Catching Serenity (Serenity #4) (30 page)

I look at the clock sighing at the time. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be right back.”

“We can’t start without you or Quinn.”

“Yes you can, friend.” When I smile at her, Autumn’s shoulders lower as though I somehow will save the day. “But you better not.”

QUINN HAS ALWAYS
disliked Cavanagh, that he’ s made abundantly clear. It is nothing, I assume, like Dublin. He is used to the excitement of a large city, the fast pace and diversity, the buzz of something always going down. Cavanagh is the opposite of all that, so Quinn took to his warehouse, hiding from his brother, from the slow pace of our lives and the natural environment of our surroundings.
Shitehole.
That’s what he made of our small town. But it was Quinn who hid in near squalor. He was the one who chose to retreat to a run down, dank building and dusty room rather than join his family and the life he could have with us.

Nevertheless, that warehouse had been a haven for us, and it is where I hurriedly drive to retrieve him, to bring him back. I’m sure he’ll be there.

I have no illusions about how he’ll welcome me or if he will at all. I only know that returning to this place and dragging him to the wedding—kicking and screaming if I have to— will calm my best friend and make her wedding day the sweet, simple affair she’s always wanted.

The sidewalk is empty of parked cars and there is little traffic that surrounds the building. I fuss with my dress—a simple, pale purple baby doll number with a understated beaded bust and a tapered skirt —adjusting it as I near the building. But when the mural on the side of the building comes into view, it stops me cold, save for the pounding of my heart in my chest.

He finally finished Rhea’s mural.

It is everything she would have wanted—light and magic, a wonderful cosmic fantasy that seems to breathe like a living creature. The blues and blacks of the backgrounds are lush, the brilliant cluster of stars seems to blink and shine even in the midafternoon light. Rhea is positioned right in the center of the building—the mountains guard and protect the town as Rhea soars from the ground, away from the trees and mountains. She flies into the ether, arms outstretched, hair flowing down her back, cascading against her cape. She is fierce. She is power. She is amazingly free. And below her Quinn and I hold each other, watching her fly away.

Before I realize it, my face grows wet with tears, threatening to mess up my makeup. But as much as I want to just stand and stare at the precious mural, time is wasting, and I hurry into the building, traversing the cluttered lobby and up that massive stair case, listening for any activity, for any movement that might give Quinn away.

There is none. Not in the front room or hallway on the second floor, not in the makeshift bedroom he’s crafted near the back of the room. But all around the small mattress stuffed in a corner, littering on the floor and pinned to the walls, are sketches—hundreds of sketches that paint a picture of the life Quinn has led in the month since Rhea died—or the life he wishes he had.

There is Rhea playing on the pitch with Declan—this version of the Irishman with a kinder, gentler face and a brilliant smile. There is Rhea and Carol sitting on the edge of a long pier, their feet floating in the still water with a brilliant sunset behind them. There is Quinn and Rhea leveling the villainous
Death Doctor C
, eradicating him and his poisonous needles with karate chops from their fists and fearsome kicks from their feet. Then Rhea, with wings that stretch and seem to flap, that beautiful green and blue fairy with iridescent skin and hair that fans out to touch her wings. She is remarkable, so beautiful, and I can only lay my palm flat below my collarbone to keep my heartbeat even and calm.

Quinn had drawn the world he envisioned. He’d left these characters here, illustrating the life he must have wished for, the one that existed in his mind. Rhea alive and happy. Declan generous, kind, how we saw him all the time, how Quinn had only just discovered his brother to be.

But there, next to the bed in the center in the wall, is a sketch that seems to have been carefully drawn. Time and attention had been paid to each stroke, the barest hint of erased and redrawn lines. The image is more finished than the others, an elegant depiction that staggers me, leaves me breathless.

Of all the things I have seen Quinn draw, nothing, not even that remarkable mural or the treatment he’s given to my sweet cousin’s image, felt as real, as alive, as cared for as this image.

My face. My mouth, my nose, the oval shape of my eyes, even the arch of my brows. Quinn had created me as he saw me. Beautiful. Luminous. Looking at the picture, I take in the smooth lines, the subtle curves. They feel kissed, touched by his hands, fashioned from whatever it was he felt for me and as I study the sketch my heart shudders again with the basic, absolute knowledge that Quinn loves me.

If I know anything, I know that.

Quinn loves me.

It’s in the pout on my lips, the way they look well kissed and full. It’s in the perfection in my imperfections, the scar on my temple that he somehow made to look flattering. It’s in the arch of my cheekbones, how they are pronounced, not dulled by my full cheeks.

