroom.

The game watched just as good here as it did on the big screen downstairs, and besides, he wanted to see how the Mets’ new center fielder did on his next at bat. Which was a monumental load of bullshit, since he had to squint to see the box scores on the small pissant TV, but he’d deal.

That greasy layer of fear that something was physically wrong with his mother had faded, but he still couldn’t get past the idea she was hiding something. And he still had a major mad-on that his brother was acting like the fucking gossip queen of Park Heights.

“Beer?” Landon appeared in the doorway, two longnecks in hand.

“I’m good.”

“You sure?”

Nick said nothing, just watched as the Mets gave up a two-run lead. What was Landon doing up here, anyway? The game was on downstairs. The food was cooking down there, too. And since Landon had the mayor routine down pat, he could fucking well charm everyone two floors below.

“Fine. I’ll save it for Fender.”

“Asshole can drink it downstairs for all I care.”

“Excuse me?”

The same explosion that had propelled him from the kitchen to the den in the first place lit up once more, the smoldering flame all too easy to bring back to life. “Why don’t you go join him?”

“What’s your fucking problem?”

“At the moment? You.”

Landon made it halfway to the door before he stopped. “No you don’t. What’s going on?”

Nick hesitated, but he’d already pissed off his mother and still had to face down Fender. Perhaps he could work this to his advantage, and get an ally out of the deal. “Fender was over here this morning gossiping to Mom like a little girl.”

“So why didn’t you make it here for breakfast and do some damage control?”

“I wasn’t inv—” Nick broke off, remembering the text from the night before, which he’d never replied to. “I had a commitment at the Unity.”

“I call bullshit on the first. This is your house. You’re always invited.” Landon glanced toward the door as Fender’s voice drifted up the stairs. “And how do you know Mom didn’t pull it out of him?”

“Not her style.”

“It is when she’s trying to change the subject off of herself.”

Nick stilled, his beer halfway to his lips. “You think something’s wrong.”

“Hell yes. Don’t you?”

“She’s not sick. I asked her.”

“You thought she was sick?” The same swirl of fear riding Nick now seemed to expand to include Landon. “What’d she say?”

“That she’s absolutely fine and healthy.”

“So what is it?”

“I don’t know, but something’s going on.”

Fender barreled in, a beer already in hand. “There’s a gorgeous woman downstairs and you’re sitting up here?”

“I’ll leave you two to it.” Landon escaped before Nick could stop him, slipping past Fender at the door.

“I showered before I came over!” Fender hollered at Landon’s back, but when there wasn’t an answering insult, his eyes narrowed as he rubbed at his day-old beard. “I just didn’t shave.”

When Landon didn’t return, Fender’s green gaze landed squarely on Nick. “Hear you’re pissed at me.”

“More gossip with Mom?”

“What? No. Mrs. W., who practically chortled as she informed me you were up here when I stopped into the kitchen.” Fender dropped into the loveseat his mother had covered in roughly eight hundred throw pillows, tossing a handful of them on the floor to make room.

“She wasn’t even there, racing up to her apartment like hellhounds were on her tail.” Nick kicked a pillow with his toe. “Before. When I acted like an asshole to Mom.”

“Mrs. W.’s psychic, you know that as well as I do.”

“She’s half deaf.”

“Which means she’s still got a good ear to get the job done.” Fender shoved at Nick’s knee with a toe. “What crawled up your ass?”

“You. And your big reveal on the fight last night on the great lawn during your fucking coffee klatch with Mom.”

“She was going to hear about it. Figured it went down better with an eyewitness report from me than through the neighborhood.”

Nick wanted to argue—nearly had another pissy retort ready to fire at his brother—but like about everything else screwing his mood tonight, someone else was right.

“I kept the part about Emma to myself.” Fender took a drag on his beer, his gaze assessing.

“What part?”

“Whatever went down in your office, which anyone with half an imagination can figure out.”

“Don’t go there.”

Fender shook his head. “But you did go there. And now here she is, making salad in our kitchen.”

“Mrs. W. invited her. We ran into them at lunch.”

“That’s quite a run. What are you up to, now? Breakfast, lunch, and dinner with the attractive Mrs. Bradley.”

“The Mrs. is past tense.”

“But your hitting on her is very much in the present.”

Fender had always seen more than he let on, and the dig proved it. “You trying to piss me off again?”

“No, I’m asking what you’re doing with her.”

“I want the Unity.”

“By romancing it out of her?”

“No.” Nick shook his head, the feel of her body beneath his hands nearly curling his fingers. “Of course not. I mean I’m spending time with her to learn the business. It’s one of the conditions of the sale.”

“And learning the business involves private meetings in your office at ten o’clock on a weeknight?”

“What are you driving at?”

“She’s vulnerable. And was legitimately a Mrs. not too long ago.” Fender slapped him on the knee and stood to leave. “Playing her is only going to end badly.”

Early evening sun streamed through the windows, painting the room with a warm glow as Fender walked through the slash of light and out into the hall. The announcer’s voice still thrummed through the small TV, but no amount of noise could drown out Fender’s parting shot.

“I’m not playing her.” Nick whispered the words, meant only for himself to hear. But it was the small voice in his head that supplied a ready response. If he wasn’t playing Emma, then what the hell was he about?

Emma pulled the heavy cast-iron skillet of corn bread from the oven, the scent wafting over her with a mix of anticipation and the warmest comfort. A home-cooked meal. Full of fat, carbs, and a great deal of affection, if the byplay she’d already observed in the kitchen was any indication.

Landon had continued the charm routine, returning to the kitchen after his mysterious disappearance upstairs. At his whispered greeting to his mother, Emma had discovered a visit with Nick had been his destination, and she fought almost overwhelming curiosity at Nick’s absence. Since that way lay madness, she refocused on her task and continued to tear up salad as instructed by dinner drill-sergeant, Emily Weston.

And if she was slightly pissed off he’d gone M.I.A., leaving her to the barrage of questions from the petite drill sergeant, well, she was only human.

Damn the man. It was his family. His childhood home. What the hell was she doing in it if he wasn’t going to be here? She was quite sure the invitation hadn’t been extended as a simple welcome to the neighborhood.

“How long have you been back in Park Heights, Emma?” Mrs. W. peeled carrots, the task obviously so natural, Emma wasn’t able to escape the woman’s close scrutiny.

“A little over a month.”

“Happy to be back?”

“It’s home.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Emma shrugged, unwilling to go down that path. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

“I suppose.” Mrs. W. shuffled closer so she could shred the peeled carrots straight into the salad bowl. “I miss your mother. I miss seeing her around town.”

“I miss her, too.”

The words came quickly, and Emma marveled at their ease. She hadn’t been able to talk about her mother without a well of tears or a sizeable lump in her chest, and it was gratifying to feel neither.

“She and I used to grab coffee after the Town Council meetings. Marcy was so proud of you, living your life in Chicago.”

She was?

“She talked all the time about you and your handsome husband, and your beautiful home. She was so happy you were living your life.”

While she’d never doubted her mother’s support, the news had a lump forming, square in the center of her chest. “Oh.”

Whatever her mother might have felt then, Emma hardly believed she would have been proud now. To have her only child slink home, tail between her legs, a failed marriage in her wake. Yep, every mother’s dream.

Landon stepped in between them, his hand stilling Mrs. W.’s and the rising heap of carrots. “Mrs. W. I need to show you that new level in Zombie Apocalypse. I need your thoughts on the design.”

“Now?”

“If I don’t show you now, Fender’ll be all over it and we’ll never get the computer back.”

Mrs. W. sighed, but dropped the half-scalped carrot in the bowl. “Fine. I still say I’ll beat that boy’s ass once we can play head-to-head.”

“I’m counting on it.”

The door had barely swung closed when Louisa moved up beside Emma. “She means well.”

“Of course.”

“I’d like to say it’s a lack of filter as she’s aging, but Emily Weston has always spoken her mind.”

Out of the depths of her memory, Emma remembered a story her mother had recounted years ago. Emily Weston, chasing a half-drunk Santa Claus through the Park Heights business district. The woman had taken him to task, then did her level best to railroad him out of town. The story had made the rounds in the neighborhood, but it had been her mother’s laughter, peppered through the telling, that had stuck with Emma all these years.

“She’s a character.”

“That she is.” Louisa picked up the carrot and efficiently finished the last of the garnish before turning to Emma. “I hope you don’t make the next few months easy on my son.”

“Easy?” Relief at the change in topic mixed with confusion that they’d jumped to an even more challenging one. Emma hesitated briefly before picking up the olive branch. “Why would I do that?”

“I’m not sure. But see that you don’t. You’ve got as much right to that brewery as he does, so don’t go thinking this is a done deal.”

“You’re not on his side?”

“I’m always on his side. But I want what’s right for him. What’s meant. If that brewery is meant for you—and I’m not above thinking it’s not—then Nicky will need to find something else.”

“It matters to him.”

“It matters to you, too.” Louisa finished off the carrot and turned to face Emma, her warm blue eyes filled with a compassion Emma hadn’t seen in far too long.

The wisdom of a mother.

“So make him work for it. You both might be surprised by what happens.”

Emma had believed she already knew what would happen. Nick would learn the ropes, her father would get his way, and she’d be out looking for a job. While that nightmare had consumed her thoughts, something in Louisa’s words punctured that image ever-so-slightly.

“You sound like you speak from experience.” The question bordered on impertinent, but something about the moment—the sheer honesty of it—had Emma asking anyway.

“I learned a long time ago: Making plans is the quickest way to seeing them ruined.”

Emma couldn’t stop the wry smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. “That’s not overly cheerful.”

“Maybe not.” A warm hand settled on her back. “But one thing I’ve learned, over and over. We can plan, but life has other plans. And the outcome is often way better than we ever could have imagined.”

The flowers sat proudly on the dining room sideboard, their bright blooms winking at the room. The chocolate chips had been a big hit as well, evidenced by the lone remaining cookie in a sea of crumbs on a plate that sat in the middle of the table. Emma had been a gracious guest, a ready helper in meal prep and kitchen cleanup, and a sparkling conversationalist.

So why did she feel as if she’d failed? Miserably?

Emma avoided looking at her watch, mentally counting down the moments to escape. Even with the dining room table now sporting empty dessert plates and half-drunk cups of coffee, she estimated she was still a good fifteen minutes from a clean getaway.

She’d been welcomed, there was no question about it. And Louisa had even suggested Emma had every right to fight for her birthright.

So why did she feel so off? So ready to escape?

One glance at Nick across the table had her answering her own questions: The engaging companion who’d asked her endless questions as they traipsed through Brooklyn on one sales call after another had vanished. That gregarious partner had been replaced with a hyper clown who seemed determined to keep the conversation floating around the table in such a way that nothing serious ever landed.

In addition to Emily Weston, a few neighbors had joined the family for the evening. Emma met the next door neighbor, Dave Maxwell, and remembered Emily’s oldest daughter, who used to teach at the junior high. Both obviously spent a lot of time there; their conversation flowing easily around Nick’s stand-up routine.

Yet that strange sense that something lurked just below the surface had grown more urgent—more insistent—as the conversation ebbed and flowed around the table. Twice, Louisa’s boys had brought up the borough presidency, and twice Louisa had shut the topic down with tense efficiency.

And then there had been the Unity.

The subject of how she and Nick had spent their week was a hot topic, and he joked his way through a story about their sales calls to a competitor’s bar. The owner’s panic at seeing Nick inside his establishment and peddling some marketing materials for one of the Unity’s summer promotions had resulted in an odd conversation. At the point when the man had begged Nick to let him stay in business or risk not even being able to feed his kids McDonald’s, Emma had gently moved them on, promising his regular salesperson would follow up later in the week.

“He actually said that? About Happy Meals?” Dave asked, refilling Louisa’s glass before refilling his own.

“’Fraid so.” Nick nodded.

Fender had taken over after that, gently shifting the conversation off Emma and Nick and onto some funny stories about his auto-body shop. Of particular note and excitement, one of his techs had discovered a rather racy lingerie set wrapped around a brake pedal.

Emma was grateful for the diversion, but no amount of laughs could change the situation between her and Nick. A situation that sat, clunky and unwieldy, in the middle of the table. One of them was going to win and one would lose, and no amount of funny banter or warm welcomes would change that.

Allowing her thoughts to drift, she took in the length of the long table. Nick and Fender sat across, opposite her and Landon. Louisa and Emily had been given the heads, while Dave and Emily’s daughter filled in the remaining seats on opposite sides of Louisa. Emma wondered about that as well.

Three grown men, established in their lives, yet deeply respectful of their mother and her place in the family. That they then extended the same courtesy to Mrs. Weston was yet another example of their deep sense of equality.

Had she ever experienced the same? Worse—when had she stopped expecting it?

“Scarlett, the woman who runs the Kings stadium, invited us all to the owner’s box on Thursday night.”

“How’d you swing that one?” Fender asked, his gaze on the last cookie.

“She seems interested in talking about a partnership. And who am I to complain about a night in the box?”

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. He’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.”

“It’s your house.”

“Well played.”

Resigned that the last tray could soak until morning, Lou tossed her towel over the oven handle and took a seat opposite Emily. “She’s a sweet girl.”

That jovial smile faded. “She’s a woman who’s been through a lot. The shadows hide behind her eyes, even when she’s smiling.”

Louisa thought about the woman who’d stood in her kitchen and sat at her table, and had to agree with Emily’s assessment. “I suppose you’re right.”

Emily’s weathered hand came down over hers, those aged fingers still in full possession of a strong grip. “Reminds me of someone else I know.”

Louisa had never told anyone the full story, but Emily knew the most about her disgrace in Manhattan. In one late-night conversation years before, she’d admitted the poor choice of falling in love with another woman’s husband. Emily had listened without judgment, and had never spoken of it again. But Louisa knew her situation and Emma’s were hardly alike. And she couldn’t let the comparison stand. “It’s not the same.”

“Circumstances don’t have to be identical for the outcome to be the same. Some people are forged in fire, and some let the fire consume ’em.”

Nick poured the whiskey, the move as easy as breathing as he finished off their Irish coffees. He’d briefly considered shots, but decided that so much liquor on top of her crying jag would leave Emma in bad shape the next morning. So he’d fired up her Keurig instead, and snagged the bottle of J&B off the sideboard she hated.

The dining-room set was beautiful. Even cramped in the one-bedroom apartment, he could see she could get a pretty penny for it if she sold it.

“Want to tell me why you still have the dining-room set?” He set their coffees down on the wooden tabletop, which gleamed in the muted light of the room.

“Because I know what we paid for it, and no one will give me more than half that. It’s a point of pride.”

“Got it.” Sensing the subject closed, he pushed her coffee toward her. “Take a sip.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. And that’s okay. This will get you on the road to right.”

She eyed him over the rim, those dark-brown eyes still glistening from the crying jag. “Bartender wisdom?”

“Human wisdom. Liquor doesn’t fix your problems, but a good nip every now and again gives the soul a bit of relief.”

She winced at the first sip, but swallowed it and took another.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“I shouldn’t have asked you about your husband.”

“Ex-husband.”

“He was still your husband at one point. Someone you loved and trusted and believed in.”

“What about you?” She took another sip before pressing him. “You ever been married?”

“Never married. I guess I got close a few times, but something always held me back.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. Those relationships—two of them in particular—were good ones. Women I was lucky to be with. But it never felt like the right time. Or I never felt like the right version of myself.”

“What version is that?”

“The one where I’m not Nick Kelley, NFL veteran. Or Nick Kelley, local business owner. Or Nick Kelley, son of memorable drunk Arch Kelley. I’d like to be just Nick, and no relationship ever quite fit the bill.”

“The sports thing is hard?”

Nick stared into his coffee, the mug cradled in his hands. That distinctive scent of whiskey rose up like an old memory. The smell normally caused a small twitch at the base of his spine, so Nick was surprised to realize that the thick, peaty scent was oddly comforting.

Or could be comforting, with the right person.

“It’s hard and it’s easy, all at the same time. People want to spend time with you. They want to buy you drinks and invite you to parties and be around you. And then one day you wake up and realize you have few skills, and the party invites have dried up along with the drinks.”

“Overnight?”

“Quick enough.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Terribly.” He took a sip of his drink, considering. “And it leaps up and strikes at odd moments. The first game of the season. An off mention from a sportscaster of someone you know. Hell, if it gets too hot in August, I even think of two-a-days with fondness.”

She said nothing, just gave him the moment, and that was enough for him to press on. “Most of all, I miss how fast it ended. I’d always thought I’d play a lot longer. That by the time I left the game, I’d have gotten my fill. You go into it knowing you don’t have forever, but I expected my right now to last a bit longer.”

Silence filled the room, quiet except for the clink of her mug where she set it on the table. He didn’t talk about football very often. His family knew what it meant to him, and he and Hec had had a few conversations over the past few years, but beyond that he never said much.

“I know what you mean about right now lasting a bit longer. I had a miscarriage a few years ago. It’s not the reason my marriage ended, or not the only reason, but it was one of the emotional chasms Cole and I never managed to fix.”

Her outburst on their walk home made more sense, especially the “no baby” reference, and Nick set his mug down. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I. I can talk about it now, but for a long time, after the immediate shock faded, I resented what happened—that everyone around me was starting families and mine had come to a stop. I was happy for my friends, but it got harder and harder to watch, especially when I realized Cole wasn’t all that upset about losing the baby.”

Asshole.

The word had become like a litany whenever he thought about Emma’s ex-husband, and Nick didn’t particularly care to come up with a more inventive description. The man had been an asshole.

Marriages ended, and he understood that. People weren’t always who you needed them to be, and he understood that even better. But . . . The thoughts dried up in his head, even as a lone one stood out.

“Sometimes there isn’t a way to fix someone else, and walking away is the right thing to do,” he said.

“You want to tell that to my father?”

The joke came out on shaky notes as she picked up her mug, and Nick reached out to pick up her free hand. “Just because he can’t understand doesn’t mean you made the wrong choice.”

She turned her hand beneath his so their palms touched. “Is that wisdom you learned from your own father?”

Nick stared at their joined hands, a million memories colliding against each other with brute force. He hadn’t thought about his father—certainly not actively—in years. Yet here was Arch Kelley, back on his mind. “That one’s a conversation for another day.”

“You sure?”

The tears had dried up, but Nick could see the crying jag had left her worn out. With a small smile he didn’t feel, he squeezed her hand, then broke the connection and stood. “Absolutely sure. Just like I’m sure it’s time to give you some privacy.”

“Thanks for walking me home. Again.”

“You’re welcome.” Nick leaned over her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Again.”

A few minutes later he was back on the sidewalk and headed for home. He was tempted to go straight back to his place, but figured that route would generate more questions. He wasn’t quite ready to head back to the brownstone, either. Without fully understanding why, he crossed in the opposite direction, and in a few blocks stood outside the fence that surrounded Park Heights Elementary.

The building hadn’t changed in nearly a quarter century, but it had been kept up. The playground equipment shined brightly in the mix of moonlight and streetlamp that filtered over the lawn. Swings dangled in the evening breeze as Nick took in the expanse of grass that had well-worn dirt paths crisscrossing through the green.

It had seemed so big at one time, and now he figured it wasn’t more than about twenty-five yards from the sidewalk to the school door.

But once, it had seemed huge.

Nick gave himself another few minutes to take in the view, his memories full of a time long vanished. And as he walked away, he could have sworn he heard the faded shouts of children at play.

Chapter Thirteen

“Emma!” The heavy whisper came just before a light knock on her door. “Emma! Do you have a minute?”

Although she was worn out from crying, Emma was still restless, and the knock was welcome. She answered it, pleased to see Becky on the other side of the door, a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. “I come bearing gifts.”

“Then by all means, come in.” The effects of the whiskey had long since worn off, and suddenly a glass of wine sounded like a very good idea. “Although I do have wine glasses.”

“I know. But it’s not fair to make you do cleanup when it’s me who wants to talk.”

At Becky’s words, Emma really looked at her friend. The sheen of tears that filled Becky’s blue eyes had Emma quickly gesturing her toward the couch. “Come on in and tell me.”

“It’s stupid.”

“No, sitting at home without talking about it is stupid. Let me get the corkscrew.”

In minutes, Emma had the Cabernet uncorked and poured, and the two of them were curled up at opposite ends of her couch. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Hector.”

“Big arms Hector? From Nick’s bar?”

“Yep.”

She knew Becky thought Hector was attractive, but the interest she’d observed the other night at the bar was in direct opposition to the misery stamped across Becky’s face now. “Did something happen?”

“I used to date Hector’s dead brother.”

“What?” As comforting responses went it was a serious miss, and Emma reached out to take her friend’s hand. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“The summer before college, I had a relationship with Hector’s brother, Miguel. He was my first love.”

“And you didn’t know Hector?”

“He was Miguel’s big brother. Off in the military and rarely heard from. He was never home during the time I was with Miguel.”

“How long were you together?”

“Long enough. And in retrospect, not long at all. My mother had been gone a few years at that point, and my family didn’t like him. Thought he was too rough and tumble, and that I saw him as some kind of rebellion.”

“Was he?”

“In some ways, and in others he was wonderful. And he wasn’t rebellion so much as he was like finding myself again. After my mom died, we were all adrift. My brothers hid it in just being young bucks around town. My father closed in on himself.”

“And meeting Miguel was something your father and brothers didn’t understand?”

“Oh God, no. But Miguel was always good to me. Always treated me like a gem. In the end, it just became obvious we wanted different things. And he couldn’t fully shake the crowd he ran with. A few of them ran the petty stuff.”

“Was he involved?”

“He always told me no, and I believed him. But it was something else my family pulled out as a proof point for why they didn’t like him. Between my overprotective brothers and a father who knows damn near everyone in the borough, it wasn’t hard for them to make his associates as trouble.”

Becky took a hard breath. “And then it didn’t matter, because one night Miguel went to defend one of his friends in a fight and got the wrong end of a .22.”

“Oh, Becky.”

Becky took a long sip of her wine, her gaze unfocused and distant. Emma gave her the moment, but knew that whatever it was her friend saw—and it was likely in exquisite detail—it was a memory that was never far from her thoughts.

The tears she’d believed all used up for the night sprang fresh to her eyes, and she took their glasses and set them aside, then pulled Becky close. “I’m sorry. So very sorry.”

Becky clung to her, the quiet shake of her body the only evidence of her tears.

They didn’t know each other well, but Emma had appreciated her old friend’s genuine warmth and kindness from the first. Although Emma had shared a bit about her marriage, it was humbling to receive such a confidence. And somewhere deep inside, it felt good to be a friend.

Becky pulled back and wiped her tears. “For a long time it was all I could think about. And then one day I woke up and realized I didn’t have to be sorry or sad anymore. I could move on.”

Their shared conversations over the past few weeks had indicated Becky was looking for a relationship. And if she really had moved on, then there was no reason not to explore something with Hector.

“Am I to take it you think this means you can’t date Hector?”

“Of course I can’t. He’s Miguel’s brother.”

“And . . . ?”

Becky stopped, midreach for her wine. “And he’s not suitable.”

“For what?”

“A date. Or my interest. Or—”

When she broke off, Emma tapped her ear. “You hear it, too?”

“Hear what?”

“How empty those arguments are.”

“I wish they were, but they’re not. I had a relationship with his brother. We had sex. A lot of sex. And it was good. Wouldn’t it be weird to start dating Hector, after having been with Miguel? It’s like betraying both of them.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “I’m still not fully seeing why any of this means you can’t go on a date with the man—you know, if you want to.”

“I do.” Becky shook her head. “No, I don’t. I really don’t. He’s big and has scary resting face.”

“He’s an attractive man.” In a scary mercenary sort of way. But he was loyal to Nick, and that went far in Emma’s mind. He’d also defended her when she’d received that misplaced punch, which also went a long way. “It seems a shame to shut this down before you can even see where it might go. Especially if he’s interested, too.”

“We had a good time last night. He walked me home after we all hung out at the End Zone. It was only when he mentioned his last name as I took down his phone number that I placed him.”

“What did he say when you told him?”

“I didn’t tell him everything. But he looked sort of shell-shocked with all I did say.”

“Then you have the perfect reason to follow up. Offer to tell him the whole story.”

Becky grimaced as she stared into her now-empty wine glass. “He’s got the high points. I’m pretty sure he can piece the story together.”

“It’s not the same as hearing it all from you.” Emma hesitated, but then pushed forward. She had no business telling Becky how to handle things, but she also knew what it was to live without taking chances, avoiding risks.

“He can also tell you what he thinks in return.”

“I’m sure there’s some weird brother code that he has to honor and live up to.”

Emma reached for Becky’s hand once more. “Maybe you can let him decide that. You know, instead of doing it for him.”

Becky moved close and rested her head against Emma’s shoulder. “I haven’t been this lit up about a guy in, oh, forever. I mean, I loved Miguel, but even then I didn’t feel this electric shock every time I looked at him. But with Hector . . . Oh.”

The “oh” was so wistful Emma couldn’t quite hold back a smile. “I think it’s pretty clear you need to do something about it. You at least owe yourself a conversation with the man.”

As the ages-old wisdom dripped from her lips, Emma knew she spoke the truth. What she didn’t know was why she found it so hard to find the same simple reason and equanimity for herself.

Emma breathed in the scent of the wort and made a few notes on her clipboard. The pungent, sour mix comforted her with its familiarity, and she was glad she’d decided to come in early. Between the stress of dinner at Louisa’s, her tear-filled outburst with Nick afterwards, and Becky’s surprising revelation, she’d expected to sleep like the dead. Instead she’d finally tossed in any hope of sleep around five, got up, showered, and headed into the office.

The overnight crew was finishing up, their tired smiles greeting her as she worked through her mental checklist. She wanted to check the wort, review a new shipment of hops, and take a look at the invoicing before spending her morning in the role of teacher. To Nick.

What had she really gotten herself into?

What had seemed like a bargaining chip for more time on Monday morning had changed in her mind over the last forty-eight hours. Somewhere between negotiating the Unity deal, kissing Nick, spending time with his family, and baring her soul over Irish coffee, she couldn’t help but feel she’d lost her way.

The decision to come home was steeped in coming back to work in the family business. Yes, it was also about leaving Chicago and starting over, but she’d believed her future was enmeshed with the golden liquid coming off the bottling line. Instead, all she’d really managed to do in the past month was fight with her father, bargain away her future, and—if she were truly honest with herself—kiss the enemy and allow in creeping feelings she had no business feeling for Nick Kelley.

