The Good Chase (4 page)

“Is that Baby K crying?” he asked, as the little girl squawked in the background.

“Yeah. I should go. Talk to you next Saturday?”

“I'll be in Rhode Island, but absolutely. Call and I'll make sure I'm available. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

And speaking of Rhode Island, just as Byrne set his phone next to him on the couch and reached for the whisky again, a new group text came through from George:
No rooms anywhere in Rhode Island. Don't worry, I got us covered.

That should be interesting.

Then George texted a photo of the most massive RV in existence.
Pack your sleeping bags
, it read.
We're going camping.

3

A
week after seeing Marco, Shea still had a bad taste in her mouth that no amount of whisky chasing could cure.

Now she stood happily behind the tiny card table serving as her tasting station at the “Rhode High-land Games.” Cringe-worthy name aside, this event was exactly what she'd needed after a busy workweek topped off with late nights at the Amber.

The sun was setting on the Friday night opening party, and the intimate festival setup made for a cozy, fun atmosphere. Next to her table, the volunteers at the beer station were having a grand time sampling the cider and ale and were making for some interesting conversation. Across the main thoroughfare, people wandered in and out of the marketplace tents. Children giggled and squealed as their newly purchased wooden swords and battle-axes and shields clattered in play. Out on the athletic field, a reenactment of the valiant Battle of Bannockburn was taking place, accompanied by the soundtrack of bagpipes off to one side.

How could anyone not love the sound of bagpipes? Honestly.

Though she'd chatted up plenty of eager, fun whisky tasters there to enjoy the Friday night events before the fair opened wider tomorrow, the evening was almost over, and she was looking forward to food and rest.

“Just wanted to make sure everything was to your liking.” Ernestine, the games' organizer, wandered over holding a plastic cup of cider. She looked a little sad-eyed with drink, even though her mouth was smiling, showing lipstick on her front teeth.

Shea grinned. “Absolutely.”

And it was. Not as lovely a setting as Gleann, New Hampshire's mountains and valleys, but far better than the overdecorated, overpriced setup on Long Island. The diminished attendance in Rhode Island didn't bother Shea one bit. In fact, she enjoyed everything more because of it.

“I just wanted to thank you for contacting me about having this whisky thing,” Ernestine said. She'd already thanked Shea earlier, but the woman looked like she was having such a good time it didn't matter. “What a great idea! It's been such a wonderful addition this year. Everyone who's come over here has loved you.
Loved
you.” Complete with jazz hands and eyes rolled to the darkening sky.

The NYC Scottish Society had hired Shea for the Long Island games with strict specifications as to what they wanted, but coming to Rhode Island had been Shea's own idea. Here she had more accessible Scotch choices, better pricing, and a casual, open vibe. Hell, she'd even worn jeans.

As the reenactment ended and Robert the Bruce was hoisting his sword in the air, the bagpipes crescendoed over the sound of scattered applause.

Shea pulled out her phone and dialed. “Hi, Dad! Guess where I am?”

He chuckled. “I have no idea. On second thought, I hear pipes in the background. Knowing you? Scotland.”

“Closer to you. Rhode Island. They're having a little Highland Games and I decided to come up for the weekend.”

“Well, now how about that. Your granddad would be so pleased. And on his birthday, no less.”

Tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder, she started to gather up used plastic cups with one hand, tossing them in the nearby garbage can. “I know; that's part of the reason why I came. He would've gotten a kick out of Robert the Bruce over there. Wait, I take that back. He probably would've stumbled onto the field and corrected formations and story lines.”

Her dad laughed, but it sounded a little thin. Shea had always gotten along with and understood her grandfather far better than his own son.

This night, these games, made her feel close to Granddad again, but not in sadness over the fact that he was gone. More like a celebration of his life and all that he'd taught and given her. And he'd given her a great deal; she was reminded of that nearly every day.

