Page 52

His phone beeps in the center console between us. I look at the screen. The name Henley flashes across it. He reaches down and silences it without taking his eyes off the road. “It’s not.” He shrugs, sliding the car between a taxi and a delivery truck.
“Well,” I say, looking out the window, so he won’t be able to see that I’m crying again. “It was a big deal to me.”
“You’re family.” He sighs, blowing past the downtown exit. “You don’t have to thank family for taking care of you.”
Hearing him say that makes it even harder to fight back the tears. “You missed the exit for my hotel,” I say, brushing my fingertips under my eyes.
“Are you listening, Legs?” Con shoots me another grin, signaling his way off the freeway. “You’re family. Family doesn’t fly coach, and they don’t stay in hotels.”
I know where he’s going. I’ve taken this exit a million times, and the sight of it clenches my gut. “I have reservations,” I say, desperate to go anywhere but where he’s taking me.
“Cancelled ‘em.” He hooks a right before shooting me a sidelong glance. “You okay, Legs? You don’t look so good.” I’m not looking at him, but I can hear it in his voice. That asshole is laughing at me.
“Fuck you.”
“You can’t stay in a hotel for an entire month, Legs.” He stops at a red light before shooting me a look. “Besides—do you know what my Da would do to me if he found out I dropped you at a Super 8?”
I think of Paddy. His broad, affable face. His easy grin and lovely brogue. “You’re afraid of your father?”
“Terrified.” He turns onto Sutton. “But only half as terrified as I am of me Mam,” he says, affecting a convincing Irish brogue of his own.
“Your mom’s a sweetheart,” I say, allowing myself to be momentarily distracted.
“Yeah? So was Mussolini.”
I can see Gilroy’s looming in the distance and start to panic. “Please, Conner,” I say, hating the way my voice trembles. “Please take me to the hotel. I can’t—” I shake my head, hand pressed to my stomach. It flips and flops, harder and faster, the closer we get. “I’m not ready.”
Instead of doing what I ask, Con pulls into Gilroy’s gravel lot and parks. “He’s not here,” he says, finally taking pity on me. “He and Dec have been buried, neck deep in work—so much so that he’s finally agreed to hire a part-time bartender.” He kills the engine and turns in his seat to look at me. “He doesn’t even live here anymore.”
“What?” I whip around to look at him so fast, my neck cramps up. “He—” I swallow hard, shaking my head. “He loves it here.”
“That may be so,” Con says, dangling a key in front of my face. My old keychain. Brand-new key. “But he moved out the day you left.”
“He said he was going to.” Look out the windshield at the building in front of me. “I just thought… I thought he was moving out because of me.”
Con drops the key into my hand before popping his trunk. “He did.”
It hits me hard. Knowing that he left a place that he loved because I ruined it for him. “How is he?” I told myself I wouldn’t ask. That I wouldn’t give Conner the opportunity to give me one of his knowing smiles or tell me again how badly I’ve screwed things up. But I’m asking because not knowing is absolutely killing me. “I thought… I thought maybe he’d—”
Call me. Reach out to me. Ask me to come home.
“He’s good.” Con’s tone is neutral. Almost passive. No knowing smile. No he deserves better lecture. “Like I said, he’s busy.” Then he pops his door open and steps into the cold, leaving me alone in the car. Before I can count to five, I’m scrambling out of the car after him.
“Look,” I say, reaching into the trunk of the car to retrieve my bags. “I know I left—”
“Hands off, Legs—I’m workin’ here.” He pulls my hand off the handle of my suitcase and gives me an annoyed glance. I catch a glimpse of new ink under the cuff of his jacket.
Remembering what the stewardess said, I pull at the cuff of his jacket. “You got a new tattoo?” I say, turning my head, trying to get a better look at it.
“What?” He looks at his wrist before jerking the cuff of his jacket down to cover the ink. “You expected us all to stand in one fucking spot until you got back?”
I stand back, feeling helpless, and watch while he pulls my bags from the trunk of his car. “I didn’t mean to hurt him, you know.” He shoves my carry-on into my hands, and I shoulder the strap. “I just thought it would be better if—”
“I don’t want to have this conversation with you, Cari.” He slams the trunk lid and hefts my suitcase. “And believe me, you don’t want to have it with me either.”
Again, he leaves me stunned, skirting around me while he heads across the parking lot, my suitcase swinging at his side. Conner has never called me Cari. Not ever. It tells me that beneath his easy-going, you’re family vibe he’s got going, he’s angry. And not just at me.
I scramble after him, barely making it before the side-door slams in my face. Catching it with my foot, I wedge it open, stepping in before making a hard left to make my way up the stairs to our apartment.