He kissed you first.

Tantalizing and seductive, that thought whispered through her mind before she shut it down. She’d already lost ten years of her life to a man who wasn’t committed. Were her hormones so out of control she’d assume one of Park Heights’s most eligible bachelors was interested in something permanent?

Unbidden, the feel of those strong hands cupping her breasts, his fingers playing lightly over her nipples filled her thoughts, imprinting once again on her body, and flushing her skin with heat. The kisses she’d diligently tried to forget filled in the rest of the memory, the firm thrust of his tongue against hers. Powerful. Masterful. In those moments in his arms she’d felt feminine. Wanted. Desired.

Where she’d been and where she was going hardly mattered in the moment. All that had mattered was Nick.

The whine of the brewery intercom echoed above her head, and Emma slowly came back to herself. Shake it off, Bradley. Don’t let the hormones win.

She’d have had better luck battling a grizzly bear on High Street, she admitted to herself, as she waved the folder in her hands before her face. But whatever heat she’d managed to dissipate returned in full force when Nick strolled into the room. “Early start?”

“Hmmm?”

He extended a large cup of coffee, its twin in his other hand. “Are you a coffee-first person? If so I’ll shut up.”

Emma took the proffered cup, still befuddled by the coincidence of his arrival in the midst of her erotic thoughts. “You’re early.”

“I was up. Figured I’d get a head start on the day.”

“Good for you.”

He eyed her over the top of his cup, but ignored the surly remark. “What are you working on?”

“Reviewing the wort in process. Working through my checklist. My father has been slacking off in his role as brewmaster.”

“Who’s been doing it? Before you came back.”

“We have backup on during every shift. And many of our employees have been here so long, they know what’s required to get the job done.”

“Your father’s lucky to have them. I’d be lucky—” He broke off, his normally focused gaze drifting around the room.

“You’d be lucky to what?”

“I have no interest in displacing people from their jobs. The staff is secure.” Nick hesitated before pressing forward. “I was going to say I’d be lucky to have their knowledge.”

The earlier confusion faded in the clear direction of his thoughts. “You’ve thought about this.”

“Of course. Buying a company includes the people employed by it. I’d never enter into the deal without considering that.”

“How noble.”

He shoved his free hand into his pants pocket, the move drawing her attention to his trim waist and impressive thighs. He was a big man—she often forgot how big he really was until she was in his presence again—and his gray slacks and black T-shirt only highlighted that fact. For all his size, a deceptive elegance stamped itself into the long, powerful lines of his body. The lingering desire that still coursed in languid waves through her system amped up once more—pure, female appreciation filling her as she took in those lines.

“It’s hardly noble. It’s business.”

“Oh, but it is. Nick Kelley, the hometown hero on a steady march to conquer the neighborhood. I can hear the gossips now, dripping with awe as they speak of your goodness and benevolence to the Unity’s longtime staff.”

“Emma?”

“It’s damn near poetic. The hometown hero swooping in to save the crumbling local business.”

The spiteful sentiments weren’t her. Even at her worst with Cole, she’d rarely turned to cheap shots or hits below the belt. So why had she started now? She knew Nick didn’t want to be revered for his football days. The “hometown hero” mantle seemed to sit uncomfortably on his shoulders. Yet she couldn’t quite stop the words or their underlying vitriol, especially since it was turned in toward herself even more than Nick.

Once again, she’d traded her own personal power for a man, and that stung.

“If this place is crumbling so bad, maybe I should give Tommy a call and revise my bid?”

Emma had nothing to say to that, her verbal torrent suddenly going dry. But in his taunt she saw the true vulnerability in her situation. In making her deal, she’d thrown open the doors of her family’s dysfunction, and her father’s emotional decline.

Would Nick use that against her?

“Tell you what,” he continued. “Once you cool off, come find me in the conference room and we can get back to today’s lesson. In the meantime, I’ve got a stack of sales reports to study.”

She said nothing as he departed, even as her conscience screamed at her to call him back, to make amends.

To fix yet one more problem she’d managed to create.

“The Yard Goats can suck it!”

Landon swatted at Mrs. W.’s youngest grandson, flattening his ball cap over his nose. “Real sportsmanlike, Trevor.”

“I want the Kings to win.”

“Then they need to do the work and win.”

Trevor’s seven-year-old enthusiasm was nonplussed by Landon’s wisdom. “But it’s not fair if the Kings don’t win.”

Fender came up behind them and hoisted the boy on his shoulders. “Life’s not fair.”

“Why not?”

Fender shifted midstep and veered the boy back to his parents. “Ask your father.”

Emma took a bite of her hot dog, enjoying the sideshow. She’d been on the fence about coming, the fight with Nick the previous morning still fresh in her mind, a dull embarrassment dogging her ever since. They’d found their way to a truce—which consisted of ignoring the entire discussion they’d had in the wort room—but she’d still spent the past day on shaky ground.

To his credit, Nick had given her space during the past two days. He’d joined her in the morning for more brewery lessons, then moved on to spend his afternoons at the End Zone. She’d taken the Nick-free moments as a break from her lingering embarrassment over her wildly radical behavior, only to chafe at the realization she’d missed him.

The time apart had also provided some fresh perspective. If she were honest with herself—and looked past the confusion of her attraction to Nick—she had to admit that he wasn’t the root of her problems. Nick Kelley didn’t stand in the way of her taking over the Unity. Her father did.

Peter Vandenburg was the real problem she needed to fix.

He hadn’t been home when she’d dropped the cookies off that morning, nor had he come into the Unity’s offices. She’d left a voice mail on his cell, and when she still hadn’t heard by midday, sent a text as well. The tart response that winged back—that he’d headed to Atlantic City for a few days—at least gave her the reassurance he was okay, if nothing else.

“Mrs. W.’s grandson is just a bit excited.” Nick had a hot dog in one hand and a beer in the other as he came to stand beside her. His familiar heat singed her nerve endings from head to toe.

How did he do it? It was like some effortless telegraph of his life essence every time he got within view.

Shaking off the electric response, Emma worked to maintain a casual air as she turned toward him. He wore a dark gray Kings T-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts—the epitome of casual male—and she nearly bobbled her soda as she took in the broad width of his shoulders.

It simply wasn’t fair. How was a woman supposed to keep her head with a man who looked that lethal?

Since he’d offered up Trevor as a conversation starter, she grabbed at it with both hands and hung on. “He seems sad at the prospect the Kings might lose.”

“The teams are well matched. Hartford’s team is young and so are the Kings. They’ll meet each other a few times this season. Winning or losing is likely a crapshoot for both of them at this point.”

“How’d they get a name like Yard Goats?”

Nick waved his phone. “Thanks to the handy-dandy Internet in my pocket, it seems that Yard Goat is an old name for an engine that switches trains.”

“Well, obviously.”

He just grinned at that and pocketed his phone. “I think Trevor just likes saying it.”

“Probably so.” Emma caught sight of the logo emblazoned on the scoreboard. “Although I see they avoided the train reference and went straight for the goat with the logo.”

“Score one for marketing.” Nick’s gaze roamed over the assembled crowd, from his brothers and mother to Mrs. Weston and her family. “You didn’t invite anyone tonight? We sort of just assumed all the tickets.”

“Landon called it the Borg at dinner.”

Nick looked momentarily stunned until that easy smile returned. “He’s right.”

“Scarlett didn’t seem fazed, and there’s plenty of room here. I did invite Becky, but she was busy tonight. And Seth from sales is still feeling bad. It seems what he thought was bad sushi is the flu, and he didn’t want to risk getting anyone else sick.”

“Which is appreciated, going into a long weekend.” Nick hesitated. “I’m glad you came. After the last few days, I wasn’t sure you would.”

The conversation she’d dreaded faded in the face of Nick’s genuine concern and kindness. That same humor she’d already seen in the depths of his gaze mellowed, even as his smile stayed firmly in place. “Tonight sounded like fun and I wanted to be here.”

“Your father didn’t want to come?”

“He’s out of town,” she said, adding, “Atlantic City,” as if that explained everything.

The warmth never faded from his smile, yet she sensed something hovering beneath the surface. Disappointment? Anger? Relief? Or was she projecting her own feelings onto Nick?

“I hope he gets lucky.”

“Does anyone get lucky in Atlantic City?”

“A rare few.” Nick glanced through the end of the box and over the field. “The Kings are up. Want to watch a bit?”

“Sure.”

The box was full of faces that grew more familiar by the day. Emma passed each of them, a smile and warm greeting to them as easy as breathing: Nick’s mother and Mrs. W., ensconced on high, cushioned stools that looked out over the park; Dave, their neighbor she’d met over the fried-chicken dinner, hovering nearby, a beer in hand as he talked to Mrs. W.’s son-in-law; Emily’s daughter, May, who wrangled her two other children, who were not nearly as focused on the game as the excited Trevor; and Landon and Fender.

They’d all showed. All come out to enjoy the evening, watch a bit of baseball, and kick off summer.

As Emma took the seat next to Nick, she understood one simple truth. It’d be a shame to let the moment go to waste.

Nick hollered along with his brothers at the call that favored the Goats before realizing Emma was shouting as loudly as he was. It was the bottom of the eighth and the teams were tied, so every decision counted.

“Bloodthirsty much?”

She glanced up from where she shucked peanuts into a small bowl. “It was a bad call. The runner was clearly out.”

His eyes narrowed as their jaunt to the stadium for the meeting with Scarlett came back to mind in vivid detail. “I thought you hated baseball?”

“What gave you that impression?”

“I—” The prim, stoic woman from their prior visit was nowhere in sight as something bright and airy lit up the depths of her dark gaze. “You seemed entirely unimpressed the last time we were here.”

“That was then. We had a business deal to make. Tonight’s a game, and I want the home team to win.”

“You are full of surprises.”

“Oh?”

He saw the curiosity in her eyes followed quickly by disappointment before she dropped her gaze to the growing pile of peanut shells in her lap.

“I meant it as a compliment.”

“Thanks then.”

The game resumed postcall, yet Nick sensed he’d misstepped. “Surprises are good.”

“Okay.”

Her attention remained on the field, and he couldn’t shake the awkward silence at his offhanded compliment. God, why did he keep fucking up with her? Hell, he had more finesse at fifteen in their freaking chemistry class.

Can I run this equation by you?

Will we really blow up the lab if we mix those two things together?

I’ll wash the beakers today.

It hadn’t been poetry, but he’d gotten by. Even better, that was the first science class he’d ever managed a B in.

“How do you know baseball so well? Your eye was better than the ump’s. And here I got the impression the other day you didn’t like baseball.”

She finally pulled her gaze from the field. “I never said I didn’t like baseball. You assumed.”

Since he had taken her lack of interest as limited knowledge of the game, he had nothing to say. But even with her conversational checkmate, something niggled at him, pushing him forward. “You wear pretty summer dresses at night, but ugly ones during the day. You know more about beer than any ten guys I’ve ever met, and no matter how sexist that sounds, it’s a serious compliment. And you have a weird attachment to your dining room that, for reasons I can’t explain, I totally understand.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Nick caught sight of his brothers’ surreptitious glances and lowered his voice. “And you’re a surprise is all. That’s all I meant.”

“Okay then.”

It might have been another “okay,” but Nick felt the change. Saw it in the relaxing of her stiff posture, and the gentle smile that tilted the corners of her lips. The heavy crack of a bat filled the air. A line drive by one of the Goats headed straight for center field, and the Kings’ center fielder practically climbed the outfield wall to catch it. A hard cheer went up in the box at the third out, and in the melee he felt something small and tentative against his hand. Emma’s fingers stole over his, tightening in a hard grip. Her voice was quiet when she spoke. “Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

They sat like that long after the action on the field quieted and the Kings came to bat. Nick watched the action on the field, cheering at every hit, but his gaze kept drifting to their joined hands. And how surprising—and good—it felt to sit with her hand in his.

Chapter Fourteen

Emma took a bite of her ice-cream cone, the rich chocolate bright on her tongue. The game had been a raging success, with an obligatory ice-cream stop after. “I do know how to walk home. Been doing it for years.”

Nick took a bite of his own cone, the lightest spot of green mint ice cream on his upper lip. “A gentleman always sees a lady home.”

She shook her head, unable to hide the smile. “You know, you’re the surprise. You’re like a man from another age. Last time I checked, the world was sadly in short supply of gentlemen.”

“There are more than you realize. Good mothers have a way of instilling the right lessons.”

“Trevor did hold the suite door for me.”

“My point exactly. May runs a tight ship, and it shows.”

“You really love your mom. Landon, Fender, you—it shows in the way you all treat her, and it also shows in the way you talk about her.” When two small spots appeared on his cheeks, she smiled. “It’s nice.”

“She changed my life. All our lives.”

Her conversation with Louisa over fried chicken, and the interactions she’d observed between Nick and his family framed her thoughts. “I suspect you changed her life even more. And what I see when I look at the four of you isn’t gratitude, although it’s there.”

“What do you see?”

“Love.” Unable to resist any longer, she reached up and pressed her thumb over his lip, wiping away the small spot of ice cream. “Respect. Admiration. Appreciation. And love.”

His eyes went a molten blue before he took her hand, drawing her fingers to his lips. With infinite sweetness he sucked the ice cream from the tip of her finger, his tongue swirling over the pad. Raw, desperate hunger transformed the moment, without her even being fully aware of it. Their mellow conversation, full of the observations neither could seem to stop making about the other, transformed.

Electrified.

And suddenly all thoughts of baseball and ice cream and raising children vanished in the face of something else.

Something more.

“Ask me up, Emma.”

She thought to argue or protest. Knew it was the far better choice than the clamoring, clanging need that filled her with the sweetest, most desperate hunger. Her life was still a confusing mess, and Nick played a role in that. Was inexorably entwined in the life she was desperately trying to rebuild for herself.

But she had no choice.

Maybe it had been taken from her long ago, or perhaps it was truly of the moment. Either way, there was only one answer to his question.

“Yes.”

Louisa stared up at the house, the small lamp she kept on in the front window emitting a warm light. It had been a fun evening, and she’d enjoyed getting out and forgetting her problems for a while. Everyone was so focused on the game, there was little time to discuss the borough presidency.

Her family meant well, and she loved their belief in her, but there was no way she could move forward. Not with Gretchen’s threats hanging over her head.

“Thanks for inviting me.”

Dave’s voice drifted toward her, pulling her from the funk that continued to creep in at odd times. Emily had gone to her daughter’s for the night—a move Louisa wasn’t entirely sure wasn’t planned—and left her and Dave alone for the walk home.

“It was a fun night. I love it when unexpected plans come together.”

“Nick seems to be picking up the brewery business. I heard him talking to the manager as well as a few of her associates about the fall line.”

Louisa had heard it, too, the mix of pride at his knowledge and concern over his pursuit of the brewery making for strange bedfellows. “Even if it does put him at odds with Emma.”

She worked hard to stay out of her boys’ personal lives, but the chemistry between Nick and Emma was palpable. When she had observed her son’s relationships through the years, they were pleasant and sweet, but she never sensed that elusive spark that indicated something deeper.

“They’ll figure it out.”

“Or they won’t.”

Dave’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think the two of them is a good idea?”

“I’m worried it’s not a good idea. They’re on opposite sides of a large decision. And Emma’s coming off a recent divorce, which will do a number on anyone.”

“I suppose.” Dave grew quiet, his mouth drawn down in a serious line. “For the record, what does make a good time to get into a relationship?”

“When it’s right, I suppose. I know I have no say in Nick’s choices, but I—” The words simply dried up in her throat as Dave moved forward and pressed his lips to hers. She desperately tried to catch up, even as pleasure swamped her.

Dave’s arms came around her, his hands firm against her spine as he pulled her close. His light touch reminded her to move, and she settled her hands at his waist, suddenly at a loss as to what to do with them.

But oh, his lips.

She had no question about what to do with those. The light taste of ice cream still lingered on his lips—dark-chocolate raspberry—and Louisa was sure she hadn’t ever tasted anything sweeter.

And then his tongue swept through her mouth and she was forced to reconsider.

Something hot and molten began to swirl through her bloodstream, an insistent drumbeat driving her pulse faster and faster.

Was this really happening?

With Dave?

She was attracted to him and knew their relationship had changed in subtle ways over the past year, but this . . . This was something bright and daring and life-affirming.

Which was why she had to stop it.

Ending the kiss, she pulled back and slipped from his arms. His eyes were dark with desire, and in that moment Louisa realized just how long it had been since a man had looked at her with such need.

Such hunger.

At the realization of just how long it had been, she nearly went back into his arms, but something held her still, rooted to the sidewalk.

Brooklyn deserves better.

Gretchen’s e-mails had lingered in her mind, never far from the surface of her thoughts. Louisa knew it wasn’t fair to let the vindictive woman get to her, yet no matter how hard she tried, there was a part of her that agreed.

It had been so many years since her relationship with Kincade, remembering the specifics was hard. Yet there were moments—fleeting thoughts, really—that she could still remember as if they’d only just happened. The scent of his cologne, an expensive mix of sage and sandalwood he purchased special order from Harrods. Or the way he liked his steaks medium rare, and his broad smile each and every time he took that first bite of one that was perfectly cooked. Or the flash of his cuff links, the platinum engraved with his initials.

She knew all these things—remembered all these things—because she’d had a relationship with the man.

“I . . . um—” Dave stood very still, the desire fading as his expression grew hard. “I guess this isn’t a good time to try a relationship then.”

Oh God.

His question. She’d assumed he’d asked about Nick and Emma, but it was really about them.

“It’s not—” She broke off, at odds between agreeing with him and kissing him until her eyes crossed once again. “It’s not a good time.”

“Obviously.”

“I’ve got a lot going on and—”

He spoke over her, practically finishing her sentences. “The borough presidency bid and all.”

“Right. Exactly. Things are complicated.”

Dave stopped there, his eyes narrowing. “Are they?”

For the briefest moment, a reckless need to confide in him gripped her. To air out her soul and explain all that had come before. Before Cherry Street. Before her job as town accountant-slash-tax advisor. Before her boys.

The words stirred until the old familiar shame reached up and gripped her throat, that tight fist of regret keeping her silent. “More than I can explain.”

“I think I’m going to go up, then. I did have a good time tonight.”

“Me, too. I’m glad you came.”

He only smiled at that, his gaze on his front door before it shifted back to her. “I’ll wait until you get in.”

“Of course.”

Louisa climbed the front stoop, digging her keys out as she went. Her fingers fumbled at the lock as her breath caught in her throat. Dave Maxwell was a good man. And she was attracted to him, more than she wanted to admit.

But it wasn’t a good time. And when she told him why, he wasn’t going to be interested in kissing her anyway.

Nick held tight to Emma’s hand, his body in near revolt as they climbed the stairs to her floor. The building had an elevator, but something had him gesturing to the stairs when they walked in.

Time. It was suddenly important they had the time to consider what had practically exploded between them out on the sidewalk.

He wanted her and he had no desire to turn back, but he wanted her to have time to reconsider what they were about to do. As much as it would pain him to leave, she had to be fully in control of this decision.

And if she did change her mind? Well then, he’d become intimately familiar with the cold water tap in his shower.

Emma climbed the stairs in front of him, the gentle sway of her behind drawing his gaze as he followed behind her. She’d paired a T-shirt with pants that looked like she was ready to go horseback riding, and he loved the way the material hugged each and every curve. The sensuous line of her spine drew his attention, and Nick reached out to touch her, the heat of her skin branding him through the thin material of her shirt.

What was it about this woman?

An urgent, sensual spell seemed to have settled around his shoulders. He’d never considered himself totally led around by his dick, but he wasn’t immune from sexual attraction either. He’d just never expected it with Emma.

Yet from that first moment in his bar, something about her drew him. From the soft sheen of her hair to the bright red toenails that peeked out of her sandals, everything about her fascinated him. She wasn’t his type, and he was starting to wonder what the hell he’d been thinking for the past three decades. The woman would be anyone’s type. Or she should be.

But from what he knew and the little she’d said, she wasn’t. In fact, he’d gotten the distinct impression she’d taken a few emotional knocks she hadn’t fully recovered from. Which made the stakes higher. And only made him more determined to make this a good experience for her.

Nick nuzzled her neck as she worked the locks on her door, pleased when her fingers fumbled the keys, then followed her into her apartment. Things looked much as they had the last time he was there, the compact room neat and clean. The small couch that faced the TV had two pillows, plumped and settled perfectly in the couch corners. Three magazines were neatly stacked on her coffee table. And the large dining room table she loathed filled up the majority of the room, a quiet sentinel, empty of any clutter.

The sexy moments begun on the sidewalk grabbed at him with sharp claws and he reached for her, pulling her into his arms. “I want you.”

She came willingly, her arms wrapping around his neck as she pressed herself to him. Warmth surrounded him as his hands filled with her, the soft mounds of her ass supple beneath his touch. The fleeting thought that had accompanied him up the stairs nagged at the back of mind, even as he feared putting it into words.

“What is it?” Emma’s lips feathered over his as she asked her question.

“Nothing.”

She stopped, her gaze finding his in the muted light of the room. “What?”

“Are you sure about this?”

Consideration filled her face, darkening her brown eyes to nearly black before the slightest whisper of a smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “Have I given you some indication I’m not interested?”

“No.” Well aware he should quit while he was ahead, he still pressed her. “But are you sure?”

With one swift move she had her T-shirt up and over her head, the white cotton balled and headed for the corner before he could blink. “I’m pretty sure.”

Emma traced the line of his jaw. “I want this, Nick. Just the two of us. Leave everything else at the door.”

He hesitated, his gaze searching hers for something—some clue—that there was a set of expectations on her part. Yet as he looked his fill, he saw acceptance and desire. In that room, the Unity didn’t exist. Nor did their futures.

It was only them.

Whether it was the mindless madness that filled him at the sight of her full breasts spilling over the top of her lacy bra, or the simple generosity of her words, Nick didn’t quite know. All he did know was a wash of gratitude that mixed with the deep, driving need for her, which grew more insistent by the moment.

Whatever was between them was about right now. And he’d be a fool to pass up the moment for questions about the future neither of them had the answers to.

He tugged at the waistband of her slacks, the button closure popping open before he slid the zipper down. The slow slide gave him a chance to explore, and he slipped a finger beneath the material to press against the soft cotton of her panties. At her sharp intake of breath, he pressed harder and splayed his palm over the soft flesh of her mound.

“Nick—” His name faded against his ear as he bent to nuzzle that sensitive spot where her neck curved into her shoulder. His fingers continued their torturous work, and he was rewarded with another long sigh as her fingers fumbled for purchase against his biceps.

He wanted to make this moment last—to give her something that was unique to them—yet he also wanted her with an urgency that nearly blinded him. And then his gaze settled on the large table a few feet away, and he knew.

Their bodies still intertwined, Nick walked Emma backward toward the dining room.

“Where are we going?”

“Just wait.” He pressed another kiss against her lips, determinedly walking her closer. Never breaking contact, he snagged one of the heavy chairs that circled the table and pulled it out, guiding her into the space now open between two other chairs.

“Nick?”

“You sure you don’t like this table?”

“I—” Her gaze widened as he gently lifted her onto the surface. Without giving her time to settle, he kept up his gentle assault, his hands floating over the soft silk of her bra, then over her stomach, before grasping the material at her hips. With one swift move, he had her slacks and panties down her legs and headed for the floor. Her sandals picked up with the fabric of her slacks, their gentle thud muted in the fall of her clothes.

“Smooth, Kelley.”

“The stuff of teenage fantasies.”

She giggled at that before her hands settled on his shoulders. “You were a teenage fantasy. I hardly realized it until I saw you again. These memories I’ve kept inside, making you almost larger than life.”

If her words were humbling, it was the look in her eyes that nearly undid him. The honesty he saw reflected back—the sheer sincerity of the moment—stilled him. He wanted her—wanted to give in to the demands of his body—yet he also wanted that brief moment to hold still so he could simply savor it.

“I want you, Nick. Not the cute teenage boy of my daydreams, or the professional athlete of my adult fantasies. I’ve come to realize I’m far more interested in the man.”

The urgency that had driven them from the sidewalk, into the building, and on to her apartment reared up once more. He wanted her, that heavy, pounding bass drum of sexual anticipation thrumming through his blood. Yet even more, this obsessive need to mark her as his own wouldn’t leave him. It was barbaric and base on so many levels, yet one lone thought wouldn’t leave him, racing through his mind in time with his heartbeat.

Make this special for her.

He reached around and unhooked her bra, her lush curves falling into his hands as he slid the soft silk around her body. Tossing it away, he filled his hands with her, the fullness of her breasts making a satisfying weight in his palms. Her pupils expanded, filling up the brown until her gaze was nearly black in the dim light of the room. He watched, fascinated, when those irises hazed over as his thumbs flicked over her nipples. She reacted immediately to his touch, pressing into his hands in a clear statement of what she enjoyed.

What she wanted.

His own response flared at her obvious enjoyment, his erection pressing hard against the confines of his shorts. The temptation to free himself was strong, but this moment was about Emma.

Although he was keeping his shorts firmly in place, he didn’t stop her when she tugged his T-shirt from his waistband, dragging the soft cotton up and over his body. They broke contact as his shirt went over his head and Emma used the moments his hands were locked in the sleeves to lean forward and swirl her tongue over his chest. When she moved on to one nipple, focusing the heat of her mouth over that sensitive, puckered flesh, his stomach contracted, and his balls tightened at the sensual assault.

How the fuck was he going to last if she did that?

And if he was about to go off like a rocket from a kiss to his chest, there was little hope for him making it through the next several minutes, let alone the hour he fantasized about.

Freeing his hands, he tossed his shirt in the same direction as her bra and leaned back over her, anxious to take control. His hands returned to her breasts and he used the position to gently push her back on the table, following her down to capture one of her nipples in his mouth. Her skin had already grown slick with sweat, and the light tinge of salt mixed with something unbearably sweet and entirely unique.

Entirely Emma.

Focused on her pleasure, he shifted to the other breast, pleased when he got an eager response to match the first. He swirled his tongue over her generous curves as his hands drifted down the flat plane of her stomach. He felt her sharp intake of breath beneath his mouth as he brushed his fingers through the curls over her pubic bone, and he smiled against her skin.

