Page 8 of The Irishman's Christmas Gamble
The limo had gone about three blocks before he formulated a new approach.
“You’ve gone quiet. Planning your strategy for filling all those seats?” Frankie asked with a smile.
“No,” he said. She had moved into the corner of the limo, half-turning so she could look directly at him. He hated every inch of the space between them. “I’m planning our day out tomorrow.”
She raised her finely arched eyebrows at him. “I have a club to run.”
“It’s Sunday, the day of rest.”
“Ha! When you’re in the hospitality business, there is no rest.”
Donal had told him that Sundays were quiet at the Bellwether Club. Most of the high achievers who frequented it did so during the business week. “Surely, you trust your staff to handle things for a few hours.” His tone was a deliberate challenge.
“Why tomorrow?” she asked with her usual brutal directness.
Because it was her voice he had heard encouraging him when the coach reamed him out and he wanted to quit the academy. It was her face he saw when his aching body kept him awake after a long, miserable practice or a dirty, hard-fought game. And nowadays, it was her toughness he channeled when coaching a prima donna of a player who forgot there was no “I” in “team”. Sometimes he would close his eyes and imagine he could even feel the way her body had fit against him their last day together. The time she’d kissed him with a desperate longing that had matched his.
“Because I’m new here, and I want some company to go exploring with,” he said. “Who better than my oldest mate?”
“I’m sure you could round up plenty of company,” she said, her tone dry. Then her face softened and she rested her hand on his forearm. “It’s so good to see you again, Liam.”
“I’m going to be staying here in the city.” He didn’t like that she looked at him as though he were a ghost or a memory, not a living, breathing man. “So I expect to see you often.”
She just shook her head and started to pull her hand away. He covered it, holding it in place, savoring the feel of her delicate bones against his palm. “It’s the Christmas season, Frankie. I want to spend it with someone who’s like family to me.”
Her fingertips pressed into his arm. “Would I be your sister or a favorite aunt?”
“More like a very distant cousin, the kissing kind. There’s mistletoe aplenty this time of year.”
She leaned toward him and lifted her free hand to brush a hank of his hair back, the feel of her fingers against the skin of his temple sending a rope of heat straight down to his groin.
“I can’t decide if seeing you makes me feel old or young,” she said.
He gave her his best roguish grin. “You’ll find out tomorrow, I promise you.”