“You're still coming mid-July, right?” Dad asked. “For our games?”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

“We'll make up your old bed for you.”

Ernestine's voice came over the shrill sound system, announcing an end to that evening and wishing everyone a pleasant sleep before the gates opened at nine tomorrow.

“I gotta run, Dad. Need to clean up and eat something before heading to the campground.”

“Shea.” And suddenly she was seventeen again, standing before her parents, telling them Granddad had invited her to live in Scotland the summer before college started. “You're not camping alone, are you?”

She'd done so well not mentioning the whisky, and then she'd gone and let slip the thing about herself being a single woman sleeping among trees and bears and axe murderers. How silly of her!

“I'm fine. I'm thirty-two and I've camped alone before. Dozens of times.” That was a lie. It had only been the once—last year in Gleann—but it had turned out wonderfully. So much so that she'd gone out and bought all new equipment and had been looking forward to pitching her tent several times this summer.

“That doesn't make me not worry.”

“Nothing makes you stop worrying, Dad. When I'm fifty I'm going to have to answer questions about where I'm going and with whom and whether or not I had the right jacket. Okay, I really have to go.” Easiest way out of a potentially awkward conversation with him? Always have an excuse of something else to do. Otherwise he'd keep her on the line forever. “Talk to you soon.”

He sighed. “Love you. You have your weatherproof coat?”

“Ha-ha. Love you, too.”

By the time she put away all her bottles in locked storage and wiped down the tasting station, it was fairly dark and her stomach demanded food. She could grab a bite here, but there were only so many pasties and fish and chips and sausages she could eat. Too late to get the propane stove going and try to cook something at her campsite, so she found a restaurant along the side of the highway between the festival grounds and her campground.

The Tufted Duck Supper Club was little more than a double-wide trailer with a slapped-on deck encircling it, but all the outdoor tables were filled, and a small crowd of people lingered on the steps going in, waiting for their chance at a menu. Inside was a little less cramped. Such a perfect night—not too hot, not too cold—that everyone wanted to be out in the air, she guessed. She knew the feeling.

Memorial Day weekend near the coast on a lovely Friday evening. Anywhere in Rhode Island except a fast-food place would be just as crowded. Since she did have standards and wasn't willing to sacrifice digestion for convenience, she wedged her way deeper into the restaurant and found the bar at the back, three out of four padded seats taken by single diners. She became the fourth, sliding onto the leather.

“Lemonade, please,” she told the bartender during his pause in snapping off beer caps. “And the biggest plate of nachos you have. Lots of guacamole.”

The bartender grinned and nodded. She sent texts to Dean and her office manager, checking in for the night, then pulled out her e-reader.

Casual sex and violent fights and swearing—everything she wasn't allowed to read growing up—she now inhaled like a starved woman. She'd last left her dashing hero and beautiful and courageous heroine after they'd survived a car chase through the avenues of old-town Salzburg, and they were now about to get naked somewhere in the hilltop castle after having broken in to get away from the bad guys. Because why the hell wouldn't you have sex in a castle while on the run?

She scarfed down the nachos and sipped her lemonade as the book action intensified. The noise in the small restaurant dropped away, and she got lost in the most perfect alone time. As much as she liked her work, it felt wonderful to not be there right now, to have a night off outside the city.

After she scraped the last molecule of cheese from the plate with the very last crumb of tortilla chip, she reached for her drink and finally noticed how much more crowded the restaurant had gotten. It was after nine, and the vibe had shifted to a bar atmosphere. People stood crammed between the tables, laughing and clinking glasses. Even the bad rock music had gotten louder. Her cue to leave. That tent and sleeping bag were calling her name.

“Hey. I know you.”

A guy with a lean, fashion-model build, alcohol-slanted eyes, and loosened tie shoved himself into her vision, practically unseating the quiet man on the next stool. The quiet man had also been reading but now looked ready to smack his library paperback over the interloper's head.