Already anticipating the response he’d get next, he slipped two fingers into the hot, wet heat of her, and was rewarded with a loud whimper as she writhed against him. Satisfaction roared through him, the sweet eagerness the sexiest damn thing he’d ever seen. Even as he reveled in that sweetness, he wanted more. Achy and greedy and raw with need, he wanted all.

Intent on his goal, he ran his teeth lightly over her nipple before releasing her breast to kiss the sensitive skin of her stomach. He dipped his tongue in her belly button even as he continued the assault of his fingers, the quivering muscles that sheathed them clenching around his movements. Heat arrowed to his cock, driving him mad as he imagined those muscles sheathing every last inch of him, and he refocused on Emma.

He could already imagine the rest of her—that first, perfect sample of her most intimate secrets—and dropped into the chair he’d already pulled out. She stared at him from dark, languid eyes and a hard clench gripped his stomach muscles as he took in that moment of pure, sexual awareness. God, how he wanted this woman. In every way he could imagine, he wanted her, the need filling him with a mix of dark desperation and sweet, sweet freedom.

He lifted one leg over his shoulder, drawing her closer. And as he stared at her, the glory of her body wide open and ready for him, Nick couldn’t hold back the wicked grin as their eyes met once again.

“I dare you to keep hating this table.”

Emma nearly came off the hated tabletop as Nick’s mouth closed over the most intimate part of her. Crazy and desperate for him, she was mindless as every ounce of her being seemed centered at that glorious place where he’d placed his mouth. Long, sensuous strokes of his tongue seemed to fill her and leave her wanting, all at once. His hands continued to play over her body, the firm stroke of his fingers over her thigh with one hand while the other continued to ply one of her breasts.

It was a sensual assault from every angle, and as one moment spun into the next, her world continued to narrow, until all she saw was Nick. All she felt was Nick. All she was, was Nick.

He destroyed her—with big hands, clever fingers, that amazing mouth.

But it was the telltale quiver—that crazy wild energy—that continued to build and build. A dark, dangerous pressure that consumed her.

She ached. She reached. And as his tongue swirled over her clitoris one more time, she exploded.

Light. Heat. Joy.

All of it suffused her body as a long, glorious cry spilled from her lips, his name drawn from her in a rush. “Nick!”

Nick kept a firm hand on her body as she slowly descended back to earth. That warm, steadying hand was her only lifeline to the here and now as she fought to regain her senses.

Thoughts drifted through her mind, a rapid-fire of emotion, need, satisfaction, and, beneath it all, pure, unfettered delight. Delight in Nick, and in her body’s response to him.

“Wow.”

As the sensual haze that clouded her vision began to fade, Emma came back to herself and took stock of where she was. Splayed across her dining room table, the hard wood pressed to her back, and one thigh still thrown over Nick Kelley’s very broad, very capable shoulder.

“Oh my God.”

Her instinct to scramble up was stilled by the firm press of his hand. “What’s the rush?”

“I’m on the table.”

“I know.”

“But I—”

“Look gorgeous.”

She stilled, accepting she was momentarily held in this position by a man who had at least seventy-five pounds on her. What she didn’t want to dwell on was the fact that she wasn’t all that motivated to get up, despite the complete and utterly vulnerable position she found herself in.

“You okay?”

“I think I just saw God. So, yeah. I’m good.”

He laughed at that, but she saw the tightness around his eyes. And only then realized the position she’d left him in.

“Question for you.”

“Yep?”

She glanced in the general direction of the floor. “You have any condoms in those shorts?”

“No.”

If the moment weren’t so fraught with unfulfilled tension, she would have laughed. Taking pity on him, she struggled to sit up. “A friend of mine from school gave me some at my going-away party in Chicago.”

“That’s . . . an interesting gift.”

“More like a drunkfest, but she meant well. The gift bag included edible underwear and condoms. Her good wishes for a fresh start back in New York.”

“If you give me her name and address, she’s getting a bouquet tomorrow.”

Emma waved him on. “Bottom drawer in the bathroom.”

Nick had gently disengaged her leg and was up and out of the chair before she even finished her sentence. His gait was strained, but she had to give him credit. The man could move. And as he disappeared down the short hall to her bedroom, she also had to admit he’d given her quite the view. Powerful muscles rippled across his back, descending into the narrow waist. Even his loose shorts couldn’t disguise the high, tight ass that had fueled more than a few fantasies while clad in garishly colored football pants.

He was back in moments, a small box in hand and his shorts already unbuttoned. “A multitasker.” Emma said the words, reaching for him the moment he rejoined her at the table. She finished the work on his shorts, pushing them off his butt and down over his legs. She was more gentle with his briefs, careful to work the material over his erection.

And stilled when she caught sight of him.

He was something to behold. Long and thick, his cock jutted high and proud against his body. She reached for him, pleased to see telltale wetness at the tip. It briefly crossed her mind to torture him as he’d done to her, but anticipating her movement, his hands wrapped around hers. “If you keep looking at me like that, this is going to be over real quick.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “A challenge?”

“A fact.” He released her hands, then made quick work of the condom. “I think that gives new meaning to a mad dash.”

She stared up at him, the attempt at a joke sweet for all the self-control that gripped him, cording the lines of his neck. “I have a different sort of madness in mind.”

Before he could push her farther back on the table, she pushed at his shoulders, moving him back into the chair. Straddling him and the chair, she hovered for a long moment over the thick length of him. Anticipation filled her as he adjusted himself, the crown of his penis pressed to her body, her core still sensitive from the pleasure he’d already wrung.

It was only when she took in the full length of him, drawing him home, that Emma felt the crazy response of her body. She was still ready for him, arousal and need crashing together in the delicious maelstrom of the moment.

In seconds, they found a rhythm, the joy she’d found in his touch expanding and growing as their bodies joined and rejoined. Impossibly, the pleasure grew once more. Gloriously, need filled her, racing through her body as every nerve ending cried out for what he could give.

She gripped his shoulders, their heated skin slick with sweat, as one pushed the other on. Harder. Faster. Needier—until once again, she was nothing but feeling, her body suffused with wicked splendor. A shout echoed against her ear as Nick pushed up, a hard thrust into her as she met him, accommodating him to the hilt. Waves of pleasure exploded through her, harder and deeper, coming as it did on the heels of her last release.

He shuddered beneath her, burying his face into the crook of her neck, his arms tight around her.

And as Emma clung to him—clung to the moment—she let the world around them simply fade away.

Chapter Fifteen

Nick fought off the rising tide of panic that he’d made a mistake. It was an unfamiliar sensation, dragging at him like too much ballast at sea. He wasn’t prone to analyzing his choices—a realization that dawned with no small degree of personal embarrassment as Emma lay snug in the crook of his arm.

Had he really spent his life that idiotically cocky?

Or had nothing ever had such potential consequences?

The night had been beyond his imaginings. From those crazy moments that had exploded on the street in front of her apartment to the wild yearning as he followed her up the stairs and on through her door, Nick had craved her in a way that cut him off at the knees.

Still did, despite their level best to gloriously decimate each other over the past six hours.

In those six hours they’d managed to push the world away, ignoring the bigger issue of what lay between them and what they still both fought over. Or for.

So what was he doing with her? Sweet Emma Vandenburg, the straight-A student and obvious good girl? A good girl with moves, the wicked, still-unsated half of his conscience whispered, his body stirring at the memories. She was a good girl who’d grown into a vibrant woman.

And no matter how vivid the memories of school and simpler days, when she had been a girl, the two of them were now adults. Experienced adults who’d seen some of what life had to offer, and who both bore the scars.

She shifted in his arms, snuggling closer as one long leg tossed over his. He caught her easily, his hand resting on her thigh as he pulled her even closer in his embrace. A soft sigh escaped her lips, and Nick knew the emotion.

She felt right there. And if he weren’t so busy berating himself, he’d likely be doing a bit of sighing of his own.

Because he’d be damned if he could walk away from this just yet.

There was no way they were done with each other. They couldn’t be. But real life was going to intrude any damn minute, their nine o’clock call with the Unity sales team a perfect example.

“I think I like my dining room again.” She rubbed the tip of her nose before opening her eyes into sleepy slits. “Or maybe I should say for the first time.”

“Hello to you, too.” Nick pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You never liked it before? When you first got it?”

“Hell no. Cole picked it out without telling me.”

“Did he pay for it with his man card?”

Emma’s eyes widened at that. “What?”

“Last time I checked most men avoided furniture stores like the plague. Why would he voluntarily go shopping on his own?”

“Because he’s a control freak. His parents had announced a surprise visit, and he refused to have an empty room in our house. We couldn’t have them thinking we were too poor to furnish the place.”

“Were you?”

“If you go by Cole’s philosophy, a line of credit means you’re never poor.”

“Ouch.”

“It took us several years, but we paid off the folly of our youth. When I finally woke up and realized I had a useful skill in the family business, I headed back to school, and dragged myself right back into debt.”

“Were you intending to come back to Brooklyn even then?”

“No. I—” She’d never given it much consideration, but now that he asked, she had to admit the idea had been there all along. Siebel grads were usually first in line for jobs, but somewhere in her plans she’d realized it would make her marketable right back at home. “I suppose maybe I did. Or did on a subconscious level anyway.”

“Well, it still seems like a better choice than that oak monstrosity.”

Emma lifted up onto an elbow and looked down on him. “Hey. Don’t dis my oak monstrosity. I’ve grown rather fond of him.”

“Him?”

“He’s long and hard. How can I think of him any other way?”

A laugh burst from his chest, the image she painted only reinforcing his earlier thought. She might have the overarching personality of a good girl, but she had a decidedly naughty streak, too. He liked it.

A small frown tugged the corners of her mouth. “Talk of my ex-husband has no place in this bed.”

“He’s a part of your life.”

“He’s a part of my past. And not anyone I’d like to revisit while having sex.”

“We’re just talking.”

The hand that had splayed across his abdomen shifted, her fingers trailing down over his cock. “Then I’m doing something wrong.”

The strangest urge to keep talking nearly had him stilling her hand until her clever grip had him changing course. She was right—there wasn’t a place for her husband in this bed. He’d be a fool to press the issue and lose the opportunity to show her just how much better off she really was.

The sharp hit of coffee met her tongue at the same moment Nick walked into her kitchen clad in nothing but a towel. The combination nearly made her spit out her French roast with a wide-eyed stare, as she took in the long, thick lines of his chest, tapering down over an impressive layer of muscle. The man was a god, with the build of a warrior and a hard-planed, masculine face that stole her breath.

She’d sworn to herself she wasn’t going to get wrapped up in him, but she was only human. Add on the fact he knew exactly what to do with every asset God gave him, and how was she expected to resist?

You didn’t, girlfriend. You couldn’t even summon up a halfhearted attempt at a protest.

So now she had to find a way to resist the man, even with the added knowledge of what sensual miracles he was capable of. Which made the words spilling out of her mouth a very bad idea. “Is that towel supposed to convince me to cancel the sales meeting?”

“Will it work?”

“It might. It is the day before a holiday weekend. I’m not even sure why the meeting was scheduled in the first place.”

“Can you cancel it?”

“You’re the one who wants to buy the company. How much do you care about our sales numbers as we head into the first week of summer?” The words fell carelessly, and once they were out she could hardly snatch them back.

What she hadn’t expected was the naughty schoolboy grin that winged its way back to her, or the sloe-eyed gaze that practically stalked her as he moved closer. “Company’s not mine yet. How much do you care?”

“It’s my legacy so I care—” Her breath hitched as he moved into her space. He took her coffee and set it behind her, then planted both hands on either side of her hips. “—very much.”

“So convince me.”

His short hair was still damp, and it pressed against her jaw when he nuzzled her neck. She had no idea how he did it, but he managed to find this crazy-sensitive spot behind her ear that turned her knees to water. That was before his hands drifted along the seam of her robe, his fingers floating over the top of her stomach in a teasing, ticklish arc.

“Reading our sales results is an important component of understanding our overall corporate—” She broke off on a hard gasp as his fingers dove lower, settling between her legs in one swift move.

Emma fought for her breath, but the erotic press of his palm against her pubic bone, combined with the hard, tantalizing circles of his index finger, had her breathless and practically mindless in a matter of moments.

“You were saying?”

“I . . . We . . . the meeting is . . .” Emma fought to keep track of his words, but nothing could form around the breaths trapped in her chest, or the tingling in her limbs, or the insistent pressure that had her wanting to crawl as far into Nick’s arms as she could.

The pressure built—a wild, crazy ride with her kitchen counter at her back and Nick simply consuming her. He must have sensed her moment of release just as she did, his last, hard stroke pulling a wild, unbridled response from her body, along with a scream.

The sheer strength of his body was the only thing holding her up as Emma flew apart. She clutched at his shoulders as he dragged more from her, beyond what she thought or believed she could give. Beyond what she’d ever imagined herself capable of.

But it was the moments after, his hand still between her thighs as he stroked her back to earth, that melted something deep inside of her. Rather than preen around her kitchen like the conquering hero, he saw to her. Her pleasure. Her release. And her return to the here and now.

It was a rare gift, one she wasn’t even sure he realized he gave.

Yet as she stood there in the circle of his arms, she felt protected. Cherished. And important.

As she slowly came back to herself, she leaned into him, his sharp intake of breath bringing her fully back into the moment—and the large erection separated only by her robe and his towel. She reached between them, flicking at the place on his hips where the towel tucked in on itself, then gripping him fully. Her breath came out on a hard whisper, the husky strains of desire still coating her words. “I think it’s a good idea to cancel that meeting.”

“Nothing like a manager with her priorities on straight.”

Becky stared at the screen, the latest design she was working on eluding her as clearly as sleep. For the past two nights she’d lain restless in her bed, replaying Emma’s words over and over.

Go on a date with him. Follow up. Tell him the whole story.

Since the whole story involved a relationship with his brother, she failed to see how they’d get any further than another embarrassing conversation. But still, she searched Emma’s words, hopelessly seeking a loophole.

Or some additional encouragement to act on her friend’s suggestion.

The office was practically empty, the loft space her design firm owned in Green Point dead on the Friday before a long holiday weekend. She was only messing around; the major work she had this week was already turned in and approved by her clients.

So why was she sitting here?

An instant message popped up on her screen from the guy who manned their front desk. Secret admirer?

When she shot back nothing but an emoji, he shot her another note.

Seriously what is it with you and the poop emoji? Hot guy with gorgeous flowers up here at front. Hurry up before I snag him.

The temptation to send Joey a less-than-flattering response rose up, but curiosity made her lean back in her chair toward the glass-walled panel that separated the space from the lobby.

And that’s when she saw Hector Rodriguez filling up the lobby, his large form out of place amidst the stark white.

He was here.

But how did he know she was here? And why did he have flowers? And what was she supposed—

Are you coming? I meant it about taking the flowers and the man and making a run for it.

Something about the message had her smiling, the first springs of joy filling her chest since her discovery of Hector’s connection to Miguel earlier that week.

I’m coming. Touch him and die. She added a devil emoji for good measure, and pushed back from her desk.

The loft was spacious, but not enormous by any means. Yet the walk to the lobby felt endless. But then she was at the door. And Hector was there. And he had flowers in his hands and that scary resting face she couldn’t stop thinking of, only it carried a small, tentative smile.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I’m taking notes,” Joey piped in from his perch behind the front desk. “If you don’t say something other than ‘hi,’ I’m going to be forced to make something up as I IM this moment to the rest of the office.”

Scary resting face returned as Hector leaned over the front desk. “Step away from the keyboard.”

Joey’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline, but he held up his hands, pushing away from the computer. “I’ll go make myself busy.”

“Do that.”

Hector waited until Joey had swiped his card and walked into the office before turning toward Becky. The smile that had carried her out to the lobby vanished as she took in the hard lines of his mouth. He thrust a dozen pink roses toward her. “These are for you.”

“Thanks. Um . . . why?”

“I wanted to.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“They’re stupid. I wanted red and they’re pink. And the pink ones reminded me of Miguel’s funeral. Or the pictures of his funeral, which were all I had by the time I came the fuck home.”

She remembered those pink roses. The way they draped the casket, and the way his mother threw herself on top of them when they stood at the cemetery, saying their good-byes.

“Someone took pictures?”

“An enterprising family member who thought I’d want to see them.”

“I guess they were wrong.”

“Yes. No.” He stood there, something strangely helpless and vulnerable in such a large man holding flowers out at an odd angle. “No, I didn’t want to see them. But yes, I needed to know. Needed to understand what everyone went through.”

When he kept his grip tight on the flowers, she reached out, her hand closing over his. “They’re beautiful.”

“Even though they’re pink.”

She took the flowers from him. “Maybe because they’re pink.”

Something flashed in the deepest recesses of his brown eyes. Becky recognized it immediately—it mirrored the thoughts she had so often about her mom. Remembering she was no longer with them, and that she’d never be a part of Becky’s life again. That horrible sense of loss that lived with a person, haunting them at unexpected moments, a gunshot of memories bursting out of the dark.

“Take a walk with me?”

A loud whoop echoed from behind her, and Becky turned to see Joey and the five other staffers who’d made it in that day looking through the glass wall.

Joey hollered the loudest, his head nodding in a vigorous up and down. “Say yes!”

The worry that she’d seem unprofessional lasted for about three seconds, until she realized her coworkers were not only cheering her on, but adding kissy faces to boot.

With a wink for Joey, she turned to Hector and extended a hand. “Let’s go.”

“I haven’t been here in years.” Emma stepped carefully down the path as her gaze wandered to the beauty surrounding her.

“My mother loves the Japanese garden. It’s her favorite part of the botanic gardens. We make a trip every spring, for the cherry blossoms.”

“It’s gorgeous.”

The air was rich with the promise of summer, the sun in the bright blue sky rapidly warming the air as they pushed on toward noon. Emma and Nick had taken their time meandering through the rose garden, observed several koi at the Lily Pool Terrace, and were now in the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden.

Emma marveled at the contrasts in Nick. From the ball game the night before to the gardens today, he seamlessly flowed between worlds, seemed to fit with both.

He ran his hand over the trunk of a tree before catching her gaze. “What?”

“I guess I didn’t take you for a botanical-gardens sort of guy.”

“I can appreciate nature.”

“I don’t doubt it. But to take the time to seek out nature is something else entirely.” Her gaze drifted to a thick growth of bamboo, the smooth stalks reflecting the sun, before she turned back to him. “And since I never seek out nature, I’ve made the unfortunate assumption no one else does, either.”

“At twelve, I would have agreed with you. But my mom dragged us here on the weekends we didn’t have other activities. Claimed it was her reward for sitting through ball games, school events, and the go-cart races Fender lived for.”

“Her quiet in the storm,” Emma murmured.

“Pretty much. It was a surprise when I realized I actually enjoyed it.”

“You enjoyed the time with her.”

“Quiet has its benefits. So does routine.”

“I suspect the calm and security does, too.”

She expected him to say something—to dodge, or deflect, or just change the subject—so it was a surprise when he reached for her hand. “I don’t talk about it. Or not easily.”

“You don’t have to.” She squeezed his hand. “But know you can tell me.”

They stood there, the quiet expanding between them into a comfortable silence. Whether it was the gentleness of their surroundings or the significance of what they’d shared the night before, she didn’t know. But with his gaze on the horizon, drifting over a small pond that made up one of the garden’s centerpieces, Nick began to talk.

“My mom, the biological one, disappeared when I was a kid. I don’t remember her well, but my father always blamed me for her leaving. Told me I was bad, or she didn’t want to be a mother, or whatever.”

“Nick—”

He squeezed her hand and shifted his gaze to her. He said nothing, but she sensed all he didn’t say—namely, that she needed to let him get through the telling.

“My father was good at mood swings. And blaming his behavior on them. Only the more alcohol and drugs you do, the more wild the swings.”

Emma held her silence, even as pain erupted through her for the small boy who was the recipient of those moods. He was hard to see now, in Nick’s large physicality, but that small boy was there, definitely present, when she stared into his eyes.

Do we ever escape our childhoods?

There was a time she’d believed adulthood was the trap, but like her personal unwillingness to commune with nature, that was her experience, her frame of reference.

Nick’s was vastly different.

“I put up with it, even though it seemed to get worse as I got bigger. It sounds cliché, but there was a nice lady who lived across the hall who was sort of this grandmother figure. She did what she could to shield me and keep me away from him, especially when he went on a bender. She ended up being a key witness in the hearings when Ma wanted to adopt me.”

“And your own family? Grandparents? Aunts or uncles?”

“Not really. My father had done his damage a long time ago, screwing up most of his own relationships, and no one wanted to take us on.” He shrugged. “It just was, you know? I didn’t think about a support system or extended family as even out there somewhere. And old Mrs. Crowder did what she could.”

“But it wasn’t enough?”

“It just was.” Nick squeezed her hand before dropping it. His posture was stiff, his shoulders hunched as his gaze drifted over the expanse of trees before them. “I know that sounds like a cop-out, but I was a kid. I had no voice. No power. And all I focused on was getting through it. He didn’t interfere in my going to school, and that became a sort of escape. And when he cleaned himself up out of a bender, he was okay. He never hit me sober.”

“What was his addiction?”

A hard laugh escaped at that, the discordant notes at odds with the bright, vivid day. “My father is a whatever-I-can-get-my-hands-on sort of addict. He’s not too precious about what he drinks or snorts, but as far as I know, he was never much one for needles.”

Emma wasn’t sure she’d call that much of a victory, but she did suspect it kept Nick’s father away from the death sentence that was heroin.

“When he was clean, he was a good guy. Decent. He’d make sure he went to work, and would pick up odd jobs for extra money. It never lasted, but his promises made me think it would. Each and every time.”

And perhaps that was the worst.

How would a child deal with that? Or an adult, for that matter. How do you look at the world as a series of broken promises and not begin to believe it would never change? Never get better?

“And sports?”

“I was good at them. I was a big kid, and everyone wanted me on the team. The athletic association took pity on me and gave me a scholarship to play peewee football and soccer.”

He turned back to her, his smile gentle even if his gaze was a few decades away. “I took it because I liked sports, and it was another way to stay out of the house and around other people. It was also where I met Landon and Fender. Someone had shoved them both in an after-school soccer program along with me, and we bonded.”

“Brothers from the first.”

A brighter laugh accompanied his smile. Emma saw both and relaxed a fraction.

“Not at first. We were eight, and Fender and I were full of enough piss and vinegar we went a few rounds. Nothing too physical, because neither of us wanted to get kicked out, but we didn’t like each other. We’d battle over the ball, shoving and pushing each other for possession.”

“And Landon?”

“Neither of us paid much attention to the skinny kid who kept to himself.”

The picture he painted was vivid in her mind, three small boys trying so hard to grow up. “How did you all become friends?”

“Turns out the skinny, scrawny kid could run. We were practicing after school one afternoon, and Fender and I were doing one of our push-and-shove battles over the ball. Landon squeezed right in and stole the ball, and took it all the way downfield.”

“Crafty.”

“Bastard always has been. He’s far smoother than those size thirteen feet suggest. But there was something in the way he sat on the bench after practice, all by himself.” Nick shrugged. “I don’t know why, but I went over to him. Talked to him, and we were inseparable from that moment.”

“And Fender?”

“We used Landon’s Borg techniques. The following practice, we sort of assumed him up as ours. When he protested, we just sort of made him join in. And that was all it took.”

“Brothers.” The thought struck her once more. Yes, Louisa Mills had made them a family, but the boys had already found family in each other. Had created their own sense of belonging and security. Louisa had formalized it. Cemented it. And made it something safe and protected.

But they’d begun the circle of family all on their own.

There was one question she’d carried since high school. Despite all Nick had shared, she wasn’t sure if she should ask. Yet it seemed unfair not to take the risk. “Why didn’t you change your last name? None of you did.”

“We made a pact.”

“Oh?”

“We were fosters first. A part of the process before Mom could adopt us all.”

It seemed wrong that something so right and good required such bureaucracy, but sadly it did. “Nothing like process and paperwork.”

“It does make the world go ’round.” When she only raised an eyebrow, he continued. “But it was a process, and it happened differently for each of us. We all still had parents, even if those relationships weren’t what they should be.”

“Yet Louisa took it on.”

“Every last bit of it. And neighborhood opinion, too. Most people agreed with her, but there were a few who thought a single woman didn’t have a right to the three of us. Our families fought it, too.”

There were a lot of things people thought single women shouldn’t do, Emma mused. Hadn’t her father been drumming that into her for the past few months? But she picked up on Nick’s last comment instead. “How’d Louisa end up with custody?”

“Social services had their eye on me for a long time, and my father finally took one swing too many. It came on the heels of two other publicly documented cases, and was enough to win the judge to Ma’s side.”

When he stopped abruptly, she sensed there was more to the story, but opted to give him his privacy.

“She’s quite a woman.”

“That she is. She pushed and pushed and pushed until she got what she wanted. And refused to let us think that we didn’t deserve the next step, or the safety she could provide.” Nick took Emma’s hands, pulling her close. “Somewhere in the process, we had the chance to take her last name, but we all decided our names were the one thing we should keep.”

“A memorial?”

“A reminder of where we came from. A connection to our roots.” A light breeze ruffled his hair, tousling the short strands. “I don’t know, it just seemed important.”

Once again, the idea of Nick Kelley as fantasy shattered under the realities of his life. It was so easy to look at him now, an accomplished athlete, a business owner, and a virile, attractive man, and miss what had shaped him.

Miss where he’d come from.

But fantasies weren’t real life. They were the perceptions humans carried about one another that had no basis in reality. She was humbled that he’d shared his reality with her.

“I don’t remember you from grade school,” Nick said, interrupting her musings.

“I wasn’t there. My parents had me in private school until high school.”

“So you were one of the uniformed schoolgirls we used to point at from the soccer field.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“I bet you looked cute in a uniform.”

“I was geeky and awkward, with a mouth full of braces.”

Nick moved in closer and bent his head, his lips whispering across hers. “An investment that paid off.”

“Then I’ll consider myself grateful for three years of teeth-moving torture.”

Nick hovered there, his lips brushing hers, yet not quite taking the kiss. “I’m glad I told you about my dad.”

“I’m glad you told me, too.”

She closed that narrow gap and took his mouth with her own. Easy and slow, their tongues met, the kiss as warm and comforting as it was erotic. Nick’s arms came around her and she settled her hands at his hips, the moment more precious than she ever could have imagined.

