Page 13 of Troubled Water
And I promised. It makes my heart sick to think about all the promises that have been broken in my life, leaving me with no choice but to keep my own when I make them. So, I’ve become a new pillar supporting the wall in Libby Sullivan’s home. I’m not just obligated to celebrate the expansion of her design business, Deja Vu, as one of her friends but as her work colleague since, according to her, “If it wasn’t for your incredible construction skills, B, I’d never have been able to put Deja Vu on the map.”
I countered her claim, but my business lines have been ringing off the hook since Libby gave me a shout-out during her acceptance speech when Deja Vu won the Pinnacle Award at the Premier Design Awards last month.
Libby’s husband, Cal, saunters up next to me. I’m about to collapse against him and beg him not to leave me in this sea of strangers that have invaded their home, but that’s before he opens his mouth—a mouth Libby has stressed on more than one occasion speaks before it thinks. “I almost didn’t recognize you, Bethany.”
“Why not?”
“A dress? Heels?” He leans closer. “Is there someone you’re trying to impress? Come on, you can let me know. I keep secrets for a living.”
Even knowing he’s telling the truth about his profession, I still hiss, “It’s your wife’s fault. She banned my usual go-to wardrobe.”
He throws his head back, laughing uproariously. “Like I didn’t know that? According to Libby, the night at the Pinnacle Awards was the first time she’s ever seen you not in jeans.”
I bristle. “And the problem with that is?”
He holds his hands up before backing up a step as if in surrender. “None.”
I tug at the hem of my black cocktail dress, somehow hoping that might stretch the material a few more inches closer to my knee than theVbetween my legs. Yeah. No such luck. I release a sigh before admitting, “Until last month, I didn’t own anything more formal than jeans and boots.”
For some reason, that causes Cal’s face to soften. Slinging an arm around my shoulders, he guides me away from the wall. I immediately stumble in the asinine heels the store clerk gushed to me, “Are simply perfect with your dress.”
She obviously hadn’t tried to walk in them more than the six feet I had to ascertain their comfort or she’d have realized my idea of Doc Martens was a safer choice with the short black beaded number I was already self-conscious about.
Fortunately, Cal’s arm around my shoulders kept me upright even as he jokes, “Would a drink help correct those balance issues, B?”
I give it serious consideration for a moment before asking, “With my social awkwardness or my balance issues?”
“Either. Both.” To his credit, he tries to suppress the smirk that wants to spread across his handsome face.
I grumble, “I bet Libby doesn’t have these problems.”
“Wanna bet?”
My eyes widen as he stops a passing waiter to snag a glass of champagne, which he presses into my hand. He confides, “She’d much rather be barefoot in jeans running after the kids at our family home near Charleston.”
Recalling everything I was ever told about Elizabeth Akin Sullivan before I ever met her, I’m flabbergasted. Taking a moment to reconcile Cal’s Libby with the woman I heard stories about over the years, long before I met her—I take a cautious sip and scrunch my nose as the fizziness of the champagne worms its way into my sinus cavity. I sneer, “People pay good money to drink this?”
Cal’s eyes crinkle in the corner. I’m just waiting for him to make some kind of smart ass remark which might end up with him wearing the rest of these bubbles when his eyes narrow at something just beyond my shoulder. Before I can spin around in my stiletto death traps to see what’s wrong, his lips press together in a tight line before he grits out an almost tangible unwelcome, “Thorn.”
No. It can’t be. There has to be two men in this world with the same nickname.But Lady Luck, who has never been on myside, shows me I’m one of her least favorite people in the world because I hear a voice I never expected to hear again in my life—a voice whose very essence slithers through my body, melting away my well-erected barriers the way warm dark chocolate melts cold ice cream. “Cal. Quite the party. Where’s the woman of the hour?”
Cal waves his free arm in a vague circle. “Around. But it’s women of the hour.”
“Oh?”
I recall from that day spent in Mexico, Thorn is generally a man of few words. Unbidden, the way I met him surges to the forefront of my mind. The warmth of the Mexican sun, the burn of rum, the surge of desire from our kiss. I put an immediate stop to my thoughts. Stop.You met him when you were trying to escape, having just been freed from your prison of raising your brothers and sister after your father’s shell returned without your mother from their anniversary cruise. You met Thorn trying to celebrate being on your own and not feeling the pressure of keeping your father’s company afloat. Our worlds intersected for a simple heartbeat until he turned tail and ran when he realized who you are.
Then, like the chicken shit he was—is?—he ran away.
I’m stiff as a board beneath Cal’s draped arm, facing partially away when Thorn growls, “Did Libby get a dye job, or are you into blonds now?”
“Fuck you, Thorn. This is one of her friends.” Cal squeezes my shoulder as if to reassure me not to be offended by Thorn’s words.Don’t worry, Cal. I’m used to his obnoxious behavior.
My head twists away. In my head, I plead silently for him not to introduce us.
She listens to me for once. But the cowardly lion, as I choose to remember Thorn so I don’t fall into the occasional thoughts of “what if?” after that scorching kiss, just can’t let it drop. Hesteps closer to both of us. Shoving out his hand, his thick fingers, which I remember all too well tangled in my hair, he introduces himself. “Parker Thornton.”
“Thorn and I knew each other when he was a SEAL before I worked for Hudson Investigations,” Cal explains.