With every stroke he promises to love me.

With every line, he shows me what lives in his heart.

The sudden vibration of my phone pulls my attention away from the sketch and the sensation of want, of love and desire that courses through me.

Quinn is here. Get to here asap!
Autumn’s text reads and I nod, as though she can see me, not to acknowledge what she says, but to settle in my mind my intention.

I want to claim what’s mine.

THERE HAS NEVER
been a more awkward moment in my life. Back straight, stomach twisted in knots, I stand across the aisle as my best friend marries her love. It is sweet, the way they look at each other—attention focuses, eyes never flicking away from each other’s faces—there is real love, real trust and companionship in the looks they give each other. It was a long time coming—years, in fact. So many broken promises that became impossible hopes, that became guarantees that the past had been forgiven, and it all led here, in this moment as Autumn looks up at Declan, as they watch each other surrounded by the small congregation of family and friends.

I don’t think either one of them listen much to what the priest says. Declan stretches his hand, touches her face as though he can’t keep his hands to himself. As though he must touch her, just to see if she’s real.

It’s sweet. It’s enviable.

And then, there’s Quinn.

God help me, I can’t look at him. It’s ridiculous, really. I shouldn’t be acting this way. The man has seen me naked. He’s touched and tasted the most intimate parts of my body. He’s rendered me breathless just with his mouth and fingers. And, damn it all, I love him. If I’m not completely wrong, he loves me too.

So why the hell can I not look at him?

“If there is anyone who objects to this union…” the priest’s pointless words pull my attention back to the altar, to the smile illuminating Autumn’s face—and the almost humorous glare Declan sends around the church. His threat isn’t necessary. The only people in this building are friends and family, none of whom want anything more than for Declan and Autumn besottedly bound forever. There’s a vain hope among us that marriage will calm them, possibly take some of the arrogance out of them. Those two think they invented romance and love. It’s a little insulting. And endearing.

“McShane,” Declan whispers, slipping on that ring that has burned a hole in his pocket for two years. Her name comes out like a wish and the big Irishman doesn’t seem able to stop himself from kissing her forehead, from holding her cheek as she slips his ring on his free hand.

And then, the permission for the kiss comes and Declan doesn’t wait, Autumn doesn’t wait, and the couple kiss like their lungs will only fill with the touch of their mouths. All around us, Joe, Mollie, even Ava, claps, smiles and laughs as that kiss lingers. Declan kisses his bride and tears get in the way of my laughter as my best friend hugs me and the couple leave the altar. I hadn’t needed to worry about Quinn walking me down the aisle when I returned from the warehouse. Joe had tugged him bodily to the altar, after making Quinn smooth down his hair and his slightly rumpled shirt. I suspect a long night and lots of whiskey had been the culprit that made Quinn late for his brother’s wedding. But, no, I hadn’t had him forced on me as I walked down the aisle.

But now I do.

His stance is too straight, his look mildly annoyed as we stand side by side and, as though it’s an afterthought, Quinn stiffly extends his arm, offering me his elbow. But there isn’t a hint of amusement in his eyes.

I take his damn elbow anyway just to breath in his cologne. Just to get a private flash of how warm he always is, how his muscles bunch and flex on their own.

Shit.

We stand like this—my arm wrapped in his, our legs touching, my fingers resting on his bicep—while the photographer annoys us with one picture after another. It seems like ages before I can break away, only to have that camera pointed back in my face and Quinn moved directly behind me as the photograph snaps “bridal party” pictures.

“Jaysus, aren’t you done, mate?” Quinn asks the guy, grunting to himself when Autumn glares at him.

“Sayo, you look so pretty in that color,” my best friend offers, beaming like a proud mother as the photographer checks the light and Declan gawks at his new bride, completely under her spell. But Autumn is devious and I know the game she’s playing. Quinn, bless him, has no clue what sort of manipulator his brother just married. “She’s beautiful, right, Quinn?” Autumn asks, stepping next to him and pulling his hand to my hip. “There. Lovely, right?”

“Autumn…”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you two look like a couple.”

“Autumn…”

“Is that what we look like?” Quinn asks, sliding his hand over my belly. “Perhaps you’d like an action shot?” And the Quinn twists me around, holding the back of my neck while he dips me. “Play as though you still like me,” he whispers. And then, that smug bastard kisses me slow, taking his time, earning a few whistles from Joe and Vaughn. “See now?” he says, still bending over me with his mouth just inches from mine, before he lets me back up. “I’m not so horrible, am I?”