The night before had been a dream, one she’d carry with her forever. But his willingness to share where he came from—to trust her with what he’d overcome—seemed even more monumental than the physical.

It felt like everything.

Chapter Sixteen

The End Zone rocked a Saturday night crowd. That was all Emma could think as she watched half the neighborhood filter in and out of the bar. Young and old were crowded in together, some at the bar, others at tables, and still others clustered around the pool tables in the back room.

The bar was full, the crowd happy, and it warmed her to know that Nick had created this.

It was also fascinating to see the other side of her profession. She had always understood the responsibility that came with producing alcoholic beverages. No matter how they managed their product—including access to it—there were those who abused liquor.

Nick bore the scars of that abuse. He’d survived a childhood with an addict, yet he was still able to provide a place of enjoyment, where others could let off steam, get to know one another, and further bond the relationships they already had.

She was proud of him.

One of his waitresses rang a thick bell over the bar and a round of shouts went up, people at tables adding their cheers to those from the three-deep crowd around the bar. Yep, there was no doubt about it—Nick Kelley had to be the most popular proprietor in Park Heights.

As she watched him work the bar, she understood why. There was something innately likeable about him, even as he gave the very real sense of being fully in control.

“You enjoying the quarterback show?”

A rush of heat filled her cheeks as Tommy’s voice drifted toward her. He and his wife, Olivia, had joined them for the evening, along with Landon and a few people from his office. Yet again, Landon’s comment about assuming her into their social group struck a chord. Only instead of considering resistance, she couldn’t hold back how nice it felt to spend some time with a group of people her own age.

She and Cole had been part of a nice-sized social circle in Chicago, but their friends had drifted after their separation, and the invitations to events had dried up.

“Quarterback show?” She took a sip of her water to cool the heat.

“It’s impressive, the way he manages that bar. Everyone knows he’s seen them, yet they wait their turn for their drinks.”

“Some people are gifted multitaskers.”

“There’s good and then there’s Nick. The man can read a room faster than a cop.”

“I’m sure that’s one of the many reasons this place is such a big success.” It might be polite conversation, but Emma meant every word. Nick’s work ethic was impressive, his focus on his goals even more so. It made the situation she found herself in that much more challenging.

She cared for him.

The past two days had been beyond her wildest dreams. While she didn’t expect love as a precursor to having sex, she knew herself well enough to know a basic and genuine affection was important to her. What she hadn’t expected to find were the various facets of Nick that weren’t readily apparent.

His story of his childhood still touched her, but other things—small moments—left as big an impact. He’d taken the time to sign autographs and talk to a group of teenage boys the day before at the botanical gardens. That morning, on a walk through the neighborhood, he’d purchased a cup of coffee for an older woman behind them in line at the coffee house. And she even saw it in the easy way he talked to his staff, asking about their families or their plans, sharing moments with them.

“You pleased with this week’s outcome?” Tommy snatched some fries from the plate in front of her.

Under normal circumstances, coming from Nick’s lawyer, the question could be seen as an enemy attack, but she’d known Tommy Santola far too long. He might have developed a killer reputation in real estate, but he still bore the marks of the most well-liked kid in her class. He also had the rare ability to separate business from life.

“Sure.” Her gaze drifted to Nick before snapping fully back to Tommy. “I mean, I’d like the time to prove to my father that I’m competent, so I’m grateful we’ve delayed the sale.”

“What if your father changes his mind? Goes in your favor no matter the outcome of the deal?” Tommy must have sensed her shock because he winked at her. “You don’t think this should go easy on Nick, do you?”

Since Tommy’s comments were practically a match to what Nick’s mother had said, Emma had to wonder why no one in Nick’s life was all that supportive. Yes, she wanted the Unity. Wanted to be able to convince her father that she’d earned her place in the family business. It was tempting to think he’d change his mind in her favor, keeping the brewery in their family because it was the right thing to do.

But she’d made a deal with Nick. In one week’s time she’d already seen his determination, and how hard he worked to learn and understand the business. Could she take that away? Go along with a new whim of her father’s that would be as painful to another person as his initial reaction had been to her? It stirred in her an odd sort of sympathy for Nick and his position. “Well, yeah. As his representative, I figured that would be your goal.”

“He’s also my friend, so I take his interests seriously. But I know this is important to you, and your father hasn’t done you any favors.”

“No, I guess not.”

“So enjoy the summer. For what it’s worth, the Unity is a great investment, no matter which way the chips fall.”

“Baby, enough with the work talk.” Olivia waved a hand at her husband. “We got lucky tonight and got my mom to babysit. Why spend it talking about return on investment and up-and-coming neighborhoods?”

“Job hazard?” Emma teased Tommy.

Olivia jumped out of her seat and kissed the top of Tommy’s head before coming around to squeeze into the chair on Emma’s other side. “A Tommy hazard is more like it.”

“He’s good at what he does.”

“He is that.” Olivia shot her husband a fond look. “But let’s get to the good stuff. I want to know what’s going on with you and Nick.”

“Nothing, really,” Emma said, then she stopped herself. They might not have fully defined what they were doing together, but they weren’t exactly distant strangers, either. “Well, I mean, we’ve gone on a few dates.”

“That’s good. Because if you hadn’t, I’d tell you to hop to it like a bunny. The way that man keeps looking at you from the bar.” Olivia waved a hand in front of her face. “It’s hot.”

Emma looked despite herself, and got a broad grin and a hot, blue-eyed stare for her efforts. As warmth flooded her cheeks once more, Nick’s grin grew broader, and she could have sworn she felt his stare mark her with some sort of brand.

Where had this come from?

A little over a week ago she’d sat in this same bar, miserable with her life and her future prospects. Now she was sleeping with Nick, and joining a group of friends for the evening.

What a difference a day makes.

Her mother had used that phrase to support any number of situations. Sadly, Emma had too often equated it with something negative, but with Nick’s gaze still upon her, it was easier to see the hope in her mother’s comment.

Life changed every day.

And sometimes it changed for the better.

Nick dragged the last bag of trash out the back door while the crowd inside was still going strong. He’d promised Emma he wouldn’t work past eleven, but a big party had come in, and he couldn’t leave the team on their own. She’d waved at him from the table, acknowledging the crowd, and had gone back to whatever had her and Olivia giggling for the past hour.

Something about the moment had him grinning, the big smile on her face and the laughter he’d catch every so often from the bar warming his heart. She looked happy. Relaxed. And a part of something.

Beyond their initial conversation, Emma still hadn’t confided much about her life. Her comments about the time in Chicago and her marriage were usually more abstract than defined.

Bad marriage.

Unsupportive husband.

Ugly divorce.

They were the broad strokes that made up her past, but the specifics—the things she’d lived through—had remained buried.

None of your business, Kelley.

The dumpster lid came down with a thud, an effective punctuation point to all the reasons he didn’t need to probe Emma about her past. Sleeping with her didn’t give him a right to pry into her past.

Even if he’d spilled his guts the first chance he got.

He’d put much of it out of his mind, but now that he thought about it, he had shared more than he’d intended. A light layer of grease swirled through his stomach at the remembered conversation. His father’s addiction. Discovering sports. Finding Landon and Fender, and, later, Mom.

He’d shared all of it. But what did he know about her?

Nothing.

The thought slapped him upside the head as he wended his way back down the alley and through the back door of the End Zone.

Was he really that fuckstruck? He’d never told anyone but his brothers about his father. He’d certainly never told a woman he was dating. So why had he told Emma?

To be fair, she hadn’t pushed. She’d asked, but she hadn’t pushed. And he’d sung like the proverbial canary.

The giggles broke through his mental fuckwittery a split second before he recognized the two women falling over themselves in the hallway to his office.

“Can I help you?”

“We hope so.” They giggled again and Nick tried to place them. Neither had approached the bar, but now that he got a second look, he remembered them holed up in a two-top by the door for most of the evening. A bottle of Chardonnay followed by a bottle of Pinot.

“This is a private area back here.”

“Your office is back here.” One of the women moved up into his chest, eyes hazed with drink as she dragged her forefinger over the neck of his T-shirt. “We’re yours for the asking tonight. A matched pair, if you get my meaning.”

“Getting” their innuendo wasn’t his biggest issue at the moment, Nick thought wryly.

“I’d like you to leave.” He took the hand tracing his chest and gently removed it from his body. “Now.”

“But we planned for this,” the other one piped up. “Got new outfits and everything.”

The woman’s hands returned to his chest, her lips in a full-on pout. Her friend joined her, the two of them crowding him against the wall.

“I’m not sure why you thought you’d find it here.”

“You’ve got a reputation around town. Big football player with a big cock—”

“What’s going on back here?”

Nick glanced in the direction of the voice. Emma’s eyes were narrowed and her raised tone practically echoed off the walls. The more brazen of the two women barely tossed her a look, hollering an order over her shoulder. “Get out of here.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Emma pulled the easier mark off of him, her tone firm, but something gentling in her eyes. “How much did you drink tonight?”

“A few bottles of wine.”

Landon came around the corner, his smile amping up as he caught sight of Nick’s predicament. “Look at you.”

“L, could you help us?”

His brother folded his arms and leaned on the opposite wall. “You look like you’ve got things well in hand.”

“Landon!”

When the first woman Emma had pulled away from Nick turned to take a swing, Landon leaped into action. He moved the woman away from Emma, his hold firm but gentle as he escorted her down the hallway. The other woman—the one still glued to Nick’s chest—seemed to have a change of heart. Tears replaced the heat in her words, and she crumpled in his arms.

With a whimpered “I’m sorry,” she burst into an impressive round of drunk tears.

“What did you do to them?” Emma shook her head as Nick walked the woman down the hallway, following his brother.

Nick shrugged. “Refused a threesome.”

At the mention of a threesome, Landon’s whistle rang out loud and low. As soon as they rounded the corner into the bar, he waved over his friends. In moments, the three of them had the women in hand, walking them to the exit and leaving Nick alone with Emma.

“Smooth, Kelley. I thought you were taking the garbage out.”

“I was.”

“Were they in the dumpster? Lying in wait?”

Since he saw more humor than anger, Nick attempted to play his luck. “They ambushed me in the hallway in front of my office.”

“Your restraint is impressive. There are men all over Brooklyn weeping for what you just sent home in a cab.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Vandenburg. They weren’t twins.”

When she only smiled up at him, he pulled her into his arms and leaned in for a kiss. Nick didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close. Shifting just before he laid his mouth on hers, she lifted her lips to his ears. “It’s a good thing I came along when I did.”

She had no idea just how wonderful it was she’d come along.

Sunday meals had been a tradition for as long as Nick could remember. Sunday dinner or Sunday brunch, his mother changed it up at her whim, but there was always a meal. For the long weekend, she’d chosen brunch. And had texted a delicately worded invitation for him to bring Emma.

Still shaken from the direction of his thoughts the night before, he’d sought out Fender for a quick trip to the gym or a run through the park. While he wasn’t interested in baring his soul, he could probably get out a few sweaty grunts that his brother would easily interpret. But when Fender had texted back saying he was at the shop, Nick had headed over, curious about what had his brother working on a holiday weekend.

“Fender!”

His brother’s voice was muted where he sprawled under an F-150. “Under here! Out in a sec!”

Nick made himself at home, two Cokes in hand from the small fridge Fender kept near an old, beat-up sofa that was likely older than they were. He walked one over to Fender when his brother slid out from beneath the gleaming silver truck. “Who the hell drives an F-150 in Brooklyn?”

Fender climbed off the rolling bed and stood, wiping his hands on a rag he pulled from his back pocket. “Someone who hates parallel parking and has the cheese to pay for garage parking?”

“Why are you fixing it at ten o’clock on a Sunday morning?”

“Because it’s here.” Fender popped the Coke and took a long swig, his throat working around the drink.

“Thought you were headed to Belmont this weekend. What changed your mind?”

“Nothing. Just changed my mind.”

His brother was known for his mercurial moods, but even as recently as the game on Thursday, Fender was waxing poetic about race day. “Because romancing the underside of this monstrosity is preferable to a luxury suite with the Morton brothers? Hosts who pay for the party, I might add.”

“Guess so.”

Nick shrugged and left it alone. If something was bugging his brother, he’d come out with it eventually. And if he’d simply changed his mind, then that was all it was.

“Something’s wrong with Mom.”

It looked like he had his answer.

Nick searched Fender’s expression for any hint, any clue, that their mother was hurt, or worse. “Has something else happened? Every time I ask her if she’s OK, she shrugs it off.”

“You believe her?”

“No.” Nick shook his head. “No, I don’t. And the whole borough thing is weird. She seemed so gung ho, even a few weeks ago. She’s taken part in some exercises to see if people would be receptive. I don’t know what’s holding her back all of a sudden.”

“She swore she’s not sick, and I’ll take her at her word.” Fender toed the rolling bed to the front end of the truck. “But I still want to know what’s going on with her.”

“So we ask her after breakfast. The three of us can wear her down.”

“You bringing Emma?”

“Yeah. I mean I invited her. And Mom invited her so . . .”

Nick’s sudden fixation with his drink made Fender do a double take. “You nailed her.”

Anger flowed up, swift as a geyser, at the remark. “Fend—”

Fender held up a hand, stilling the anger he already saw erupting. “I take back the rude male banter. But Emma V—seriously?”

“Seriously.”

And it was serious. Beyond anything that made a lick of sense, somewhere between the prior Friday’s prim sweater set and that very morning, when he’d kissed her awake, things had changed.

“I knew her ex-husband.”

Whatever Nick was expecting on the heels of the Fender’s last question, that wasn’t it. “You did?”

“Briefly. Met him early on, when they were dating. Before they moved to Chicago. He’s an asshole.”

“On principle? Or because he did a number on Emma?”

“Both. He’s slick. The one with the perfect hair and the perfect teeth and all that.”

“Not your usual set for a weekend barbeque.”

Which was somewhat inaccurate, because his brother usually fit wherever he was put. A natural chameleon, Fender could talk shop with the boys and argue the latest tax loopholes with Wall Street execs.

“We were at the same party. Bradley joined a few of us playing horseshoes. He was charming enough, was even a good loser, but it was clear he’s always got an angle. Shortly after that he screwed Jerry Bailey over a real-estate deal in Brooklyn Heights.”

“Then Emma’s well rid of him.”

“No doubt. But I also have no doubt he hurt her. Did a number on her.” Fender hesitated. “Look. It’s just . . . be careful, Nick. She’s different.”

“You think I don’t know that? Hell.” Nick crumpled his empty soda can and tossed it across the bay. “She’s so fucking different. That’s half the damn problem.”

“She stands in the way of you getting the Unity.”

“That’s not a part of this.”

“Come on, man. How can it not be a part of this?” Fender waited a beat before pushing. “Unless you’re willing to walk away.”

“From which?”

“Since you had to ask, I’d say that’s your problem, right there.”

Fender’s parting blow still haunted Nick a few hours later, as he escorted Emma up the front steps to his mother’s house. He’d sworn to himself he wasn’t letting the Unity get in the way of enjoying Emma’s company, but it hadn’t even been forty-eight hours since they’d slept together, and thoughts of the Unity were already clouding his head.

Along with the reality that he didn’t know anything about her.

Which was a load of bullshit, since he knew how she smelled and how she tasted, and he even knew she didn’t make a big deal about misguided bar patrons looking to get it on with the bar owner. But none of those things were answers to her past.

And for some inexplicable reason, that’s what he really wanted to know.

Fender’s comments about her ex-husband had stuck some sort of burr in his ass. Football had taken him away from Park Heights after high school, and he’d missed several years’ worth of local gossip. Fender’s assessment of asshole Cole, as Nick had come to think of him, wasn’t a ringing endorsement.

The scent of rain hovered in the air—a serious departure from the near-perfect weather they’d enjoyed for a week—and Nick couldn’t quite deny the match for his mood.

“Who’s going to be here today?” Emma juggled a tray of scones she’d made while he went home to change and then on over to see Fender, and she kept peeking down at the plastic-wrapped feast.

“Not enough people to eat the three dozen scones you made.”

“I didn’t know what people liked, so I made different kinds.”

“I thought you were working up that shandy recipe this morning.”

“I did that, too.”

He could only stare at her as he dug his key out of his pocket. “You finished it?”

“I made notes, but it’ll refine in test. I’ll start working on it this week.”

Nick flipped the lock and pushed open the door. The woman made scones and thought up beer recipes. She was his complete and absolute match in bed. And she had the face of an angel. Why did he care if she had a shitty divorce or her ex-husband was an ass hat? It wasn’t any of his business anyway.

Maybe if he kept repeating it to himself, the truth would sink in.

In the meantime, he needed to protect himself from getting too close. He’d already begun thinking of a backup plan once he did secure the contract, a clear deviation from his initial goal of buying the Unity outright and taking over.

But how the hell was he supposed to ignore how good they were together?

He’d be a fool to throw that away.

Quite unexpectedly, they’d managed to spend the entire weekend together. Conversation had drifted from topic to topic, one easier than the next. He’d listened in rapt fascination when she detailed her plans for a new stout, that shandy for the following summer, and a marketing opportunity to take advantage of their renewed partnership with the Kings.

She understood the business in a way he didn’t. While he easily contributed from a bar-owner’s perspective—sharing how he ordered, what he put on special, and how he built his tap line—she understood how to design product to various tastes. Hell, they’d spent twenty minutes arguing the merits of a chocolate stout for the Unity’s big fall push.

Emma was smart and savvy, and he’d be happy to keep her on no matter the ownership structure.

Until it was time for both of them to move on from the personal.

The thought struck hard and he nearly dropped his keys as he fished them from his pocket.

Move on?

He had always been good at keeping his options open, making sure he had an exit strategy in his prior relationships. Which was the opposite of how he ran his life. He had plans. Goals. And he’d always assumed getting tied down would get in the way.

So whatever it was they were doing would eventually run its course. It had to. It always had before.

His mother greeted them in the front room, effectively changing the direction of his thoughts, but as he followed her and Emma to the kitchen, he couldn’t shake the dour mood or the edgy anxiety that had crept into him. Whatever he and Emma were doing was fun and sexy and mutually enjoyable. But it wasn’t love, or anything that looked like commitment. She hadn’t pressed for something permanent, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to.

Which put them right back to square one. Because he wanted the Unity. And when things eventually burned out with Emma, there was no way the two of them were going to be very good at working together.

Chapter Seventeen

Whatever she’d expected, brunch on Cherry Street was beyond Emma’s wildest imaginings. The house was near to bursting with people and she had the momentary concern that three dozen scones—despite Nick’s admonishment—really weren’t enough.

Olivia manned an omelet line in the kitchen while Landon handled bacon, sausage, and ham steaks, spread between the stove and oven. Fender managed a waffle station, his green eyes alight with glee, a ready tease on his lips when Mrs. W. snagged the whipped cream.

As the older woman disappeared back out to the dining room, the whipped cream in hand, Emma leaned in to give Fender a quick kiss on the cheek. The scratch of his day-old stubble tickled her cheek, and she thought, not for the first time, that he managed the look of the bad boy with simple ease.

“How many people are here?”

“About twenty.” He flipped the sophisticated waffle maker over with the mark of experience. “Mom likes a crowd on Sunday.”

As if to punctuate his point, Louisa flitted over with a mug of coffee in hand and passed it to Emma. “For you, dear. And the scones look amazing. They’re a hit out in the dining room.”

“Are you sure I brought enough?”

Louisa waved a hand, her gaze distracted through her smile. “There’s plenty. We’re not going to run out of food.”

Fender shook his head when his mother flitted on to the dining room. “Heard you had an interesting night last night. Some unexpected guests at the End Zone?”

Emma fought the blush at the remembered moments after Nick and Landon had escorted those two women away from his office, but only nodded. “Nick had a few admirers.”

“Nick usually does.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Often enough. Sometimes people want a piece of our local celebrity. It’s not usually that aggressive or overt, though.”

Emma suspected that was true enough, but for some reason it ruffled her. She watched as Fender plated the completed waffle and then scooped out batter for a new one. His comment had been honest, and she didn’t sense any malice in his words. But it was one more proof point of just how different her life was from Nick’s.

Promising to return for her own waffle, Emma headed for the dining room. A buffet line had formed at the sideboard, and the time would allow her to gather her thoughts. Before she could grab a plate, she caught sight of Louisa slipping through the front door.

Leaving her own party?

Emma took a plate from the sideboard, but something in the set of Louisa’s shoulders nagged at her, along with that distracted smile in the kitchen. She had no idea why, but a sense of defeat pervaded the woman’s demeanor. Before she realized what she was doing, Emma settled her plate back on the table and headed for the door.

Not your business, not your business, not your business.

Even as the words echoed over and over in her mind, Emma went with her gut and left the house. Louisa was nowhere in sight, so Emma went down the steps, glancing left and right until she caught sight of Nick’s mother, halfway down the block.

“Louisa!”

Nick’s mother hesitated before she turned. She offered up a small wave, but something in the motion was false. Emma rushed after her. As she got closer, she could see the raw panic covering Louisa’s face, but it was the unmistakable sheen of tears that caught her up short.

“What is it?”

“I’m so sorry. This is not the right time.”

Emma went with instinct and reached out, pulling Louisa close. “If it’s any help, there’s never a good time for a breakdown. You just take them when they come.”

Louisa had the height advantage on her, but as Emma pulled her in for a tight hug, Nick’s mother seemed to shrink in her arms.

What was going on? A house full of people could freak anyone out, but the combination of tight ship and Nick’s indication that his mother’s parties were normally large had Emma eliminating that on her list.

Louisa pulled back, her eyes wet with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

“You want to sit down?”

“I want to slide through the sidewalk.”

“Let’s try that stoop over there instead.”

Emma kept a hold on Louisa’s arm and guided her to the stoop in front of another brownstone that looked so much like Nick’s childhood home, they could be twins. They settled onto the second stair from the bottom, the brownish stairs rising up behind them.

Once settled, Emma realized her second challenge: What did she say? While she appreciated the camaraderie and welcome she’d received over the past week from Nick’s family and friends, she didn’t really know anyone. And she certainly didn’t have a right to pry into their lives.

Like that stopped you with Nick.

She ignored the voice of reason and kept her focus on Louisa. “Want to talk about it?”

“I’m so embarrassed.”

“Why?”

“I’m not this person.”

“Someone who needs help?”

“Someone who leaves her own party to cry a river of tears.” At the word tears, a fresh set welled in Louisa’s eyes. Emma simply waited, letting them run their course.

She innately understood that vulnerability. Those moments you couldn’t control no matter how hard you tried. She’d had a few meltdowns of her own, the worst of which came in a department-store dressing room the day Cole served her with divorce papers. A kind woman in the nearby dressing room had taken pity on her and had passed tissues under the stall, then stayed to talk her through the tears.

“Are you okay? Physically okay?”

The question got a small, tentative smile and Louisa patted her knee. “I’m fine. Nick asked me the same the other day. He’s worried.”

Relieved it wasn’t illness, Emma laid a hand over Louisa’s. “Do you want to talk about it? Because if you’d rather just sit here for a few minutes and catch your breath, we can do that, too.”

“I’m not running for borough president.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Nick had mentioned something about that in passing when they were walking through the botanic gardens. He’d seemed concerned that his mother had experienced a change of heart, but beyond a brief conversation, Emma hadn’t seen much wrong with the choice.

Public office was a big responsibility and, as she understood it, Louisa still worked steadily. A job and the borough responsibilities would be a lot to take on.

“I’m sure your family’s proud of you no matter what you decide. It is your decision.”

“They won’t be proud when they understand why.”

Those quiet words hung there, suspended between them with the same heaviness as the storm clouds forming in the air above them. “Why?”

“My past caught up with me.” Louisa pulled her hand away, a harsh laugh spilling from her lips. “I thought it was well and truly buried, but secrets always have a way of coming out.”

“What secrets?”

“My secrets.” Louisa turned toward her, her blue eyes still tear-soaked and miserable. “About the life I had before my boys. Before coming home to Park Heights.”

Thunder rattled the kitchen as Nick turned toward his brothers. “Where’d they go?”

“They’ll be back.” Landon piled another stack of bacon on a tray. “They’re grown women.”

“But where are they?”

The crowd in the dining room still roared with laughter and good humor, but Nick felt none of it as he stared at his brothers. The food rush had died down, leaving Nick and his brothers alone in the kitchen.

“Do you think the fact they’re together means Emma got out of Mom what has her so upset?” Landon posed the question as he poured himself a mug of coffee before holding out the pot.

Something wholly irrational rooted Nick to the spot. Had Emma Vandenburg suddenly become the confessor of Park Heights? “Mom should be telling us.”

“Maybe she can’t.” Fender held out his mug for a refill. “Maybe it’s some sort of girl thing.”

“We’re not eleven. I think all of us can handle a girl thing.” Nick shot his brother a dark look. “Besides, she said she wasn’t sick.”

“Menopause isn’t sickness,” Landon reasoned.

“She already went through menopause. Don’t you remember how batshit crazy she got a few years ago? The mood swings.” Fender shuddered before waving a hand in front of his face. “And all the fans running and how she kept this place like an icebox.”

“You two are not seriously talking about this?” An involuntary shudder ran down Nick’s spine at the casual way they spoke of their mother and . . . and that.

“You brought it up.” Fender dug into his waffle, stuffing a huge bite into his mouth before talking around it. “And it’s totally normal and natural.”

“You brought it up, ass munch.” Nick ignored his brother’s middle finger. “And why would she tell Emma about it when she’s got Mrs. W.? Emma’s too young to know about it all.”

Fender swallowed, a shit-eating smile spreading across his face. “Which you would know since you’ve been spending time close up and personal with that young—”

Nick was across the room, his hands on Fender’s T-shirt, dragging him up out of his chair before his brother could finish the sentence. “I let it go this morning.”

Fender shoved at Nick’s chest before crossing to the far side of the table. “I’m not fighting with you about this.”

“Then shut the fuck up.”

The click of the kitchen door was enough to distract them both, and Nick turned, relief rushing through him as Emma and his mother walked through the door. Both were soaked through, but otherwise fine.

“Where were you?”

“We got caught outside.”

They all scrambled at once. Fender snagged a few old towels their mother kept in a bottom cabinet behind the table while Landon grabbed chairs for both women.

It was Nick who stood still, his feet like cement on his mother’s travertine floor. “Why were you even out there?”

