“Who?”
Declan nudged his chin toward the television. “Harold Hopewell. Billionaire. Routinely beat Dad on those stupid money magazine lists for top billionaires.”
“Huh.” The papers Suzanne had given him suddenly burned a hole in his back pocket as a preternatural creeping sensation took over all the bare skin on his body.
Coincidence.
Five shots later, Declan paid for all the beer, grudgingly shaking Gerald’s hand after being soundly trounced. He did not reveal any details about his honeymoon. The two kicked back in uncomfortable, slightly sticky wooden chairs, and watched an anemic darts game being played by two drunk old geezers wearing Marines baseball hats.
“So this is how people hang out.” Declan watched as Gerald peeled the corner of the label on his beer. “You just waste time and shoot the shit.” He frowned, then sniffed. “This place smells like Louie’s Last Stand.”
“What’s that?”
“A dive casino that Anterdec owns in Las Vegas.”
“I think all old bars have a scent they patent. It’s the smell of desperation, defeat, and lovesick tears.”
“And anger,” Declan added. He sniffed again. “And old Fritos.”
“And puke.”
Declan shot him a disgusted look.
“You’re the hospitality industry expert.”
“Not anymore. Now I’m just a coffee chain owner.”
“You’ll never be just anything, sir—er, Declan.”
The two stood at the same time, as if thinking the same thought.
“Gotta go—”
“Time to head out—”
“I’ll get you next time,” Declan vowed, face tight at the memory of losing. “You snookered me.”
“Yeah, but I’m the one who spilled his guts.” Gerald laughed as the blast of outside air caught him short, his inhale a shock. This part of Boston was gentrifying, filled with a mix of old shabby bars and fried-food joints and trendy haute-cuisine bistros. Lofts were being carved out of the old warehouses above the street-level shops. It was the It Neighborhood, and the Westside Center for the Arts was both benefitting and hurting from the change.
More people than ever were coming to the classes and supporting the cause.
And the landlord was about to double their rent.
“I’m a street kid. Had to learn to shark it,” he admitted.
Declan’s face clouded. “An actual street kid?”
“Nah. Not homeless. But my parents were what they call ‘free range.’ Lots of time on my hands. Too many bars nearby. I was playing for ice cream money by twelve.”
“At twelve, I was taking ballroom dancing lessons and spending summers in Russia working on the language,” Declan answered.
The two looked at each other.
And shrugged.
The last two blocks to the garage near the arts center were a quick trip, the booze giving Gerald a buzz, the conversation both jarring and deeply satisfying. You spend years elevating someone to a position of authority because you have no choice, and then you get to know them for who they really are.
And find out that the very personal underbelly is even better.
Chapter 4
Suzanne really did have a date. She wasn’t lying. Stacking the timing of events was intentional, so she could have an out.
Also, so she could feel the smug satisfaction from Gerald’s reaction.
At least, that’s what she thought she wanted.
Instead, she felt sick to her stomach, still reeling from the look on his face.
The dinner date was at a restaurant just four blocks away, so she walked, her feet killing her from wearing high heels all day, but sore arches were the least of her worries. My God. Gerald.
How could a man look better after ten years?
He’d never been a classically handsome man. When they’d first met in Afghanistan, he looked like any other angry soldier. Second tour of duty, worn down and worn in, Gerald had gleaming blue eyes that changed color with whatever he wore, shaved his tawny hair to bald perfection, and wore government-issue uniforms like they were cut to fit him for a Men’s Health cover shot. He had a body like a personal trainer combined with a Navy SEAL.
Which was—to a T—Gerald.
Suzanne had gotten off the transport plane and run into him, tripping on the final step of the ramp, her bag in hand flying in an arc.
The guy had caught it—one-handed—by the handles, his other hand on her elbow, steadying her.
And he hadn’t moved a step.
“Careful.” That word. That voice. Like an old-fashioned disk jockey from the 1960s, all funk and sex appeal in vocal cord form, but with a military edge.
This was a man in command of himself.
She wanted to lose control in that voice.
Their eyes locked, and the brush of his fingertips against hers as he handed her the bag had said more than any response she could give, her addled mind, her racing heart capable only of an anemic, “Thank you.”
He’d looked at her and paused, clearly hiding emotion. “Ensign Dayton.”
They were equals.
She returned the favor.
“Ensign Wright.”
Now she faced a different introduction, one under considerably more stress, but in an environment that was about forty degrees cooler.
Like her heart.
Life in the States, especially in big cities like Boston, still caught her off-guard at odd moments. Two years she’d spent in Afghanistan, and thirty-two years she’d spent living in the U.S., and yet it was the sophisticated, high-stress, high-gloss life of modern urban America that felt foreign at times.