Shea, however, was a little more practiced in drunk diplomacy. She practically had a degree in it. She looked at the man in the disheveled yet clearly pricey suit, ready to send him on his way, and realized that she knew him, too. But only because he'd come into the Amber just last week, and he hadn't exactly made a good impression.

Do not engage. Repeat, do not engage.
Tucking her e-reader into her purse, she took out her credit card and waved it at the nice bartender.

“What's wrong?” The new guy was beyond drunk. Quickly moving into “absolutely smashed” and “about to puke” territory. Not even worth her breath to respond. She just had to get out of there, and she could put him and about a thousand other Drinkers out of her head. What the hell was he doing
here
, of all places anyway?

“What's wrong is that you're crowding me,” said the male reader on the other side.

“Sorry,” Shea said around the drunk's shoulder. “He was just leaving.”

“The hell I was.”

Great. Before, last week in the Amber, he'd leered at her like she was bacon, like he was thinking every single sexual thing that would make her mother have a heart attack. Now he was already moving into sharp-edged, inexplicable anger, and she wasn't even three sentences into the brush-off.

As the bartender took Shea's credit card, the wasted guy actually moved in closer.

“Hey.” She threw up a hand between them. “You need to back off.”

“Why'd you kick me out before? I was a paying customer. You embarrassed me.” She could barely understand him. The words all blurred together.

“No, sir,” she snapped. “You embarrassed yourself. Although this performance might leave the other one in the dust.”

“Dan.” Another voice interjected. Deeper, more authoritative, and about a million times more sober. “What's going on?”

Dan the Drunk looked down at his arm, where the newcomer had grabbed his elbow.

The newcomer. Who was Byrne the rugby player.
Here
. Was this roadside restaurant the universe's vortex for all random run-ins?

Byrne didn't look anything like a rugby player anymore. Clean face, short dark hair shiny and artfully mussed on top, not a drop of sweat anywhere. He wore gray suit pants and an expensive, pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. No tie, the top button undone. His shoulders looked even wider than she remembered, the top of his head reaching even taller, his arms thick and powerful like his legs. All of that should have made buying such finely fit clothing a chore, but then the answer was obvious.

Bespoke.

Byrne the rugby player was also the kind of guy who wore bespoke clothing. The kind of guy who could afford to have shirts and suits made specifically for his body, of only the finest fabric, by highly trained tailors. Which meant he was the kind of guy who actually cared about those kinds of things. And only guys who cared about their clothes like that were guys involved in a money world that told them specifically
to
care.

The price tag for one of those shirts would probably make all of Middle America choke. She knew that because ages ago she'd almost spit out her latte when Marco had told her how much one of his bespoke shirts had cost. Now the fountain of wristbands at the Long Island Highland Games made a world of sense. He liked to show off. He wasn't Rugby Byrne anymore, but Bespoke Byrne. Greeaaat.

Byrne yanked Dan out from between the bar stools, and Dan had to clamp on to Byrne's shoulder to keep his balance. Byrne peeled off Dan's fingers. “What's going on?”

Dan grinned a liquid grin and threw up his hands. “Nothing, man. Was going to the bathroom. Saw her sitting here. Recognized her, is all.”

Byrne finally looked at her, eyebrows drawn over those sinfully blue eyes. “Is he bothering you?”

“
No
,” Dan said, in the tone of a fourth grader accused of stealing stickers from the teacher's desk. Cocky, spoiled men. Shea's favorite.

“Yes,” she told Byrne. “He is.”

“Dude,” Dan said to Byrne. “I had Grant Chalmers in town last week. Took him to the Amber. And she fucking
kicked me out
. Right in front of him.”

Byrne cringed, his eyes shutting for longer than a blink. “Chalmers,” he muttered, hands sliding to his hips. “Shit.”

Shea was a little taken aback that Byrne seemed to be more affected by this supposedly important guy's presence than the fact she'd had to kick Dan out because of the terrible scene he'd made.