Emma caught his eye, some weird, silent communication winging between them. “Your mom needed a few minutes.”

Fender tossed him one of the towels for Emma and used the other to wrap around their mom’s shoulders. The move was sweet, gentle—and in that moment Nick knew he’d once again earned the asshole card.

Fender and Landon were worried. To think otherwise was sorely shortchanging the two men he loved most in the world. Respected the most, too.

He owed his brothers an apology and would give one later. But he was pleased to see the fire had faded from Fender’s green-eyed gaze.

“Landon. Nick. Fender. I need to tell you something.”

Louisa stared at the faces of her sons. They’d grown into a handsome lot, even if she still saw the little boys inside them more often than the men they’d become.

But what she had to share wasn’t for children to hear. She simply had to hope the men she’d raised could find a way to forgive her.

“I need to talk to you, but now’s hardly ideal.” A loud shout of laughter went up in the dining room in support of her point.

“I’ll take care of it.” Emma used the towel to finish wiping the last of the water from her face, then finger-combed her hair. “It’ll give you all a few minutes to talk.”

Louisa knew she’d do just that when Emma grabbed a full pot of coffee and a hot pad and headed for the dining room. With a glance toward the back stairs, Louisa gestured the boys forward. “Let’s go upstairs for a few minutes.”

In moments they were all seated in her sitting room, Nick and Fender at the windows, and Landon next to Louisa on the couch.

Her boys.

It was amazing they still fell into the same patterns of their youth. Nick and Fender were her alphas, taking protection duty and always standing watch, whereas Landon’s first thought was always for her. Her comfort. Her safety. Even now, his hand was warm on her shoulder as he sought to provide comfort.

“Mom, what’s going on?” Nick spoke first, the barely banked fire she’d seen in his eyes earlier still there.

“I’m not running for borough president.”

The three of them stared at her in various states of confusion until Fender pushed off the window. “Why?”

“It’s not a good time.”

It was Fender who pressed her once more. “Why not?”

The layer of shame she’d carried for years rose up to swamp her. She’d stolen another woman’s husband and there was no place she could run from that. No remake of her life would ever change that choice.

It was one thing to carry the guilt inside of her, but now, faced with the expectant faces of her children, it nearly broke her.

“I made a bad choice. Years ago. Before we were together. And it’s come back to haunt me. Has threatened my run for borough president.”

Landon’s hand tightened on hers. “What happened?”

“I was a man’s mistress.” When her sons only stared at her, she pushed on, now anxious to have it done. “By choice. I chose to carry on an affair with a married man.”

The three of them remained silent, and in the quiet, Louisa desperately grasped for the strength to finish the story.

“I had an affair with Kincade Reynolds. He passed away several years ago, but his wife has never forgiven me. When she saw the news that I’d declared interest in the borough presidency, she threatened to go public with the news of my—” she swallowed hard around the word indiscretion, well aware it was a cop-out, “—with the news of my affair.”

Landon let go of her hands and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Reynolds Investments?”

“Yes.”

“The place you worked when you lived in the city?” Landon stood up. “The fucking bastards who’ve declined, either directly or indirectly, the last three business loans I’ve tried for.”

Tears choked her throat, but she refused to let them fall. “Yes again.”

“And you never told me why. Or thought to direct me elsewhere.”

“Reynolds has deep tentacles in the investment community.”

“You’re my mother!” The words ripped from Landon’s throat, raw fire so at odds with his even, steady personality.

“L—” Nick moved closer, but Landon held up a hand.

“All these years. You’ve never hidden your time in the city from us. You told us story after story about where you worked and what you learned. The people you met. And now we find out you ran from them, your tail between your legs, back home to Brooklyn?”

“Landon!” Nick’s voice was sharp but needless, as Landon slammed out of the room, his pounding footsteps echoing down the back stairs. She jumped as the door slammed.

Misery washed through her, along with a strange sense of finality. The day she stood at the Park Heights playground, her dry cleaning in a pile at her feet as she stared at those three little boys, Louisa had sensed this day would come. That someday she’d have to confess what she’d done and who she’d been.

At the time she had no idea it would be to the grown versions of those children, but she’d known.

She’d known, and had understood there would come a day of reckoning.

Nick hadn’t moved from his spot—her avenging angel—and she leaned forward and tugged at his hand to pull him to the couch. “He needs time. He’s always needed time to process things. Don’t force this.”

“He had no right to say that. All because he didn’t get a damn business loan?”

Louisa knew her sons, and she knew Landon well enough to know the loan was an excuse. A grasping hand in the dark for him. The one thing he’d made her promise the day she adopted him was to be honest with him always. And she’d kept this from him.

Had kept it from all of them.

Fender had remained quiet during Landon’s outburst, his gaze solemn as he’d watched the byplay between his brothers. But it was straight-down-the-line Fender that came pouring out. “I don’t get what has you so upset. This is water under the bridge, what . . . twenty years ago?”

“Almost twenty-five.”

“And that’s what has you so upset? Some rich New York matron bitch with a vendetta?”

“Politics are ugly.”

“So’s life.” Fender shook his head. “Do you honestly think the people here, the ones who really know you, are going to care about what happened so long ago?”

“You care. I can see it in your face you do.” Her gaze drifted to Nick. “I see it in Nick’s face, and we all know how Landon feels. This is a blow. An embarrassment on the family.”

“And something you did so long ago, it hardly seems to matter anymore.”

“But it does matter. It matters very much.”

“Bullshit. You’ve moved on. Made something of your life. Become a true pillar of the community. Hell, you took on three misfits, and we turned out pretty fucking good. If someone’s going to judge you over the word of a woman who’s had an ax to grind for a quarter century, then the people of Brooklyn don’t deserve you.”

“Fender—”

The tears she’d tried so hard to hold back threatened once more. But it was the strong arms that pulled her up off the couch and into his chest that had them racing out in a flood.

“I mean it, Mom. Life’s not about being perfect every day. You’ve taught us that. You’ve spent years teaching us that we’re not defined by what happened in our past. Was that bullshit?”

She pulled back from his chest, her gaze searching his face. “Of course not! You’re wonderful and brilliant. My sons, who I couldn’t be more proud of if I tried.”

“Then why don’t the rules apply to you?”

Louisa went still at that, Fender’s words spearing clean through her.

How had she found them?

These men who meant everything to her. Her children, whom she couldn’t have loved more if she’d carried each of them in her body.

“I’m your mother. I’m held to a higher standard.”

“Best I can tell, you’ve never let us down.”

“I hate to say it, but he has a point.” Nick moved up and laid a hand on Fender’s back. “A damn fine argument, come to think of it.”

Nick reached an arm around to pull her back into their embrace, the three of them locked tight there in her small study. The understanding and love she’d never expected washed over her, and for the first time, she fully—finally—understood that what she had with Kincade wasn’t love.

It had been lust and folly and perhaps even affection, but it wasn’t love. He hadn’t had it for his family and he certainly hadn’t had it for her.

“We’ll talk to Landon.” Nick whispered the words against her head, his arm tightening around her.

“No, sweetie. I’ll talk to Landon. He deserves this time to react and grieve. But it’s for him and me to work out.”

Nick hadn’t ever been prone to the philosophical. He was a practical man who’d had that personality trait drummed even more deeply into him with football. You ran a route, you moved the ball downfield, and you worried about the play you were in. Your future didn’t matter if you lost yardage on the play, or worse, turned the ball over to your opponent.

So it was more than a bit unsettling to realize someone had harbored a grudge against his mother for nearly twenty-five years.

He just didn’t see the world that way. Hell, he’d been relieved when his father had taken off for Florida, never to be heard from again. It meant Arch Kelley was out of the picture—out of the play—and Nick could focus on moving his life down the field.

“You okay?” Emma glanced up from the end of the couch, where she sat with a notepad on her lap. They’d come back to his place after getting everyone out of his mother’s house, a feat she’d nearly managed single-handedly by the time he and Fender had come back downstairs.

He’d flipped on the TV with the intention of drowning himself in the Indy 500, but the endless run of cars around and around the track had only allowed his thoughts free rein.

“I’m good.”

“Okay.”

She’d given him plenty of space, but he hadn’t missed the searching glances or the cautious way she watched him. When she went back to her notepad he reached over, tapping the edge. “What are you working on?”

“A few more notes on that shandy. I also think we might need to expand what we’re doing with our hops distributors. I made a few notes to call them on Tuesday.”

“You’re a busy bee.”

Her eyelids flickered, then blinked as she stared at him. “It’s good to stay busy.”

“Maybe busy’s overrated.”

“Nick?”

Something edgy and restless settled in his chest as he stared at her. Had it really only been little more than a week since she’d come back into his life?

The slight yellowing around the edge of her eye from the punch she’d taken was visible now that her makeup had faded from the rain, vivid proof of that very point.

What magic had she wrought in such a short period of time?

“Maybe busy means you never need to settle. Never need to stop and evaluate things.”

“What does that mean?”

What did he mean?

He knew himself—knew the edgy, restless feeling that precipitated a fight—and knew he needed to quit while he was ahead.

But something pushed him on. Something dark and dangerous and shockingly vulnerable. In a matter of days he’d spilled his guts to her, willingly put his interest in the brewery on hold, and fallen into bed with her almost faster than his dick could keep up.

Yet here she was, pretty as a picture, and still full of secrets.

The questions that had dogged him earlier reared up once more. “Why did you get divorced?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your marriage. Why’d you give up on it?”

“I didn’t give up on it.”

“You’re not married anymore. What would you call it?”

“It wasn’t giving up.” The legs she’d tucked beneath her swung out. “It’s not like I wanted my marriage to end.”

“But it did. You were a part of that. And you haven’t said much about your husband that’s complimentary. Are you happy it’s over?”

“I’m not—” She broke off, her gaze searching his. “It’s not about being happy. It’s about being relieved.”

The demon that had sat on his shoulder ever since she walked back into the house, soaking wet, with his mother, whispered in his ear once more. She knew everything about them, yet he knew nothing about her. He had a right to know.

Didn’t he?

“You don’t talk about it. You hint at it or make comments, but you don’t talk about it.”

“I told you about the baby. What else do you need to know? It was a bad time.”

“So tell me about it.”

Emma laid the notepad on his coffee table and stood up. “There’s nothing to tell. I was married. Now I’m not. Clearly you’ve interpreted that as lack of commitment and a hatred for Cole Bradley.”

“Am I wrong?”

“Hell yes, you’re wrong!” The words exploded with all the force of a cannon before her features twisted up.

And then they crumpled.

Chapter Eighteen

Something hard and violent pressed against her chest, seemingly filling her up to the point of wanting to explode. How dare Nick ask her these things? And what the hell was he about, telling her she’d given up on her marriage? Even if that was the very thought that had accompanied her for the past year, each and every time she laid her head on the pillow.

It shared space with the other thought that had haunted her: that her mother was never getting better, and she’d sat by and let it happen. She’d willingly believed things weren’t so bad with her mother’s health, all the while relieved that she didn’t have to see her suffer.

What did that make her? What kind of monster was she to skip out on her own mother?

Did Nick think she didn’t know those things? That she didn’t live with the reality each and every day? She knew who she was. And she knew where she’d failed miserably.

But she was damned if she was going to sit here and put her cowardice on display.

“You have no right to ask me those things.”

“I have a right to fuck you, but I can’t ask you any questions?”

His quiet words were smooth as silk, but they carried all the strength of a viper strike. Emma moved back as if slapped, the crass words a more painful—if verbal—equivalent.

“Is that what’s been going on since Thursday night? Mindless fucking?”

“You tell me.”

A wash of images clouded her mind, one better than the next. She’d found something with him—found something in the joining of their bodies—but to call it something so vulgar and crude more than diminished it.

It made it something less than.

“It’s time for me to go.”

“Running again?”

“Call it whatever you want. Clearly you’ve come to your own impression of me.”

Her phone went off, the high-pitched whine a distraction in the midst of whatever madness had fallen over both of them. The urge to let it go to voice mail was strong, but the distinctive ring was her father’s.

Ignoring the figure who sat so smug and relaxed on the couch, Emma crossed to the counter where she’d left her purse. Fetching the ringing phone from the bottom of her bag, she answered it. And felt the strength drain from her legs as a woman’s voice came through the line.

“Ms. Bradley. This is Susan Moore from New York Methodist. Are you the daughter of Peter Vandenburg?”

“Yes.”

“Your father has been in an accident.”

Louisa reread the e-mails from Gretchen, searching for some sort of out. The words were straightforward and nasty, but at least she knew what she was dealing with. If Louisa declared her candidacy for borough president, Gretchen would go to the newspapers.

It was that simple and that complicated, all at once.

The house had been quiet since the boys left. She’d been tempted to call Landon a few times, but held off. She wasn’t afraid to talk to him, but she knew how he worked, and knew he needed a bit of time to work things through in his mind.

Her baby. Her thinker.

He’d always been such an old soul. Whether it was a function of what he’d seen as a child or just his makeup, she’d never fully figured out. But he was who he was. Her knight, with a set of morals and a code of honor from a different age. He worked so hard to be good. To live above reproach. And he expected the same from those he loved.

It was Landon who’d warned Nick about the groupies who’d follow him in sports. And it was Landon who’d spent long hours helping Fender set up his billing and invoicing systems so that his shop would be immune to viruses and hacking.

He showed his love in tangible ways, but he also held everyone to a high set of expectations.

Expectations she hadn’t met.

Nick and Fender had standards as well, even if their methods were more understated. Fender approached the world with a growl, his outward demeanor at odds with the work he did behind the scenes to help others.

And Nick.

Her sweet boy, the one who’d given her that small dandelion so many years ago. She’d kept it, just as she’d kept the memory in her heart.

His physicality had always defined him, even as she knew it was only one part of him. She could still remember him, his large frame curled on the couch, struggling through sports almanacs or history books about sports heroes to do his homework. He’d done the same through college, unwilling to let his role as star athlete get him out of taking courses or getting the full benefit from school.

Her boys did her proud. They’d made lives and worked hard. She’d never take that credit away from them, but she also knew she’d played a role. She’d provided the support and the safety and love that gave them wings.

Could she betray that now by not pushing for something she wanted? Something she knew she’d be good at?

Clicking out of her e-mail program, she pulled up the page on the borough website that she’d bookmarked months ago.

APPLICATION FOR CANDIDACY.

The button loomed large on the left-hand navigation bar.

With a sense of anticipation, Louisa clicked the link.

Nick stood at the windows in the intensive-care waiting room, the rain-soaked sky a suitable backdrop for the misery that filled him. He’d ridden with Emma to the hospital, her silence throughout the quiet taxi ride full of all the reproach he felt in his heart. He wasn’t an asshole, and he respected women. He’d never thought of any woman—at any point of his life—as some sort of mindless fuck, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Yet he’d said that to her. Intimated there wasn’t anything between them but the physical. Worse, he’d suggested what they’d shared was something cheap and mindless, no better than animals rutting.

He’d been horrible to Emma. Mean and nasty, with more than a few shots below the belt. The words had spilled out, almost of their own accord, as he wrapped himself up in his own personal misery and spite.

Was he really that ashamed of sharing his past?

Had he come to a point in his life where he was unable to talk about his father without it leaving some sort of lingering malaise in his gut?

She hadn’t forced his past out of him. More, she hadn’t brought it up since those quiet moments in the park. Where he’d spent his life scared that sharing his past would create an intimacy that could be used against him—by reporters, or friends, or the women he dated—she’d done the opposite. He’d sensed no pity from her, or even a desire to keep probing that closed-over wound.

Her knowing simply was.

The sharp sound of a siren caught his attention, and he stared down at the emergency entrance, where an ambulance raced in beneath the hospital portico. A team of people waited, ready to react, and he watched, fascinated, as they worked in tandem like a beautiful ballet.

Those were the real heroes. The people who helped others, working hard to make lives better. It was a humble reminder on a day he’d spent acting less than heroic.

Or even with basic decency.

“Mr. Kelley?”

The sound of his name pulled him from the window, and he turned to find a woman and her son. He’d noticed them when he walked in, but hadn’t said anything as he took up his spot at the window.

“We’re really sorry to bother you.” The woman glanced down at the boy before her attention returned to Nick. “Would you mind signing your autograph for him? His name’s Justin.”

Nick dropped to a knee before the boy, whose eyes were downcast before tentatively looking up. Where Nick had first estimated the kid was about five or six, a second look had him reassessing. The boy was small, but was likely closer to eight or nine. “Justin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What would you like me to sign?”

“I took this magazine over there.” He shifted from foot to foot. “Um, maybe we can take out a page.”

Nick saw a rack of flyers on the same table as the magazines, as well as a small notetaking station with pens emblazoned with the hospital’s logo. “I’ve got a better idea.”

He got back up and crossed to the flyers, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Sheer delight carried the boy across the waiting room, and he took a seat next to Nick in the chairs that lined the coffee table.

“To Justin.” Nick scrawled on the back of the flyer the words he’d written for years—reach for the stars—then signed his name. For the first time since he’d been drafted, he felt like a phony.

Pushing away the dark thoughts, he focused on the boy. “You doing okay today?”

“I guess. My dad’s in here. He fell off a ladder.”

Nick laid a hand on Justin’s shoulder. “You’re here with your mom?”

“That’s my aunt. My mom’s in his room. We’re . . . um . . . we’re waiting to go in.”

The boy’s aunt moved closer. “We’re sorry to bother you, Mr. Kelley.”

“It’s no bother. I’m waiting for my friend. Her father’s here, too.”

“Is he hurt?”

Nick toyed with sugarcoating his words, but he sensed something in the boy. A desperate need for honesty and to be spoken to like he understood—because he did understand.

How he remembered those days. When the social workers at school had tried to talk above him to each other, or down to him when they finally spoke. Like he somehow didn’t understand what was happening.

Or worse, like he could be shielded from it.

“We’re not sure yet. The doctors think he had a heart attack. They’re checking him out now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Me, too.”

“Justin!” The soft cry that came from the doorway had the boy standing, tears welling in his eyes, before he dashed them away.

“Mom!” He ran to the woman, clinging to her when she opened her arms.

The moment was private, but for whatever reason, Nick couldn’t force himself to look away.

“He’s okay, baby. He’s going to be okay.”

Justin’s aunt took a sharp intake of breath before she joined her family. The trio moved out of the room, but Justin ran back, his smile wide. “Thanks for being so nice to me, Mr. Kelley. I’m really glad I met you today.”

“Me, too.”

Justin ran off to his family leaving Nick to sit there and stare at the empty room. He was glad he’d given the boy some small spot of happiness in the midst of a dark moment, but it seemed so out of place.

So shallow.

The men and women in this building caring for the sick—they were the real heroes. The ones worthy of attention and adulation.

He was just some asshole who knew how to scribble his name on a piece of paper.

Emma watched the rise and fall of her father’s chest, the heavy wheeze of his breath a constant companion to the fear and worry that had settled deep in her bones. The doctors had promised to come back after consulting over his test results, so for the moment she was alone with him.

And the endless racks of machines that somehow seemed essential to keeping him alive.

The details of what had happened were still sketchy, but best as they could tell, he’d had a heart attack while driving the last few miles home. He’d gotten stuck on the Gowanus Expressway, about three miles from their exit.

So close.

The thought beat in time with the beeping machines. He was so very close to home.

No one else had been injured, but he had rear-ended another car and been hit from behind by the person tailing him. The medics had stabilized him, but the very fact that he was in intensive care told Emma all she needed to know.

Why had she ignored this?

She knew he hadn’t looked well. His color had been poor since she got home, but again she’d told herself he was just tired. That he missed her mom and hadn’t figured out how to take care of himself.

One more lie she’d told herself. Like her marriage. Like her mother.

Maybe Nick had been right. About all of it.

“Em?” She glanced up to see her father, his eyes sleepy and confused. “Where am I?”

“You had an accident, Daddy.”

He struggled to sit up, sending off a wave of signals to the machines, and she moved closer, doing her best to calm him. “Shhh, Dad. It’s okay.”

“What happened?” Something small and quiet threaded through his questions, at odds with the belligerence she’d experienced since coming home.

“You had a small accident. A few miles from our exit. Everyone’s okay, and they’re going to get you fixed up.”

“No one was hurt?”

No one except you. The thought hurt—literally hurt—as it pressed against her diaphragm. “It was just a little fender bender.”

He glanced up at the machines before his gaze drifted down at his body. A small tremble drifted across his lips before he turned toward her. “My chest. Is it my chest?”

“Why do you think that?”

“It was tight. It’s been tight.” He lifted his hand, but then dropped it back by his side. “It hurts.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

The machines started beeping again, and she reached for his hand, hoping to calm him down. Before she could do much, a nurse bustled in, his focus on her father. “When did he wake up?”

“A few minutes ago.” The nurse checked various machines before taking something from his pocket and injecting it into her father’s IV.

“Miss, the doctors would like to talk to you. We’re going to keep your father comfortable and sedated for now.” The man’s eyes were gentle and unmistakably kind as he glanced over from the machines at her father’s side. “I’ll stay with him if you’d like.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

She wandered out into the hall and found two of the doctors she’d spoken with earlier. A resident and a cardiologist, as she remembered. Both were kind, if harried, as they had clearly drawn holiday-weekend duty.

“Mrs. Bradley, can we speak with you?”

They escorted her to the waiting room, and it was only when she walked in that she remembered Nick was there.

He’d stayed?

The light outside the window had faded, the early evening sky still filled with clouds. How long had she been at the hospital? And he’d stayed the whole time?

“Nick.”

“Hey there.” He moved closer, but kept his distance. The ugly, hated words that had passed between them earlier—and the raw emotions that went with them—had vanished. Instead, all she saw when she looked at him was understanding. She hadn’t even realized how desperately she needed that easy acceptance until it was right there, staring at her. Comforting her. Simply with her.

“The doctors want to talk to me.”

“I can wait in the hall.”

She extended a hand. “Please stay.”

His fingers wrapped around hers, something firm and solid she could hold on to as they took a seat opposite the doctors.

And as they began talking about scary things like heart attacks, bypasses, and lack of oxygen, Emma held on tight to the only thing that suddenly seemed real.

Exhaustion painted her features, ghostlike in the light of the streetlamps, as their taxi pulled up in front of Emma’s building. It was nearly midnight, the events of the day culminating in a discussion on surgery and a planned operation the following morning. He’d been impressed how she’d held it together, the talk of what was to come a shock to think about.

He’d been even more impressed, as the doctors outlined her father’s course of treatment, by all the things she thought to tell them. Peter’s seeming depression since losing his wife. His poor eating habits. Even his desire to sell the family business. She’d walked through it all, arming them with as much information—both physical and emotional—as she could think of.

Would he and his brothers have been able to do the same? Would any of them even think to? Landon might, but Nick was damn sure he’d have missed those sorts of nuances, and suspected Fender would be the same.

Emotional health?

Hell, he was still getting over the panic of thinking something was physically wrong with his mother. The idea of understanding her mental health just didn’t compute.

He paid the cab fare and followed Emma out of the taxi. The rain had stopped, but there was a heavy wetness in the air, and a cold that seeped into the bones.

“Thanks for seeing me home.”

“I’ll walk you up.”

“It’s not necessary.” She stopped, her head drooping. “Thank you.”

Nick avoided the stairs this time, taking the elevator for the most expedient path up to her apartment. In minutes, they stood before her door, her keys in hand.

“I appreciate you staying with me today. Especially after—”

He nodded, taking her keys from her and opening the door. “Especially after.”

The words that had haunted him all afternoon continued to burn his throat. “Look. About before. I’m sorry I said what I did. I was out of line.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, Emma. It’s not okay. It’s anything but okay.”

She took her keys and tossed them in a bowl by the door as she walked into her apartment. Her shoulders slumped, she turned to him. “I’m too tired to decipher whatever it is you’re trying to say. You apologized. I’m okay with it.”

And that was when it hit him, everything he’d struggled to understand opening up before him with absolute clarity.

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Well, I am. I’m always okay. I have to be.”

“Not with me you don’t. You can be mad at me. You can yell at me, too.”

“Nick, it’s fine. Leave it alone.”

“Because that’s what you deserve? You just accept shitty treatment as a way of life?”

The slender thread of control she hung on to snapped, clean in two. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re the one who said mean, ugly things. I’m not sure what I’m more offended about. Your comments about my marriage, or all the fucking we’ve been doing for the past three days that clearly meant nothing to you.”

Oh, it meant something. More than he could have possibly imagined, it meant something. But he didn’t say that. Instead, he leaned in, his face millimeters from hers. “Bring it on, baby. I won’t break.”

“I didn’t want my marriage to end.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

The patronizing tone did its trick, and she flashed from tired, beaten serf to warrior, in a heartbeat. “I had a life! A marriage. A baby on the way. A future. I had all of it until my husband came home one day and told me I wasn’t enough. Told me it was a blessing in disguise I lost our child. Told me he wasn’t happy, and he didn’t love me, and that things weren’t working.”

“Was he right?”

“How the hell should I know? I was too busy trying to be a wife to know I fucking sucked at it. I kept a home, but when he got disgusted because I spent all day in it, I went out and got a job. And then when he was sick of me working late hours, I quit that job and got pregnant. When that didn’t work, I went back to school. I tried everything to keep him happy. To find some way of filling whatever void existed between us.”

Her sadness and anger and hopelessness seemed to fill the room. Like the eye of a hurricane, she stood square in the middle of all the emotion and anger and frustration swirling around her, building from the power she wielded.

“Do you think I want to tell you this? Like that’s something a person wants to admit? That you’re not enough? That the person you vowed to spend your life with casually decided to move on, discarding you with all the attention he would a piece of trash?”

“What did you say when he told you?”

“What the hell could I say? I was three days away from taking my final exams when he dropped his little bomb on me. So I moved in with a friend for a few days, took my goddamn exams, and then fell apart.”

“Did you pass?”

“Straight As.”

“Impressive, Vandenburg. Damned impressive.”

It was then that he saw the lone tear leak from the corner of her eye, and it nearly unmanned him. When they started down this path, he thought to push her, to see all that glorious power in action, but now he just wanted to draw her up in his arms, bury his face in her hair, and say he was sorry.

And spend all night trying to show her just how sorry.

“You’re more than enough.”

She shook her head, dashing at the tear as well as all the ones that followed. “Please leave.”

“I think you’re stuck with me tonight.”

“Nick, come on.”

It was then that he reached for her, pulling her close and settling her head against his chest. “I’m sorry. So sorry for all I said earlier.”

“It’s—”

“Not okay.”

“You’re right.” She nodded against his chest, the wet heat of her tears soaking his shirt. “Thank you for realizing that.”

Nick kept her tight in his arms, his mother’s voice from earlier wending its way through his thoughts. There had been shame in her words. The same shame and embarrassment he heard in Emma’s.

Was this what people did to each other? He was no expert in love—far from it—but he’d never imagined it so dark and desolate, nor did he realize it left some people with damage and scars that never fully healed.

Chapter Nineteen

Strong arms enfolded her, a comforting—yet odd—end to a day full of some of the most surreal moments of her life. Emma took the moment, recognizing Nick’s need to give solace and comfort nearly as badly as she needed to receive it. And she couldn’t help wondering where this left them.

He’d lashed out today, his anger sniping and snapping like a wounded animal.

Yet he’d apologized, too. Had recognized his behavior for what it was and made amends. That counted for something. A lot of something.

None of it changed the fact that they were still on opposite sides of the Unity, but there was something building between them, too. Something special that had even managed to make their distance across the negotiating table seem less consequential than it was.

Was that a mistake? Was she risking her professional future for her personal one? And why did they have to be mutually exclusive?

“I want to ask you something,” she said.

“Sure.”

“Did you start this, what’s between us, because of the Unity?”

“No.”

His response was so swift, his voice thick with shock, that she believed him.

“Why would you think that of me?”

“I don’t. But I wanted to ask.”

“Are you in this for the Unity? As some way to wear me down into just giving up?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

She waited a few moments, still searching his features for something—anything—to suggest she shouldn’t make the next move. When she found nothing, Emma pushed forward. “I want two weeks.”

“Two weeks of what?”

“Us. Whatever this is we’re enjoying. I want two weeks without the Unity hanging over our heads. Without questioning if I’m going to lose out on something if I let my guard down with you.”

“Whatever this is, it’s not about business.” Nick remained quiet, his blue eyes searching. “But the brewery is hanging over our heads.”

“So we remove it. Because I’m not ready to give this up yet. And I don’t want it tainted by a game one of us is going to lose.”

He seemed to consider a moment before a broad smile made her knees week. “I’ve never liked losing.”

“I heard that about you.”

“No strings attached?”

Emma was about to agree when she realized it wasn’t about strings. “I’d put it a bit differently.”

“Oh?”

“Anything we do or say together, outside the brewery, is about what we want to talk about. It has no bearing on the final contract, and it can’t be used against either of us.”

“I like it.” He extended a hand. “Deal.”

She stared at his hand for a few extra beats, those long, competent fingers extended in promise. In pact. When she finally did take his hand, it was like coming home.

“Deal.”

“Then that means I can do this.”

Before she could anticipate his plans, Nick had her pulled into his arms, his mouth pressed to hers.

The dining room table tempted, their round of lovemaking on its hard surface still a vivid, vibrant memory in his mind, but Nick had other ideas, and they involved a bed. In moments, he swept her up in his arms, his steps sure and solid as he moved them to the bedroom.

“Nick!”

“Don’t wiggle like a fish.”

“Why are you carrying me?”

“Still wiggling.”

Emma stilled, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Is this more of that gentleman’s service you’re so fond of? Walking a woman home. Escorting her to her door. Now carrying her to her bed.”

“Nope.” He laid her down on the bed, then followed, pinning her with his body.

“No?” She tried to scramble up, but he held her in place, his hands reaching for the fabric of her blouse. “Why not?”

“This is where the gentleman vanishes and the big, bad wolf comes out to play.”

She giggled as his hands feathered over her stomach beneath the soft cotton of her shirt. “You going to huff and puff and blow my house down?”

He stopped and grinned down at her. “I was thinking of a few other strategic uses for my mouth.”

“Consider me intrigued.”

“Then consider me more than willing to oblige.”

Nick took her once more, his teeth scoring her lower lip with a small tug before he swept his tongue through her welcoming mouth. She met his thrust with one of her own, the erotic play a warm, willing precursor to what was still to come.

Had he ever tasted anything so sweet? Or wanted a woman more? The thought stilled him, his hands hovering over her waistband.

Had he ever wanted a woman like this before?

He didn’t think so, but knew it for the truth when a quick jaunt down memory lane couldn’t even muster a face, let alone a name. The women in his past were a blur, a pleasant haze of experience that seemed distant. Vague. And somehow not quite . . . enough.

Those faceless memories faded as her hands went to his waist. She pulled off his shirt; he tugged hers from her waistband. Their clothes came off in a frenzy, and it was only once they were naked, skin to skin, that Nick took his first easy breath.

Had he really been such a fool to pick a fight over something as warm and amazing as her caring and compassionate nature? Since the answer to that was a resounding yes, he could only be grateful she’d seen past his boorish behavior.

Supporting himself on his forearms, Nick looked down at her. The dark pools of her eyes looked even deeper in the dim light of her bedroom. Even with the muted lighting, he could see the desire that swirled there, anticipating.

“Nick?”

He had no idea where the words came from, but suddenly it was deeply important to him that she understood he wasn’t there for the brewery. He’d never joined her in her bed for any reason beyond wanting her.

“This. Us. It matters.”

She nodded up at him, able only to agree.

“It matters.”

Emotion clogged Emma’s throat, the moment nearly overwhelming in its intensity. She’d believed herself aware of the game. Able to play at sleeping with Nick like an adult.

And well able to walk away when things came to their inevitable end. Only he’d gotten the better of her.

She’d convinced herself two weeks would be enough. To get him out of her system? A lifetime wouldn’t be enough to accomplish that.

To satisfy an itch? If sleeping with Nick were only about the physical.

To fill the void inside ever since Cole left?

That was where she stopped herself. Nick wasn’t a replacement, for her ex-husband or anyone else. He was his own man and more, he was more special—more precious to her—than she ever could have imagined.

Much as she wanted it to last—and increasingly “last” meant forever—she was pragmatic enough to know she needed to enjoy him for the time they had. Needed to savor every single moment they shared, so that years from now, she could still pull this time out, reflect on it, and keep it tucked away in her heart.

He’d shown her so much already. The joy in giving and receiving pleasure. The simple way he shared his family with her. And the laughter that could be found in quiet moments.

She wanted to give something back to him. Pressing on his shoulders, she moved so he rolled on his back.

“Emma?”

“Shhh. Let me.”

Shifting to straddle him, Emma began at his forehead and worked her way down. Warm, whispering kisses over his eyes. A hot puff of breath over each ear. Featherlight caresses of her lips over his cheekbones.

When she got to his lips, she paused and nearly lost the upper hand to the powerful play of his mouth—the hot, erotic motions of his tongue. She stilled, allowing him that moment of exploration before she continued on. The thick cords of his neck muscles curved and gave way to solid play of muscles over collarbone, shoulder, and biceps. She appreciated the marvel that was his body, the well-developed muscles clear marks of his athleticism.

And still she continued on, encouraged by the restless movements of his legs, shifting underneath her, and by the soft groans that fell from his lips.

The tight points of his nipples, the broad curves of his chest, the ridged perfection of his ribs—each received attention, each treated as essential instruments of his pleasure. Her lips lingered over the range of stomach muscles that curved into rows of half-moons, his body growing more restless as he pressed himself against her.

“Rushing, Mr. Kelley?” She stared up at him, rewarded with a world of desire staring back at her, before moving over his proud erection and on down to his thighs.

He groaned again, but she didn’t miss the harsh laugh that accompanied the sound. “You’re killing me, Vandenburg.”

“That’s the whole idea.” She lightly bit his inner thigh. “So you better lay here and take it like a man.”

When she nipped him once more, she got another sexy groan for her trouble, and decided she needed to think about a few other ways to use her teeth. As she kissed lower, the skin beneath her lips changed, and she shifted, curious at what she felt. That’s when she saw the long, jagged scar that ran from midthigh to the top of his calf. Curious, she ran her fingers over the puckered flesh.

“That was the big one.” Nick’s voice was still husky with need, but his tone had changed—softened—and she didn’t miss the small layer of resignation that threaded through his words. “That’s the one that put me out of football.”

“It’s big.”

“Lady, you’re awfully close to something bigger and considerably more impressive, to be tossing that word around.”

Emma knew the humor for the deflection that it was, but also knew talk of his injury had no place in the moment. With a delicacy she increasingly didn’t feel, she pressed a line of kisses along the scar before settling herself above him and taking him in her mouth.

A delicious, salty tang met her tongue before she explored his flesh, working her mouth over the head. He practically quivered beneath her, his body straining against her as she explored.

She took what she could of him in her mouth, then used her hands to work the thick base of his cock, pleased when he increasingly responded beneath her. She’d delighted in the complete way he abandoned himself to her, but felt his hands wrap around her shoulders as a hard groan seemed to rip through him.

“Now, Emma. I need you now.”

His hands dragged at her hips, pulling her up until she was seated over him.

She wanted to protest—wanted to continue on the path she’d begun—but he’d already begun to move, his hips lifting to thrust into her. Her own pleasure—banked by her focus on him—roared to the fore, a hard cry spilling from her throat as he pushed up again, slamming into the most sensitive spot.

Emma screamed, her orgasm catching her off guard, and Nick used the moment to push upward once more, milking her body’s response. Whatever idea she’d had to control the moment and drive their lovemaking vanished as Nick simply consumed her.

With one hand at her waist, he moved the other to where their bodies joined, cleverly coaxing yet another wild response from her still-quivering body. She tightened around him once more as another climax came over her, and Nick used that moment to drive into her one final time, the sweetest moan of pleasure cresting his lips.

Bright, vivid light exploded through her. Sweet. Warm. Gorgeous.

As the shock waves continued to crest, one after another, she fell over Nick and buried her face in his neck, breathing in deeply.

And as she struggled to come back down, Emma couldn’t deny what existed between them was more than sex. More than an arrangement. More than a fling.

It felt, despite her better judgment, like everything.

The alarm clock stared at her, one minute flipping into the next, as she lay in Nick’s arms. She’d already set her alarm for five o’clock so she could get to the hospital for her father’s surgery, but Emma couldn’t sleep.

“What time is it?” Nick’s arms tightened, his hand drifting over her stomach.

“Too early. Don’t wake up.”

“You’re up.”

“Which is one of us too many.” She rubbed a hand over his. “Go back to sleep.”

She lay still, convinced he’d fallen back to sleep, when he shifted behind her, moving up on the pillows. “Want to talk about it?”

“What’s there to talk about? It’s routine surgery.”

“It’s still big surgery. It’s okay to worry.”

“I know.”

And she did know. Aside from the fact the surgery was necessary, her father should see his health improve once he healed. If only he were in a better frame of mind.

Nick knew all that—he’d seen her father in action—but somehow it felt like a betrayal to talk about all she’d observed in her dad since moving home. She’d sworn to herself the Unity didn’t have any place in their bed, yet sharing her father’s vulnerabilities seemed tantamount to giving Nick an upper hand. Her father might claim that he wanted to sell, but once he made it through his surgery, would he feel the same?

Would that really be so bad if he did still want to sell?

That sly little voice reared up. She’d quieted it the other day, but once again she had to question the outcome they were both driving toward. Her skills didn’t require ownership of the brewery. Far from it. She was a trained brewmaster, able to work anywhere.

She’d had offers. Several places had recruited her as she came out of Siebel, and she’d considered all of them, ultimately discarding one after the other in favor of going after her legacy. Of going home. But in truth, that was emotion talking. Her skills were highly transferrable.

So would it be so bad if Nick won the negotiation? He’d praised her skills more than once, while at the same time he’d been eager to hear her ideas. He wouldn’t be a bad boss.

But could she give up her rightful inheritance?

And as she lay there in the quiet circle of his arms, Emma had to admit the truth: Whether she liked it or not, the Unity once again lay between them in bed.

The hospital was as quiet and solemn as when they’d left, and Emma took solace in the warm hand wrapped around hers.

Two weeks.

She and Nick had a deal. They’d take two weeks to enjoy what was between them and ignore the implications. She hadn’t expected that time together would extend to her father’s surgery, but he’d woken early with her and accompanied her to the hospital.

“It’s going to be a while. You don’t have to sit here the whole time.”

“I’m staying. Get used to it.” He pressed a hard kiss to her forehead before gesturing her to the door of her father’s room. “Go ahead and spend time with him. I’ll be in the waiting room when you’re done.”

She watched him walk away, helpless to ignore the easy swagger, or the cut of his jeans, or the broad shoulders that looked able to take on the world. As she watched, she saw the slightest hitch in his gait—the lingering evidence of his knee injury—but even that couldn’t mar the impressive picture he made.

A beep from one of the machines hooked up to her father pulled her attention, and she walked into the room. He looked much as he had the night before, his pallor a disturbing gray the nurses had explained was from the overall lack of oxygen to his system.

“This is nonsense.”

“Well, good morning to you, too.” Emma leaned over and kissed her father’s cheek, the light scrape of his whiskers oddly reassuring. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I need to go home.”

“You need to focus on getting better.”

“Like cracking open my chest is going to make me feel better.” She heard the fear beneath the grumbling and took his hand tight in hers.

“In one of those miracles of the modern age, cracking open your chest is, in fact, going to do just that.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh, Daddy.” She pulled a chair over and sat next to him, giving him a few minutes to rightfully bitch and moan about what was to come.

“Marcy kept at me, told me donuts were a bad idea. Told me lots of things. I didn’t listen. And then—” He broke off, tears forming in his eyes. “And then there wasn’t anyone to bitch at me about donuts or cookies or candy.”

“I know.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I know it.”

The move seemed to calm him slightly, and he closed his eyes, the strength of his outburst clearly tiring him out. She watched him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and left him to his rest. And in those quiet moments, she finally—fully—understood the impact he’d made on her life.

Peter Vandenburg was a difficult man. She’d spent her life with that knowledge. Where her friends’ fathers had treated them like princesses and played tough around the boys they brought home, her father had been a gruff presence who had never encouraged her to spread her wings. He was just as happy having her home on a Saturday night, claiming she needed to study; or berating her and keeping her from going out when her efforts bore anything less than As.

Her mother had tried to reason with him—had tried to create some sense of freedom as Emma grew up—but Marcy lost the battle as often as she won. Add on a personality that wasn’t one to make waves—or lots of friends easily—and Emma had gone along with her father’s wishes.

In the end, that had been the grand appeal of Cole Bradley.

Cole had paid her attention and pulled her from her shell. When she naturally shied away from social situations or groups of people, he’d encouraged her, his natural charisma carrying the day. At the time she’d wondered what he saw in her, but she was so happy he’d seen something—anything—that she went along with it, captured in his thrall.

That was the real shame of her marriage, Emma admitted to herself. Vows that should have been steeped in love and affection were mired in hero worship from her side, and love of a high pedestal from his. The moment real life had intruded, both recognized their marriage for the mirage it was.

They’d worked at it several more years, but nothing ever quite matched those halcyon days when they’d first met, and neither of them understood how to get that feeling back. Or that the relationship had been built on quicksand to begin with.

“Miss Vandenburg?”

The quiet voice interrupted her, and Emma turned to see one of the doctors she’d spoken to the night before. “We’re going to take your father down now and prep him for surgery. I’d like to introduce you to my team.”

The doctor made introductions and told her how often one of those team members would come out to update her. She listened to it all, nodding as the doctor spoke of the procedure, what bypass meant, and how long it would all take, barring complications.

They asked her if she had a church or a faith leader they should call. Then they confirmed her father’s wishes around end-of-life care because they were required to, and because she was the only one there to make decisions or accept the choices already made.

She listened to it all.

Ten minutes later, she walked shell-shocked to the waiting room, the reality of what her father faced looming. The surgery was necessary—life-giving, in fact—but the healing process was significant.

She’d understood that, but it was only upon walking away from him that she fully appreciated what lay ahead.

The waiting room stood sentinel at the end of the hall, a quiet cave for all the families awaiting news of loved ones. One of the nurses had kindly offered to show her the way, but Emma had waved her off, promising she could find it.

Nick was there, waiting for her. He’d promised he would be, and that gave her the extra energy to push forward, step by step. To walk away from her father and wait for the promised updates.

She pushed open the glass door and walked through, shocked to see so many seats full. Louisa. Fender. Landon. Mrs. Weston. Tommy and Olivia. Becky. And Hector? They were all there.

They’d all come to wait with her.

It was only when she saw those faces, each one looking back at her with compassion and comfort and infinite patience, that Emma finally, truly understood she wasn’t alone.

Chapter Twenty

“Please distract me from thinking about quadruple-bypass surgery and tell me you have naughty details about Hector and his scary resting face.”

Becky’s smile lit up her face, the glow of new love practically sparking off of her every time she moved. Emma was grateful everyone had shown up, and after an initial update from the surgical team an hour into the surgery, had begun to relax a bit. Her friend had stepped in to hold her hand when Nick went down to get coffee, and Emma was grateful for the chance to focus on someone else.

“So says the woman who looks like she’s got naughty details about Nick.”

“I asked you first.” Emma glanced toward the door. “Besides, his mother may come back any minute. She’s been wonderful to me, but I can’t believe she wants to be anywhere in earshot for that.”

“Then let me say I’m definitely interested in hearing more.” Becky squeezed her hand. “And while I don’t have news quite as interesting as yours, I can tell you we’ve been out a few times. I had a family wedding this weekend that kept me away on Saturday and Sunday, but he came to work on Friday with flowers and we went out. Then I saw him again last night.”

Becky filled her in on the romantic details, and Emma smiled, amused and surprised her friend didn’t float out of her chair.

“I never expected it, you know? I mean, I dreamed about it, but I didn’t think it would happen like this.”

“Like what?”

“It’s easy to be with him. Natural, really. Even with the weird history and background between us, which isn’t easy, the whole thing just works.”

Easy.

Had she ever had that in her life?

She wasn’t looking for a free ride, and she knew the things that mattered were the things you worked for, but something in the way Becky spoke about Hector meant something. She’d never had it easy with Cole. She’d loved him—even when their marriage had disintegrated, she’d never wavered on her feelings—but their relationship wasn’t easy. From the move to Chicago, to the life they’d built, to the life that crumbled around them, easy had never been a part of their relationship.

Such an odd juxtaposition to Nick.

While it was unfair to compare them, the differences were telling. She and Cole had had a life ahead of them with very few roadblocks, other than the ones they chose to make. She and Nick had nothing but road bumps, yet the time she spent with him was as easy as breathing.

Or it was when they weren’t doing battle over something.

“What’s that smile for?” Becky asked.

“I’m happy for you.”

Nick and his family came back into the waiting room, their hands full of cups of coffee, sodas, and waters. Becky eyed the casual grouping of Nick and his brothers and lowered her voice. “Is it possible you’re happy for yourself, too?”

Nick followed Emma down the hall, the doctor’s warning still ringing in his ears. The man had been kind, prepping Emma for what to expect when they entered her father’s room and saw him post-op. She’d clutched at Nick’s hand through the telling, and suddenly the prospect of Peter’s healing seemed larger than either of them could have imagined.

Unbidden, thoughts of their arrangement sprang to his mind. Was Peter still up for selling the Unity? Would he even be recovered in three months to start the dialogue again? And then Emma’d reached for his hand, and he felt like the world’s biggest tool for even thinking that far.

Or that selfishly.

Nick walked with her down the hall. The beeping machines and quiet conversations were nothing new to him. He’d experienced surgery throughout his adulthood, medical treatments an accepted way of life for an athlete. From his own—his knee the worst of things—to that of his teammates’, the management of injuries was simply a part of playing sports. Of course, those treatments typically weren’t as invasive as heart surgery.

A fact that hit home as they rounded the corner to Peter’s room. The man seemed to be hidden in a sea of blankets, wires, and machines. Two nurses stood on opposite sides of his bed, and one of the doctors Nick recognized from the waiting room stood at the foot, tapping notes into a tablet.

Nick hovered by the door as Emma moved to her father’s side. The position unexpectedly gave him an opportunity to observe her, and he was intrigued by how her demeanor changed. She had moved into the role of parent, asking questions of the doctor and soothing Peter as he asked a series of groggy questions.

Would he and his brothers ultimately take on that role with his mother?

He knew some of it was the reality of life, but he couldn’t deny what Peter had given up since his wife had died. From his health, to his relationship with his daughter, to his life’s work—on so many levels, he’d abandoned them all.

It was one of the reasons Nick supported his mother for her chance at the borough presidency. She had a life and she needed to live it. It was also the reason he wasn’t particularly upset about her past.

Landon, though, hadn’t come around to that way of thinking. He’d spent a few hours with them, his support of Emma clear, but he’d ducked out at the first chance, claiming a few projects he wanted to get ahead of before the long weekend was over.

Nick wanted to be angry—if for no other reason than the tight, tense set of his mother’s lips as Landon diligently avoided her—but he knew they needed to work through this on their own. He also knew his brother. Landon wasn’t a man to ruffle easily, so if he needed to work through things, they all needed to give him space. For all his simple ease at life, Landon’s thoughts ran deep.

Family, Nick thought with no small measure of pride and wry good humor, was never easy. But they were still family.

A constant presence in his life, forged in commitment, affection, and love. He and his brothers had made a family first, not even aware they were doing it. Louisa had cemented those ties, weaving in her own. And then there were the others.

His mother’s weekend misfits who were as tightly woven into the fabric of their lives as if they were blood. Mrs. W. and her extended family. Father Thad. Neighbors up and down the street. Even Dave, who’d been a part of their lives for a relatively short time, had become essential.

His mother may have had a life before, but he knew with certainty she didn’t have a family. In so many ways, wasn’t Emma the same?

Yes, she had parents, and despite Peter’s belligerence, Nick had no question the man loved his daughter. But she’d been so sheltered.

So absent from living.

First in her upbringing, then in her marriage.

He knew what it meant to have a family. Understood at the deepest levels how the love of another could—quite literally—save you. From circumstances. From danger. And perhaps most important of all, from yourself.

Life hadn’t held all that many prospects for three small boys, bruised and battered by the very people who should have protected them. And he lived with the knowledge every day that he’d have been hard-pressed to build the same life he now had without the guidance and love of Louisa Mills.

So why push so hard for what her family left to her?

The thought caught him so by surprise, his knees nearly buckled him against the wall where he stood.

What would he really take from her in his pursuit of the Unity? All along he’d seen it as a business deal—one that meant more to him than a simple transaction, but a deal all the same. Was it possible Emma saw it as a proxy for her family?

When he started down this path, pursuing the initial whisperings that Peter Vandenburg was open to a sale, Nick had believed the man’s family disinterested. Like Chili and the bar, he’d assumed the ownership had simply run its course. The past week had shown him a vastly different view.

Peter had grown disinterested. Not his daughter.

He could pretend ignorance, but his time with Emma now made that impossible.

And he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.

Two weeks tomorrow.

That thought whispered over and over, like an unceasing countdown, as Emma worked through a stack of paperwork. Her father’s office faced in the direction of the ocean, and while she couldn’t see beach from here, she could see the wispy clouds that moved across a vivid blue sky.

How had two weeks passed so quickly?

Her days had been a blur, Emma acknowledged to herself. In addition to her responsibilities on the floor, she’d taken over her father’s work as well. Whatever time was left was spent at her father’s side or with Nick.

He’d continued his mini-apprenticeship in the business, following her around the brewery; joining the sales team on additional calls; and collaborating with marketing on an initiative targeting small, independent neighborhood bars throughout the borough. All Nick’s contributions had been significant, but when the independent initiative returned a double-digit increase in those accounts, he’d done a victory dance around his apartment.

“The numbers came in where?” Nick paced the room, his cell phone held up and the speaker function engaged.

Emma listened to the report from the other side, intrigued when Nick’s gaze narrowed, his focus shifting to the floor. The shoulders that had been relaxed only a few moments before had gone tense with anticipation as he paced the room.

“Fifteen percent?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

Nick leaned toward the phone, and she smiled to herself at the bright flush that rode his cheeks. “Fifteen percent year over year? In the same accounts?”

Once he got confirmation from the other end of the phone, Nick let out a war cry, his whoop echoing off the walls of his apartment. He’d barely disconnected the call when Nick had her off the couch, moving around his apartment in a half twirl, half square dance. The powerful lines of his body flexed beneath her fingers, joy simply falling off of him in waves.

“They’re excited about the promotion.” He pulled away, doing a weird boogie step that took him backward and then forward again before her. “Several of those independents signed increased commitments through the end of the year.”

The boogie turned into an odd prance that looked like a chicken in heat. Or what she’d assumed was a chicken in heat; she’d never spent any time on a farm.

That stupid dance, mixed with the sheer happiness radiating off of him, had laughter erupting in her chest. He glanced up, mid–head bob, and caught her. “What’s so funny?”

“You.” Another surge of giggles had her doubling over. “You look like a sex-starved chicken.”

“I think that’s an insult to chickens.”

Even now, sitting at her father’s desk, recalling the moment could bring a smile to her face, and it was one in a long line of many such moments they’d shared.

Why did it have to be so easy?

Ever since Becky planted the term in her mind, it had taken root, twisting through her thoughts and settling in. Her time with Nick was easy. Even if nothing else about her life was.

She’d moved into her father’s office to take care of the business aspects of the brewery while he recovered. Her days started early so she could get to the rehabilitation facility for the afternoon, only to find her father’s progress slow and plodding.

Yes, he’d had major surgery, and she wanted to be supportive and sympathetic. But she’d also seen other patients there—several much older than her father—who’d already achieved key milestones or, for one the day before, a discharge from the facility.

He claimed he was healing and needed more time. That things hurt and the therapists didn’t understand him. Emma had listened to it all, trying so hard to be compassionate while gently pressing him toward little improvements each day. Even with her attempts at patience, they’d fought several times, her father’s belligerence the one thing that seemed to have returned straight back to normal.

With a resigned sigh, she glanced back down at the requisition forms on the desk. She had only one more day with Nick—one final day unfettered by the seemingly insurmountable obstacle between them—yet here she was.

She’d do what needed to be done, and then she’d swing by and see her father through another dismal afternoon. Turning her back on the bright, sunny Saturday morning, Emma reached for the stack before her and worked through the pages, one by one.

The knock on the kitchen door pulled Louisa from her laptop. She did a quick save and closed the lid before crossing to the door and opening it, to find Dave on the other side. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

He’d stayed away since that night after the ballgame, the two of them sharing nothing more than an occasional wave between neighbors ever since. She’d missed him. Missed his companionship and funny outlook on things, and how nice it was to look over and see him sitting at her table.

As he stood there, solemn and stoic on her doorstep, she tried not to stare, failing miserably as she drank him in. The military-short hair that sported light gray at the sides. Those warm, rich-brown eyes. His trim build, fit from so many years playing tennis.

He was a simple man with a simple life. He’d been a history professor for years at NYU, moving into an apartment in the house next door after his wife died. He and Louisa had struck up a conversation one random morning, and moments later, she’d invited him over to Sunday dinner. It had been that easy—that simple—from the start.

And then they’d kissed.

Even with all the upheaval in her life—from Gretchen’s threats, to Landon’s checkout, to the run for borough president—that kiss had dominated her thoughts. He might have initiated it, but she’d wanted it more than anything she could remember.

Her romantic life since Kincade had been limited. She’d dated occasionally through the years, at times more intensely than others. Dates were limited when the boys were in school, but once her nest had emptied, she’d found time for the whole mating ritual and even a few relationships. Each had been nice, but had drifted toward a necessary end a few months after they’d begun.

And then Dave moved in.

Emily had been pushing them together for years, but Louisa had always resisted. The man was a widower, and she never wanted to seem like the grasping, desperate neighbor next door. Add on her past, and something had always held her back.

When she’d dated other men, she’d never felt the need to share stories about her past or her relationship with Kincade. It had just seemed like a distant memory that had no place in the present—no place in those casual relationships.

Yet with Dave it felt different. Like not telling him would be a lie.

So she’d avoided anything intimate, unwilling to retread those old pathways that still had the power to shame her.

“It’s been quiet here. I’ve missed you.”

“I needed a bit of time to think.” He stepped through the door into the kitchen. “A little time to clear my head.”

“Of course.”

“I saw your declaration for borough president.” His gaze roamed over her. “So you decided to run after all.”

“I did.”

“I’m glad. You’ll be great in the job.”

“I need to win it first.” All the while hoping my decades-old dirty laundry doesn’t embarrass my family or turn off voters.

“You’ll be a shoo-in.”

“Dave—” She broke off as he moved in, her name at his lips.

“Louisa. I—”

“You first.”

He took a deep breath, his chest puffing slightly as he took a moment. “Look, I’m sorry if I was too forward the other week. I didn’t mean to change the dynamics of our relationship or make you uncomfortable. It’s just . . .” He stilled before pushing on in a rush. “It’s just that I thought you’d welcome the moment, and I’m sorry by how poorly I misjudged.”

Quiet descended once more between them as she searched for the right thing to say, struggling to come up with anything more coherent than a vague streak of babbling. How was it even possible that relationship issues were as challenging at sixty as they were at twenty? Wasn’t wisdom supposed to be worth something?

In the end, she figured honesty was the best way to go.

“I’m not sorry you kissed me.” Dave didn’t say anything so she continued, prepared to run the very real risk of babbling—and blubbering—all over him. “I loved that you kissed me and I wanted to kiss you back. But I’m not in a good place right now, and you deserve better than me.”

“Better?”

Concern replaced the apprehension that clouded Dave’s eyes, and he moved forward, taking her arm and leading her to a kitchen chair. “What’s going on? Because whatever it is, you can tell me.”

“That’s the problem.”

The blubbering that threatened didn’t fully materialize, but she did dash away a lone tear before taking a deep breath. Once Gretchen went public, Dave would find out anyway. Might as well control the dissemination of information.

Spoken like a true politician, Lou-girl. Spin, spin, spin.

Only there wasn’t anything to spin as she took a deep breath and began her story.

There was just the truth.

Chapter Twenty-One

A hard scream curdled in her throat as Emma stared straight down a long length of orange track. How the hell had Nick convinced her to get on this thing? There was no opportunity to ask as the Thunderbolt shot down its opening ninety-degree angle and straight on into a loop that had the ground disappearing beneath her.

Nick’s shout was drowned out by the heavy whoosh of air, but no amount of aerodynamics could fully shut out the joy in his demented war cry as he whooped through the complete inversion of their bodies.

The loop was followed by more hills, and topped off with a corkscrew that had her body slamming against the protective bars that rested over her shoulders. Thirty seconds later they pulled back into the roller coaster’s home base, and Emma pressed on the bars, staggering to her feet and off the car.

Nick caught her from behind, his large arms wrapping around her waist as they marched with their throng of people toward the exit. The kids in the seats behind them were already talking of getting back in line for their next go-round.

“Did you like it?”

“Did you?”

“I love that ride.” Nick’s enthusiasm was infectious, and she couldn’t hold back a laugh as they came out of the ride’s exit and headed for the midway.

“How did you stand it? You’re a big man, and those shoulder restraints pressed down hard.”

“I’ll endure any discomfort for a good roller coaster.”

She smiled to herself as Nick took her hand in his, threading their fingers. The move was simple, natural, and oh-so-effortless, and she’d have endured ten more rounds on the Thunderbolt if each and every one ended with her hand wrapped in Nick’s.

She’d needed this. Tonight. More than she ever would have believed possible, and somehow Nick had known. The busy morning at work and then a draining afternoon with her father had dampened her day. But then Nick had called, told her to put on shorts and a T-shirt and a comfortable pair of sneakers, and be ready at seven.

And then he’d brought her to Coney Island.

The park had been refurbished while she was in Chicago, and it was nice to see the resulting throngs of people taking advantage of the open air, the amusements, and the general atmosphere of laid-back fun. This area of Brooklyn was so storied and historical—she could still remember her grandfather and grandmother talking about it—that it was wonderful to see it restored.

They slowed in the throng of people strolling past the various games and food stands, taking their time. “Consider me surprised to discover yet another hidden facet of Nick Kelley. Football player. Neighborhood proprietor. And now I need to add daredevil to the list.”

“Fender’s the real daredevil. But Landon and I have done our level best to keep up. Roller coasters, though . . .” Nick threaded them through a cluster of teenagers. “They’re all mine. The higher and faster, the better. Fender throws up, and Landon refuses anything that goes upside down, on principle.”

Despite spending ninety seconds convinced she was going to die at any moment, she couldn’t resist tossing the jab. “Wimps.”

“Definitely.”

Nick’s gaze caught on a game, and he pulled her toward the booth. “You want to play?”

“Isn’t it stacking the deck to play a game that requires you to pass a football through a hole?”

“It’s not quite counting cards in Vegas, but I suppose I do have a bit of an advantage.”

“Tell ya what . . . !” The barker saw their attention on the game, recognized he had a live wire, and quickly roped them in. His voice sprang out of the speakers like snakes out of a fake can of peanuts, the mix of excitement and huckster quickly drawing a crowd.

“For former football star Nick Kelley, I’ll make a deal. Keep one hand behind your back, make all three throws in the top hole, and your lady gets the biggest prize I’ve got.”

Nick eyed the board before leaning in to whisper in her ear. The soft brush of his breath warmed her, the sense of intimacy in such a public setting even more so. “Kiss me for luck.”

She obliged, her lips finding his. The moment was the fulfillment of every teenage fantasy she’d ever had, and Emma gave herself a moment to simply soak it all in. Kissing her date on the midway at Luna Park. The warm scent of the ocean and the heightened sense of fun that screamed Coney Island on a warm summer night.

A big cheer went up as Nick lifted his head at the end of the kiss. When he realized he had the attention of the growing crowd, he wiggled his eyebrows and bent his head once more to press another hard kiss to her lips. “A little extra luck to seal the deal.”

The barker continued to shout into his microphone, the increasing crowd doing its part to keep attention and interest high. The man handed Nick the first ball, his admonishment clear: “One hand behind your back.”

Nick nodded, his attention focused on the hole.

And tossed the first ball clean through the large plank of painted wood.

The barker grimaced slightly at the ease of Nick’s throw, but kept up his patter for the crowd. “That’s one, folks! Do you think he can get two?”

The crowd shouted in response, a big round of cheers going up, and Nick looked down at Emma again. “Another kiss for luck?”

“It worked so well the first time.” She lifted up to kiss him, this one more intense than the first. Once she’d moved aside, Nick kept his left hand behind his back and delivered the second ball through with the same clean margins as the first.

“He’s determined, folks!” The barker gestured to the row of colorful bears, horses, and elephants making up the highest row of prizes in his booth. “Determined to win one of these big bears for his lady!”

The crowd seemed to thrive on the moment, their collective goodwill pressing in on the booth from behind her. Emma marveled at the spirit of it all, the combined energy and excitement as much of a buoy to the moment as Nick’s skill.

Was this what it was like to play in front of a stadium full of people? To have that adulation and excitement pressing in on you, cheering for you, and pushing you on? She wasn’t even the one throwing the ball, and she could feel the electricity that seemed to arc from the crowd straight toward them. Through them, almost.

Nick angled his head toward the crowd before turning back to her. “Shall we go for three?”

“Why stop now?”

Nick bent his head, his lips on hers, when a loud boo surfaced from within the crowd. The sound was dark and discordant, at odds with the excitement around them. When she stepped aside once more, Emma heard it again, the heavy strains of someone wishing Nick would miss the third toss. A light frown edged Nick’s lips, but he focused on the shot, one hand behind his back as directed.

Another hard shout erupted from the crowd as Nick released the ball, the shot wobbling as it cleared the board for the third time.

“Winner, winner!” The barker gestured Emma closer, his patter slick and quick as he urged her to pick a prize. Emma saw his eyes were already on the crowd and his next mark, the impatient curl and recurl of his fingers on his microphone the sign that he wanted to get all those watchers lined up for the next round.

Emma selected a green elephant with a dopey grin beneath its trunk, and hugged it close once the barker handed it over. The doll’s size was impressive, and she saw more than a few longing glances travel over the long trunk and big floppy ears. Nick thanked the barker, and the two of them headed off down the midway, leaving more than a few armchair quarterbacks and high school heroes itching to try their skills.

“Nicely done, Kelley. Very smooth.”

“I had to win a big prize for my best girl.”

“Is this so you can butter me up and get me to go parking in your convertible?”

“Is that an option?”

She lifted on her toes and pressed a hard kiss to his lips. “You know it.”

The sweet scents of the midway pulled them on, and Nick pointed out a funnel cake stand a few yards down. “I think I’ve earned a heaping pile of fried dough smothered in powdered sugar. It’ll help me drown my sorrows that I don’t own a convertible.”

They got in the line, and once more, that dark voice drifted on the wind. Instead of a loud boo, this time the man included a nasty barb. “Big deal for a professional football player to win on the football toss.”

They turned to face the voice, along with everyone else in their line, and came face to face with the asshole from the seafood boil. Zach, Emma remembered.

“I don’t believe it.” Nick muttered the words under his breath, but Emma had to agree with him. What were the odds, three times in a month? To the guy, he spoke up. “You got a problem, pal?”

“I got a problem with you rigging the game! You can’t find something else to play fair and square?”

“I played fair and square. Tossed three overinflated footballs through three too-small holes.”

“You complaining?”

“Stating a fact.”

Nick’s body had gone stiff, and Emma was shocked when he shifted his stance to move in front of her, shielding her from Zach’s direct line of sight.

“More whining from Brooklyn’s golden boy. Fucking silver spoon in your mouth. Gotta take from the rest of us.”

Nick moved forward slightly before obviously thinking better of it. He squeezed her hand, gesturing with his head. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Lead the way.”

Zach’s cries followed them, but the man didn’t. Several people glanced at her and Nick as they walked toward the exit, but no one approached them. It was only when they cleared the boardwalk that Emma tugged on Nick’s hand to slow him down.

“What’s the rush?”

“I didn’t want you anywhere near him.”

“Okay.” She waited a beat, curious that he didn’t look at her. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Nick kept up a brisk pace down Surf Avenue toward the subway station, and she struggled to keep up with his long strides.

It was only when they came to a crosswalk that Nick seemed to come back to himself. “I’m sorry. I’ll slow down.”

“He’s not following.”

“No, but his words are.” Nick took the elephant from her, tucking it beneath his arm before taking her hand. “I hate that shit. The silver spoon stuff. People make assumptions, and sometimes they hit close to home.”

“He’s not worth the worry.” Emma’s hand tightened around his. “Do you think he’s following you?”

“I don’t. But if he keeps showing up in the same places, maybe I need to rethink how original I am with where I take you on dates.”

“Good point.” The light changed and they crossed the last few blocks to the Stillwell Avenue station. “Were those holes really too small?”

“On the game?” He nodded. “Sure were.”

“You could see that?”

“Immediately.”

“Were you worried you couldn’t make the shot?”

He gestured her into the station, repositioning the elephant under his arm. “Sure. But you always worry about making the shot. Doesn’t mean you don’t take it.”

Emma figured that statement basically summed up Nick Kelley in six short words, but she held the observation back, afraid to mar the simplicity of his words with too much meaning.

Their train pulled into the station as they reached the platform, and they climbed on with the throng of others leaving Coney Island.

When Nick had suggested Luna Park earlier, she’d laughed, unable to imagine him in an amusement park. Now that she’d seen him there, she knew she’d never forget it. The years had fallen away for a while, and they were just two kids exploring the park, riding the rides, and sneaking kisses on the midway.

Aside from Zach’s arrival at the end, the night had been magic—a perfect end to the two weeks she’d asked for. Every memory was imprinted on her soul, wrapped in gossamer threads, yet in easy reach whenever she might need them.

When things came to their inevitable end—and Emma had accepted they would—she’d pull those memories out and remind herself of every carefree moment spent with Nick.

But now, in addition to her memories, she had something tangible. A big green elephant to remind her that it had really and truly happened.

Take the shot.

His conversation with Emma had burrowed in his mind like a mental earworm, and Nick knew it was time to talk to Landon. He believed in giving his loved ones space, but something was up with L, and they’d passed the point where Nick was comfortable ignoring it.

Juggling the goodies from Stewey’s into one hand, Nick pounded on his brother’s door. He took a step back when Landon opened it, disheveled and bleary-eyed.

“Bender much?”

“What?”

Nick pushed his way through the door and kicked through a few pairs of sneakers blocking his way to the couch. He ripped open the bag and set up shop on the coffee table, then gestured for Landon to sit.

“What happened to you?”

“About two hours of sleep a night for the past three days.”

“Doing what?”

“Coding. Work’s been a zoo, and we need to get the new release out, and I had a breakthrough on the zombies.”

“This isn’t liquor related?”

“Hell no.” Landon reached like a drowning man for one of the coffees Nick had set out. “Although it’s very possible this cup of coffee may be the one to put me into cardiac arrest.”

Nick eyed the offending cup for a moment, questioning his better judgment before going all in. He needed to talk to his brother, and he wasn’t opposed to guerilla warfare to get the job done.

“Three days?”

“Coming after two weeks that weren’t a picnic either.”

“So this isn’t about Mom?”

Nick waited to drop his question just as Landon took a big bite, and was rewarded with a dirty look. Those brownies weren’t for amateurs, and their thick richness gave Nick an opportunity to push a bit harder.

“Other than the day in the hospital for Emma’s dad, you haven’t talked to Mom.”

“Been . . . busy.” Landon swallowed his brownie before taking a big sip of coffee.

“Okay. If you’re sure that’s all it is.”

“I’m sure.”

“Good.” Nick reached for his coffee, then thought better of it and snagged a brownie. It was only when he had a big bite in his mouth that Landon asked a question of his own.

“You still hanging out with Emma?”

“Yeah.” The response came out garbled, but Landon didn’t seem stumped by his answer.

“Where’s it going?”

Nick tried to respond around the thick brownie, but his clever brother pushed harder. “She’s not a fling sort of woman. Or she certainly isn’t for long. You like her.”

Nick swallowed hard, then jumped in to defend himself. “Of course I like her. Why else would I be spending so much time with her?”

“You rescinding your bid?”

“What? Why?”

“You can’t be that dense.”

Nick’s expectation of a good-natured ribbing for pushing the issue about their mother faded in his annoyance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Same thing it’s meant from the beginning. Why won’t you back away from this thing?”

“Peter Vandenburg wants to sell.”

“Against his family’s wishes.” Landon picked up his coffee, his gaze considering, before he added clarity to his comment. “Against Emma’s wishes.”

“Emma wasn’t here when her father started this process. The brewery’s in play.”

“Then I’m forced to ask you again: What are you doing with her?”

“I like her. And I like spending time with her.”

“You’re head over heels for her and you damn well know it.”

“Yeah. So?”

The admission was out before he could hold it back. Knowing it was, Nick gave himself a moment to try it on, rolling the idea around in his mind. He cared for Emma. Far more and far faster than he’d ever expected to. So why did that have to be in conflict with what he wanted professionally?

“Is that what it’s about?” Nick asked. “I have to give up something important to date someone?”

“If the situation warrants, then yes.”

“Why?”

“You tell me.”

“Oh, fuck it!” Nick leaped up from the couch and paced the room. “You’re as bad as Fender, tossing out riddles about what I should choose and how it should be easy to decide if I know my own feelings. It’s like I’m some sort of freaking thief in the night because I made a plan for myself and am trying to see it through.”

“You’re not a thief. You’re just a stubborn bastard who wants your brownie and someone else’s.”

The ire that made Nick leap off the couch dimmed. “Is the brownie some sort of euphemism for Emma’s more interesting parts? ’Cause if it is, I’m still not above taking a shot at your tired ass.”

Landon smiled, the droop of his eyes no match for the lift of his eyebrows. “It wasn’t, but now that I have an image in my head . . .”

“Forget I asked.”

Landon squeezed his eyes shut before they popped back open. “Nope. Not yet.”

“L—”

“Think about it. Whatever business plan you’re building won’t fail if you back out of the deal because you have a thing going with Emma. Invest in her. Help them grow. You don’t have to be the owner to make an impact. And it takes the pressure off the two of you.”

“I suppose.”

“Nick, why is this so important to you?”

“It just is.”

“Yeah, but—”

Words and thoughts and ideas Nick hadn’t fully realized he had exploded from him in a rush. “I’m not just a ball player! My life didn’t end the day I blew out my knee!”

“No one said it did.”

“No one had to.” Nick dropped back onto the couch, the thick cushions absorbing his fall. “You think I don’t know what people said about me when I came home? After the surgery. I was still limping around town, the poor hometown hero without a future. You all saw it.”

“Of course we saw it. And we knew you’d overcome it. There was never any doubt.”

“Yeah, but I doubted. I figured I’d used up every good thing I had and that was the end of it.”

“So what changed?”

“Chili Samuels and his damn wily ways, offering me something I didn’t know I needed, yet couldn’t refuse.”

“So you got back on your feet and found a new dream. A new life. One just as good and just as valuable.”

“And now it’s like I need to give up the forward momentum. That’s what you’re all really saying underneath the riddles and the ribbing.”

Landon picked up the rest of his brownie, considering the large slab of chocolatey cake for a moment. “A brownie, you say?”

“Landon—”

His brother grinned, his bloodshot gaze steady when he lifted his eyes. “Nobody’s asking you to give up your forward momentum. Sometimes a lateral route nets you more yardage than trying to barrel straight ahead.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The summons came bright and early, barely past six o’clock. The number wasn’t familiar, but Nick had answered the call anyway.

And in less than an hour stood next to Peter Vandenburg’s hospital bed.

“I might be in here, but I still hear the gossip. You dating my daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“Why?” The very fact Peter could ask that question caught Nick off guard, but he made a quick recovery. “Because she’s wonderful. She’s smart and brilliant and beautiful.”

“She’s her mother.”

In the quiet morning light, Nick saw a stubborn set to Peter’s jaw—one he’d already seen on Emma’s. Nick wasn’t entirely sure of the truth of that statement, but he sensed there was no room for argument. Just like he sensed a very real pride in Peter that Emma was like her mother.

“You still want to buy my company?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You want her and you want her company? Something of a problem for you?”

“It’s been pointed out by many that my decisions are conflicting, yes.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Same thing I’d always planned to do. Buy the Unity if you give me the chance.”

“And Emma?”

“I’d like to keep seeing her.”

“And if she doesn’t want to see you?”

At Peter’s question, wholly unwelcome thoughts filled Nick’s mind with all the force of gunshots. What would he do if Emma didn’t want to see him any longer? If there were no more moments together, from the casual, to the intimate, to the simple and easy?

In Emma he’d found a woman whose company he enjoyed and who he wanted to talk to and share all the things in his mind. The things that excited him as well as the experiences of his life he still struggled to overcome.

Despite his weakened and tired state, Peter waited for an answer, his eyes sharp as ever.

“That would be difficult, but I’d understand. I’d also like to keep her on as brewmaster. Her depth of knowledge is amazing.”

That stubborn set was back to Peter’s jaw. “She just got her degree.”

“After spending most of her life learning the business in real-world conditions.”

“Ten years in Chicago is hardly learning the business.”

And wasn’t that the heart of the matter? “That still pisses you off, doesn’t it? That Emma up and left.”

“Never saw why she had to leave.”

“I was under the impression it was a decision she and her husband made.”

“Fat lot of good that did.”

Nick had managed to avoid quiet, intimate conversations for the majority of his life, and in a matter of weeks suddenly seemed to be having them with everyone.

Might as well go for broke.

“She didn’t leave you.”

“Damn well felt like it. Left Marcy and I to go off and play house. Didn’t even come home when Marcy was sick.”

“Because you told me she was fine.” Emma’s voice rang out, strong and true, from the doorway. “You told me there was nothing to come home for. So I believed you and went about focusing on keeping my marriage together.”

“She was sick.”

“And you let me believe she was fine!”

All the anguish and pain both of them carried seemed to fill the room like an invisible smoke, choking everyone in its path. Nick wanted to help her—wanted to give Emma support—even as he sensed she had to handle this on her own. Had to use the moment to finally and fully stand up to her father.

On her own terms.

Nick stared at her, willing her to understand that. But when she came into the room, she ignored him, her focus on her father.

“You’re entertaining early.”

Before Peter could reply, Emma whirled on him. “And what have we here? Sneaking into my father’s sickroom, Nick?” The words hit, heavy as a slap. “Trying to work a deal on the side?”

“No.”

“Right. So you just woke up and decided to come visit my father.”

The accusations irritated him, even as he tried to look at it from her perspective. Tried—and failed. “He called me. Said we needed to talk.”

Emma’s gaze flicked to her father, her comments as much for Peter as for him. “So he could go around me.”

“I wanted to know what Kelley’s intentions are,” Peter bellowed at her, his ire stymied by the thickness that still painted his words as he healed.

Her dark eyes were bleak as hurricane clouds hovering over the Atlantic when she finally spoke. “Nick’s made his intentions more than clear. He wants the Unity.”

Like those great, gaping maws of Landon’s zombies, something shifted in that moment, clutching him in scrabbling claws with the intent of consuming him whole.

He loved her.

What should have been the most powerful moment of his life was ruined by her lack of faith. Had she been so betrayed in her past she assumed he would betray her, too? That he’d go behind her back and take this from her, like a thief?

He’d made no secret of how much he wanted the Unity. Whatever he was, he wasn’t dishonest. Or grasping. Or unwilling to have the hard conversations.

But in the swirling storm of Emma’s anger and pain, he saw his future slipping away. He loved her. And he wanted to be with her.

And she didn’t have enough faith in him to even hear him out. Standing, Nick nodded to Peter before shifting his attention fully to Emma.

“I don’t want the Unity anymore. It’s yours.”

Unwilling to spend another moment in her presence, Nick walked away.

From everything.

Emma walked the brewery floor, the past year playing through her mind like a ghost that trod beside her. Cole’s decision to leave. The day she graduated from Siebel. The afternoon she signed her divorce papers.

Events that had seemed so monumental and earth-shattering at the time faded in the power of the past month with Nick.

She’d entered a relationship knowing the risks, but had focused only on the rewards, the chance to spend time together far too enticing to resist. Even with all she’d learned—about herself, about Nick and about how good they were together—when it came to crunch time, she’d assumed the worst.

And Nick knew it.

The proud set of his shoulders as he walked away told her all she needed to know.

It had been three days since then, and his parting words still packed as big a punch as they did in her father’s sickroom.

I don’t want the Unity anymore. It’s yours.

How did she fix this? Could she? She needed to talk to him, yet something held her back—some base understanding that words wouldn’t be enough.

The heavy noise of the production line rang in her ears as she stopped and watched the final step of bringing beer to the masses. Her life’s work flowed through that machinery, ensuring her future. Something she’d been so determined to nail down now seemed empty and hollow. A future without Nick.

A text buzzed from her pocket and she pulled out her phone, grateful for the distraction. When she realized it was from her father, her focus shifted to the words.

COME NOW.

Emma raced through the rehab facility, her focus on getting to her father. She’d tried calling him and texting him, but had gotten nothing but silence for her trouble.

If something were really wrong the facility would have called her, right? But even with that low level of reassurance, she imagined any number of horrible scenarios.

She rounded the last corner and shot down his corridor, only to walk into his room and find him propped up in bed, an open box of donuts on his lap.

“Dad?”

“Hm?” He was focused on the TV, wrapped up in some news program full of screaming, shouting talking heads.

“Dad!”

“What?”

“You texted me.” When she only got confusion in return, Emma added, “Before. I came right over.”

“Oh. Right. I wanted to talk to you about the doctors. I don’t think they’re very good. I’m still here.”

“The doctors are perfectly good. We discussed this yesterday. The reason you’re still here—” She broke off, her attention shifting to his lap.

“What is this?” She snagged the box of donuts, pulling them away. “Where’d you get these?”

“Someone.”

“Who?”

“Just someone.”

She fought for patience as she eyed the three greasy spots where donuts had been. “You’re not allowed to have these.”

“I’m an adult. I’ll have whatever I damn well want.”

Something dark and horrible bubbled in her gut, a witch’s cauldron of anger and pain and loss. The urge to throw the box across the room was strong, but instead she marched to the trash can and dumped them in.

“Hey! Those are mine!”

“They’re a death sentence.” She used his distraction to cross to the TV and flip it off, the absence of sound momentarily deafening. When he reached for the remote, she snagged that from his hand as well.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“We’re going to talk. About you. And about getting better.”

“I am getting better,” he grumbled, wiping his hands on his blanket. “That’s why I had that damn surgery.”

“Well, it was a lot of time, pain, effort, and expense to ruin it all with the same old bad habits.”

“It’s a fucking donut!”

His words echoed off the walls, his eyes going round in his face with the outburst. Whatever else her father was, he’d always been exceedingly polite in his speech. He didn’t use profanity as a general rule, and certainly never around her. So when the moment broke wide open, Emma took a seat beside him and took his hand. “This isn’t about a donut.”

The eyes so like her own closed, tears forming in the corners as his face warmed with pain. Before she could say anything else, great, huge sobs heaved from his throat, the words spilling out in a hard, sobbing rush. “She’s never coming back.”

“No, she’s not.”

Whether it was the acknowledgment or simply the physical closeness, Emma didn’t know, but the thick sobs quieted to a steady flow of tears.

“I miss her.”

“Me, too.”

They sat like that for several minutes, both lost in the shared moment of grief. She’d shed so many tears for her mother—grieving her loss in so many ways—Emma marveled there was still yet another way to mourn.

To so keenly feel that deep loss.

Yet with her father’s hand in hers, his own world so filled with pain and misery, Emma realized there were endless ways to feel sorrow. And a deep comfort in sharing the moment with someone else.

His hand tightened on hers, his gaze watery. “She didn’t want you to know.”

“Know about what?”

“The cancer. How bad it was. She made me promise. She knew you and Cole were having problems, and we were both sad about the baby, and she swore she didn’t want to add to it.”

“Dad—”

He cut her off before she could continue. “I told Marcy it was wrong. Told her you had a right to be here. To see her. But she made me promise.” Fresh tears clouded his eyes, but his gaze remained steady on hers. “If I could change it, I would. You had a right to know and a right to decide if you should be here. We were wrong to keep that from you.”

The flash of anger that heated her at her mother’s decision faded, fizzling out as if it had never been. “Thank you.”

Of course her mother had known. They’d always been open, talking freely to each other, and Emma had gone increasingly quiet as things with Cole got worse, too wrapped up in her own life and worsening circumstances.

God, how much time had she wasted? And what had she lost by shutting her parents out?

Yes, her marriage had gone bad. It wasn’t the end of the world, nor did it need to be. How much more was she going to lose before she stopped looking for outside validation? Her marriage hadn’t provided it. Neither had her father’s approval. Even the push for the Unity seemed hollow somehow.

Yes, she wanted her legacy, but would it really be that bad to share it? To open up and partner with another? She’d allowed stubborn pride—and worse, a deep-down fear that he would ultimately walk away, like Cole—to push Nick away.

Peter patted her hand, his voice gruff as he interrupted her thoughts. “I like your young man. He’s not one of them metrosexuals like Cole was.”

“You know that word?”

“I know lots of things. I watch TV.”

She laughed at that, a small idea sparking. “Maybe we could get a treadmill you can walk on while you get all that modern education.”

“I don’t need—” Her father stopped, a longing gaze flicking to the trash can. “Maybe that’d be okay.”

“And maybe if you use it, we can make a standing date for a donut and coffee on Friday mornings.”

“That’d be nice.”

She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “We’ll get through this.”

“Yeah.” He laid a hand on her cheek. “You still haven’t said anything about your young man.”

She pulled back, her hands fiddling over his blankets. Straightening them. “There’s nothing to say. And I’m not sure he’s my young man.”

“Pretty damn sure he is. He’s been in here every day. Won’t talk about you at all, but keeps checking on me. Since he doesn’t know me from Adam, I figure those visits are about you.”

“He’s been here?”

“Every morning.”

“What do you talk about?”

“Investments. The neighborhood. Some new development projects. He’s got his eye on things and wants to see the neighborhood continue to grow.”

Emma took a moment to digest the news that Nick had been coming around. She hadn’t heard from him, yet he’d still taken the time to see her father. To check on him, and engage him in discussion.

“He did mention he hasn’t seen you.”

“We’re not . . . I mean . . . we haven’t . . .” She stopped, shook her head. “I haven’t seen him.”

“You gonna fix that?”

Emma eyed her father. “You going to go down and do the required therapy today? I’ll come with you.”

“I believe I will.”

“Then I believe I’ll go see Nick once you’re done.”

Nick pulled the stick for a few Unity lagers, the order a strange sort of torture. Not like he didn’t need to get used to it, especially since he was one of the moron independents who’d bought into the summer marketing packages he was so damned proud of. Large posters lined the walls and stacks of coasters lined the bar, and he’d been pulling fucking lagers like the beer was going out of style for the better part of a week now.

“Nick!”

Hector’s shout pulled him out of his funk over the beers, and he turned to the door. When Hec only waved an arm, Nick nodded. He passed over his order, then headed for the entrance.

He’d barely cleared the front door when he caught sight of the problem.

Zach the asshole had come back for more.

“I don’t want your business.”

The man staggered, his fist waving as he walked closer. “Try and stop me. You can’t keep me out.”

“Actually, as this is a private establishment, I can and will stop you.”

Zach popped off a light shove before dancing back out of the way. Nick held his ground, the shove not even shifting his center of gravity. He had no interest in a fight with an addict—hell, with anyone—but he’d be damned if he was going to keep dealing with this. “You’ve clearly got a problem with me.”

“You’ve got the problem. Kicking me out of here. Interfering with my woman. Hell, then you show up when I’m trying to have a night out.”

“You need help.”

“Awfully self-righteous for a man who sells booze.”

“I sell liquor responsibly.”

“That’s like my dope dealer only giving me a packet at a time.”

“Who’s your dealer?” Nick purred the question, finally closing in on the opportunity to deal with whoever was higher up, supplying the neighborhood addicts.

“You think I’m going to rat, too?”

Nick eyed Hector over Zach’s head, Hec’s subtle nod all he needed. “It’s just you and me. You afraid to talk to me?”

Emma walked the last few blocks to the End Zone, her steps light as she skipped over the sidewalk. She had to get to Nick. She had thoughts and ideas and plans, all of which formed as she helped her father through his therapy session.

Thoughts about their future.

Ideas of how to integrate their two ways of working.

And plans on how to tell him she loved him.

The physical therapy work was slow going, but both their attitudes were better, and she’d seen real progress after resettling her father in his room. He’d tried, and that meant the world to her. It also provided a glimmer, no matter how small, that maybe she could get him back on track with his life.

Best of all, he’d listened to her as she’d shared a few of her ideas, outlining where Nick could fit in. Peter had added a few suggestions, making her partnership proposal stronger, before sending her from the rehab center.

Straight to Nick.

Would he be interested? A few hours ago she’d have doubted it, but the news that Nick had come to spend some time each day with her father had given her fresh confidence that he wasn’t as unaffected by their relationship as she feared.

More, it gave her hope that he might be willing to hear her out.

She had two proposals for him—one business, one personal—and her mind darted back and forth between them on the walk over. Where to start? Bury the lede or go for the gusto?

His street corner was up ahead, and Emma picked up speed, racing past the squat, corner building that was the End Zone. Frosted-glass windows kept her from seeing inside, but the laughter and noise could be heard on the street, spilling from the building in a welcoming rush.

How would she tell him?

Order a beer? Get Patty in on the act? Or no, maybe she could find Hector, get him to send Nick to his office—

Her thoughts vanished as she walked straight into a wild punch, the world around her going hazy and dark.

“Son of a fucking bitch!”

Nick screamed the words, the blur of motion before him quickly reassembling into light and shape and color as Emma staggered backward from the force of Zach’s fist.

He raced for her, stumbling over a still-reeling Zach, as Hector stepped in to grab her. His friend’s quick thinking had her steady and her body never hit the ground, but it was the high-pitched, animalistic sound that exploded from his throat that had Nick whirling toward Zach.

“What is wrong with you?” He stalked toward Zach, anger forming a haze that confused as much as it clarified. He’d sworn he wouldn’t fight the guy, but that was before he had any idea Emma would once again be on the receiving end of the jerk’s brutality. He’d hurt her, and on the heels of what he’d done to his own girlfriend.

“Nick!”

Nick had Zach by the front of his shirt, his fist hard as he dragged the man forward. The skinny frame reinforced Zach’s addiction, but even knowing that, Nick couldn’t quite hold back.

Couldn’t stop the rage and anger. Or the horrible memories that overlaid his father’s face on top of Zach’s.

He’d escaped this. Had gone on to a better life. Yet no matter how far he tried to get away, it stalked him. Haunted him. And proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, there was nowhere he could run.

“Nick.” Emma’s voice broke through moments before her hands were on his forearm, tugging and pulling at him to let go. “Nick!”

Zach struggled under his grip, but some of the fury ebbed out of him. Was he aware he was beaten? Or had he simply lost the drive to fight anymore?

“Nick! Don’t do this!” Emma called to him once more, her gaze searching as she pleaded with him to step away.

But it was the defeat in Zach’s eyes that had Nick finally loosening his grip.

“I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry.” Zach held up his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“You need help.”

“I’m sorry.”

Hector moved between them, the vice cop they’d made arrangements with earlier joining the mix. Detective Cade Rossi had been assigned undercover work in the area, and, knowing Nick had dealt with a few problems, had agreed to stay close for a few weeks. He gave Nick a smart salute before reading Zach his rights.

“Nick! Are you alright?” Emma was all over him, her hands rubbing up and down his arms, her gaze searching his.

“Me? I’m fine. It’s you—”

She launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around him as her lips met his. The shock of the past few minutes, coupled with how desperately he missed her, coalesced into a hard ball of need deep in his gut. He wrapped his arms around her, his mouth a hard slash against hers as he tried desperately to reassure himself that it was really her.

And she was here.

“Are you okay?” He brushed his fingertip over the corner of her eye, where the skin was already growing red from the punch.

“I’m fine.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Oh, you know. My usual. Walking into drunks again.”

He pressed his lips to the bruised flesh, heat already forming beneath the skin. “That’s going to leave a mark.”

“That’s good. I was starting to miss having a bright-yellow-and-green bruise covering half my face.”

“Smartass.” Nick pulled her close once more, and buried his head in the curve of her neck. “I couldn’t believe it was you standing there.”

“Nick—”

He stilled, his face still buried in that warm, wonderful scent that was uniquely Emma. “What were you doing standing there?”

“I need to talk to you. About everything. I need to tell you my plans.”

She reached for his hands and pulled him toward the small bench he kept out front. Sitting down next to her, Nick almost laughed at their familiar position. They’d sat here once before, but he didn’t know her then. Not the real her. The bright, vibrant woman who had captured him, body and soul.

“I have a proposition for you. About the Unity.”

Nick stilled his thoughts. He wanted to kiss her and talk about forever, and she still wanted to talk about the damn brewery? “I don’t care about that anymore.”

“I think you do. And I think you might like my idea.”

“Emma. I don’t care.” When she tried to go back to her point, he lifted a finger and pressed it to her lips. “I don’t care. I don’t want the Unity. I’ve decided my investments need to go in a different direction.”

She kissed the pad of his index finger, adding a quick nip to make her point. “I know you don’t care. And I believe you when you say you can walk away. But there’s something you need to know.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s taken me a while, but I finally understand I’ve been focused on the wrong things. Getting my degree. Leaving Chicago and coming home. Fighting with my father. I thought they were the answers, but they weren’t. That’s why I kept stubbornly fighting for the Unity, even when things felt so right, so easy, with you.”

She gazed up at him, emotion reflecting back at him in rich, sweeping waves. “I thought I had the answers, but I didn’t. It turns out they were just the path.”

“The path to what?”

“To you.”

The misery that had kept him steady company since the day he left her standing in her father’s hospital room slowly began to ease.

“To you, Nick. It turns out that while I thought I was going back to my roots, it’s my roots that brought me to you. That’s what I fought so hard for. Why I couldn’t quite let go. Because if I let go, the shining mirage that brought me home might vanish, and then I’d be alone again.”

“You’ll never be alone.”

“I know that now. And I also know I don’t need the Unity to be safe. To be happy. Or to understand who I am. I just need you.”

He leaned in to kiss her again, stopping just shy of her lips. “Does this mean neither of us wants the Unity anymore?”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

He held back, his smile meeting hers. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure.” She closed the distance between them, her mouth finding his, and Nick knew he’d been given the greatest gift.

He’d found Emma. But he’d also found a new purpose. A new dream. Like the day he’d discovered his brothers on the soccer field. The day Mama Lou had dropped her dry cleaning. The day Chili Samuels had ordered him over to the bar. On those days, and so many others, he’d forged a life.

But none of it had made sense until Emma had walked back in.

In time, he’d tell her about his ideas. The things he’d been mulling over with Tommy, and the business plans he’d bounced off her father. He’d tell her all of them. But for now, he needed to know if that was the only reason she’d come back. “Is that all you came to tell me?”

“No. There were two things.”

“Was the second thing that you loved me?”

Her mouth dropped open, and he leaned in and captured that sweet little O in a hard kiss. “Because I love you. And I figured I had about twenty-four hours left in me before I was going to break down and come tell you.”

“Waiting me out, Kelley?”

“Doing my level best. But since you’re as stubborn as your father, I figured I’d be the one breaking down.”

“What do I get for going first?”

He wrapped her hands in his, interlocking their fingers. “The same thing I do. Forever.”

“You willing to put that in writing? You know, since you’re now in training to be a big businessman around town?”

“I can do that.” Nick leaned closer, his lips brushing hers. “But I’d rather show you.”

Epilogue

The first bottle of pumpkin ale came off the line to a lot of whooping and hollering. Like soldiers, dark brown bottles with vivid orange wrappers marched down the bottling line. Emma watched their progress, the light tinkling of glass where the bottles rattled against their confines sweet music to her ears.

Almost as sweet as the husky voice that floated along the shell of her ear while big, strong arms wrapped around her waist. “Your first official creation as brewmaster looks mighty fine.”

“Don’t you mean our creation?”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Nick spun her around, his bright blue eyes full of the promise and passion she’d come to love.

“I think ours is appropriate. It was the result of our continued arguments over just how sweet to make our chocolate stout, which even now still sits mournfully in the development stage.”

“Chocolate should be sweet.”

“And beer shouldn’t be.”

And so went the same argument they’d been having for the past three months. One of many, actually. They battled over the product they brewed. They battled over their expansion plans for the Unity. They even battled over holiday marketing plans.

If Emma had assumed running the Unity together would be easier because she and Nick had fallen in love, the past summer had disproved that notion. And she’d quickly found she wouldn’t want it any other way.

One of their line foremen rolled out a keg, its contents a match for what was running through the bottling line. In moments, he had a tap run and was filling glasses with the new brew.

“You should have the first glass.” Nick’s arm stayed around her, his hold casual but firm. She loved that. Loved how his hold was protective and possessive, all at the same time.

Emma pointed toward the front of the line, where Peter stood, eagerly awaiting a glass. “I’d like my father to have it.”

Nick nodded, his smile bright. “Of course.”

In moments, glasses were filled and raised all around. Several people had already snuck a few sips, but it was her father’s glass that was raised the highest. “Toast!”

The room quieted, waiting while Emma and Nick made their way to the front, at Peter’s urging. When they were finally beside him, Emma felt a deep wellspring of gratitude at the change that had come over her father. In addition to the weight he’d lost after the surgery, color once again filled his cheeks, the gray pallor long gone. He still missed her mother, and his fondness for donuts still often overrode his common sense, but he was healing.

And for the first time in a long time, more hope than bluster filled his voice.

“What’s this about?” Emma asked, taking her place beside her father.

“I’d like to make a toast.”

The cavernous room was large, but sound carried, and her father had never struggled with projecting. The team quieted as Peter lifted his glass. “To my daughter and my soon-to-be son-in-law.”

Nick’s eyes crinkled at the corners at Peter’s inclusion, but he gave his future father-in-law the helm, simply holding up his glass. One more reason she loved Nick. He knew how to work a room, and he knew how to graciously accept when it was someone else’s turn. He was confidence and easy grace, charm and sexy attitude.

And she loved him.

“I didn’t realize how much this place was in my blood until it almost wasn’t. You’ve ensured that the future I worked so hard to build is now a possibility. I’m so happy and proud—and deeply grateful—you showed me the way.”

Emma pulled her father close for a hug, grateful every day she’d found the strength to come home. To come back to her roots. Somewhere deep inside she’d recognized what she’d needed, and every decision had come from that. Home. Direction. Even love.

All of it had been waiting for her.

At last.

Author’s Note

When Mama Lou and her boys first came into my mind, I immediately saw them in Brooklyn. The past decade has shown considerable progress in New York’s largest borough, with industry, art, real estate, and an increasingly youth-based community putting its stamp on various neighborhoods.

While there are many wonderful neighborhoods throughout Brooklyn, Park Heights is my own amalgam of various parts of the borough I love. I hope you’ll indulge me as I sought to keep the entrepreneurial spirit of these vibrant communities by taking some of the best parts of each of them to create my own.

Excerpt: Just Once

Read on for an excerpt from Addison Fox’s next book

JUST ONCE

Coming Soon from SMP Swerve

Chapter One

Landon McGee knew three things about life. It was never boring. It was always kicking you in the ass. And, in the immortal words of Robert Frost, it went on. He also knew that the elements of life that made it endlessly fascinating or shockingly hard—sometimes both—usually came up and blindsided you on a random Tuesday.

Or a Wednesday morning, to be exact.

He’d walked into the loft space he rented in DUMBO ten minutes ago to find it in disarray. He and his suitemates were sort of digital sharecroppers, sharing the cost of the rent, the overhead, and the extremely necessary T-1 line that kept their small businesses afloat. Each of them was a computer geek to the core, ensuring paperwork was in short supply, but the latest in equipment and digital design tools were plentiful.

So it was odd to discover it was the filing cabinets that were one of the few items hit.

They might have kept little paperwork, but Landon and his combined associates still had some stuff. Not everything could be fully baked into a hard drive or filed away in the cloud.

Rent paperwork. About fifty boxes of coffee pods. And an odd array of love letters their secretary-slash-office manager had been squirreling away in the front reception area now littered the floor.

He’d already done a quick check of the equipment, pissed off to find the new server he’d had delivered on Monday was nowhere to be found, along with its twin that had occupied an oversized technical closet equipped with the latest in security and fire protection.

“Fuck it all.”

He dragged out his phone and dialed the police, the game design that had accompanied him throughout his walk to work fading in the reality of his morning.

Landon walked the 9-1-1 operator through his discovery, well aware he wasn’t going to be anyone’s first priority that morning, especially once he confirmed the office was empty. On a resigned sigh, he settled into the small couch in their front reception area and opened his laptop. The game level that had haunted him all evening and on his walk to work still roiled in the back of his mind. He figured giving the creative images free rein might help soothe the wash of frustration each time he looked at the mess.

Daphne Rossi, detective third grade, found the owner of BKNY Games huddled over his computer, his concentration so intense she briefly flirted with firing off a warning shot just to get his attention. Based on the address given out by dispatch, she’d anticipated a skinny-legged, glasses-clad official Brooklyn hipster. She was pleasantly surprised to find a pair of running shoes at the bottom of faded, cuffless jeans instead.

Really long, jean-clad legs.

“Excuse me?” When he didn’t respond, she tapped her foot against his, the move jarring enough to have him scrambling to attention. That impression of height wasn’t false as he stood up, about six feet two inches of rather solid male. Nicely toned biceps edged beneath a black T-shirt with the BKNY logo emblazoned on it.

He blinked, a soft haze fading from his eyes as he focused on her. Thick dark lashes framed equally dark eyes and Daphne took an extra beat to collect herself. “Mr. McGee? I’m Detective Rossi.”

He smoothly slid his slender, worn laptop closed and extended a hand. “Thank you for coming.”

Daphne took his hand, the grip firm, and once again she had to admit he wasn’t quite what she’d imagined on the drive over. For all that his surroundings screamed creative genius, there was something interesting about the arc of Landon McGee’s cheekbones and the lines of his stubbled jaw. When she reluctantly dropped his hand, she allowed her initial impressions to round out.

He was lean, no question, but solid. His shoulders had some breadth to them and there was muscle in the cords of his forearms. Perhaps the desk jockey had outside interests?

“Dispatch told me you had a break-in. Why don’t you show me what’s missing?”

“Not much, which is the strange part. But enough.”

He pointed out the filing cabinets in the lobby before leading her into the office. Daphne followed, the small reception area opening into a large loft space. She hadn’t spent much time in DUMBO but had met a friend at her office a few times off Water Street and had attended a gallery opening on Plymouth. Landon McGee’s office was a bit farther down the block, where Water intersected Washington, and boasted the money shot view of the Manhattan Bridge the neighborhood had become known for.

“Wow. How’d you snag this office?”

“I know the owner. Got in on a long-term lease.”

She fought the twin urges to whistle and gawk and simply allowed the view to wash over her. Summer sun streamed in the large windows and it was only when she pulled her view from the bridge that she took in the rest of the space. More couches took up a far corner, arranged for conversation and collaboration. Maybe even sleep after a late night.

She continued her assessment, snapping impressions of the large, open space like photographs. The office’s desks were more long tables than single pieces with drawers, all arrayed with computer monitors, wireless keyboards and scattered laptops. Certainly different from a cop shop, where you took pride in the number of scars carved into your desk and files spilled out of drawers that didn’t fully close.

“What’s the smile for?”

His low voice and quiet speculation pulled her from her musings and she turned to him fully. “Cliché. We humans are full of it.”

“In spades, I’m afraid. Although I don’t quite get the context.”

“I can see you and your coworkers here. Brooklyn technology mavens, hunched over screens and napping on those couches back there after a late night.”

“Maven? That’s a new one.”

She ignored the subtle amusement and pressed on. “Cops nap, too. And scream and shout from behind ratty old desks that have seen more partners than a Hollywood starlet. Somehow we all manage to get things done.”

“Is there a philosopher lurking beneath the dress blues?”

“Only on the formal occasions where my dress blues are required.”

“Fair enough.”

The moment was small—silly—yet she couldn’t shake the subtle sweetness that pervaded the conversation. He wasn’t what she expected and she’d expected a lot. Tech geek. Neighborhood hipster. And victim.

Yet he seemed more resigned than upset.

“Any idea who paid you a visit last night?”

“None. I’m usually here late but I left early last night for my brother’s engagement party. None of us keep formal hours but there’s usually someone here until at least ten. Often much later.”

“And yet you show up here at six?” She consulted her notebook. “According to dispatch.”

“I don’t sleep much.”

Something small jingled at his words but Daphne kept her features still. “No?”

“Not since I was a kid. Add on a game idea that’s taking shape and I’m sort of obsessed.”

“What sort of game?”

“Zombies. Adventure. Multiple players. It’s awesome.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

His lips curved up, the expression boyish except for the day-old stubble that lined his jaw. That was not boyish. Or easy to ignore.

“You pointed out the mess in the front. Anything else missing? The desks don’t look nearly as cleaned out as I’d have expected.”

“Most of my colleagues take their laptops home so they’ll need to confirm if anything’s missing, but the desks don’t look like they were hit at all.” He glanced toward the back of the office. A long galley kitchen took up half the space, positioned next to an extended wall with a thick black door. “Two servers are missing in our back room. Our locked back room.”

“Locked?”

“Yep. Found it when I checked everything this morning.”

“You were here alone.”

Nonplussed, he shrugged. “The office was empty but something felt off.”

“Another reason you should have called us.”

“I did call you.”

“You should have left the moment you saw anything out of place.”

“No one was here. And seeing as how they were my servers, full of my work, I didn’t want to wait.”

Once again, that sense of something out of place—out of time—struck her. He wasn’t exactly what he seemed, even as she couldn’t identify anything that felt threatening or off.

No, it was something else. Something more. Something that said this man had seen things. Knew things. Which had her looking at her notebook again. “Do you have any enemies, Mr. McGee?”

“Landon is fine. And none that I’m aware of.”

She glanced up sharply, her pen going still. “None at all?”

“That surprise you?”

“Frankly, yes.”

It was Landon’s turn to go still, his dark eyes wary. “Why would you think I have enemies, Detective?”

“I ran your name on the way over here. You have a well-respected, adopted mother. A brother who played professional football. There are more than a few local stories that pop online.”

“Since when did adoption become a big story?”

“When you raise three of the most upstanding citizens in the borough, people notice.” Daphne pointed toward the windows and the bridge that rose up in the distance beyond. “Citizens who’ve done quite well for themselves in their own right. Which takes me back to my first question. Are you sure there’s no one from your past who wishes you ill?”

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About the Author

© Lifetouch Portrait Studios Inc. Used with permission.

Addison Fox can’t remember a time when words weren’t a part of her life. In addition to being an avid reader, she loves writing novels about strong-willed and exciting heroes and heroines—individuals who are meant for each other and who deserve their happily-ever-after. After she makes them work for it, of course!

First published in 2010, Addison has written across romance genres, including paranormal, contemporary, and romantic suspense. A romantic at heart, she’ll take her heroes any way she can get them—from ancient warriors to computer geeks to sexy cowboys. She’s not picky, but she is deeply grateful her readers are willing to come along for the ride.

Addison lives in New York. You can find her at her home on the Web at www.addisonfox.com or on Facebook (facebook.com/addisonfoxauthor) and Twitter (@addisonfox).

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Table of Contents

1. Cover
2. Title Page
3. Copyright Notice
4. Dedication
5. Prologue
6. Chapter One
7. Chapter Two
8. Chapter Three
9. Chapter Four
10. Chapter Five
11. Chapter Six
12. Chapter Seven
13. Chapter Eight
14. Chapter Nine
15. Chapter Ten
16. Chapter Eleven
17. Chapter Twelve
18. Chapter Thirteen
19. Chapter Fourteen
20. Chapter Fifteen
21. Chapter Sixteen
22. Chapter Seventeen
23. Chapter Eighteen
24. Chapter Nineteen
25. Chapter Twenty
26. Chapter Twenty-One
27. Chapter Twenty-Two
28. Epilogue
29. Author’s Note
30. Excerpt: Just Once
31. Chapter One
32. About the Author
33. Contents
34. Copyright Page

Copyright Page

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

AT LAST. Copyright © 2016 by Frances Karkosak. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Cover design by Crystal Ben

Cover photographs: couple © conrado/Shutterstock; bridge © Songquan Deng/Shutterstock

ISBN 978-1-250-11421-1 (e-book)

First Edition: November 2016

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