With his free hand, he takes mine and walks me to the first couple we see. They’re twentysomething, college kids, I’d guess, given their trendy clothes.
“Excuse me,” Nate says to them.
I jerk his arm in protest. What is he doing?
He ignores me. The couple regards us curiously.
“This is my girlfriend, Vivian Steele.”
The guy blinks at me. “Nice to meet you. Rocco. This is my girlfriend, Bev.”
After a pair of awkward handshakes and a “nice to meet you” from all parties, Nate whisks me away.
“What was that about?” I ask him. “And did you call me your girlfriend?” That detail hits me a little late.
“They didn’t hate you.”
“They’re babies. They don’t know who Walter Steele was.”
His mouth tips in consideration. He walks us over to a pair of guys. The same intro follows. “Hi. This is my girlfriend, Vivian Steele. She’s the daughter of Walter Steele, the rich asshole who robbed a lot of innocent people of their life savings.”
“Shit,” one guy says, thick eyebrows rising over the rim of his black glasses. “Seriously?”
I give him a sickly smile. I feel like dying.
“Jamal.” He offers a hand and I stare at it in shock. He wants to shake my hand? He grips my fingers and holds them for a beat. “That sucks, Vivian. Least you know what not to do with your life.”
His friend introduces himself next. Pablo. We part with well wishes.
Not done yet, Nate approaches a pair of forty-something ladies next. They are leaning over the bar, their raucous laughter suggesting the martinis aren’t their first. I shoot daggers at Nate as I nod to the drinks. Guess they do serve martinis.
He ignores my silent complaint and recites his introduction, but this time when he mentions my father he says, “Do you think Vivian can escape Walter Steele’s shadow?”
“Aw, of course, hon.” The blond woman squeezes my arm. “We’re not our parents. You can make better decisions. You already have judging by your boyfriend.” She sizes up Nate a tad lecherously. “A good man is hard to find.”
“I thought a hard man was good to find,” crows her friend with a hooting laugh. She then winks at me. “Take it from me, girl. You walk away from your sketchy father and become your own woman. His weakness is your power.”
“Thank you.” That was unexpected. And strangely poignant.
Nate thanks them too, and starts off toward another couple. I stop walking, my hand in his. He comes back to me when I give his arm a tug.
“I get it,” I say. “Not everyone knows who I am, and once they do, they don’t care.”
“Hate to break it to you, kid. You are not the center of the universe. Also, you owe me a thousand dollars.”
I punch him in the arm. He deserves it. He chuckles, but sobers quickly.
“No one is after you.” He wraps his arms around my waist. “Not anymore. Walter Steele is dead and his story died with him. It’s up to you, and Walt, to be better than him. Mission accomplished. By both of you.”
The emotion hits me out of nowhere, similar to the evening I crumpled to the floor at Nate’s house and he scooped me up. Luckily, it’s not grief or despair gripping my heart. It’s gratitude. So much of it, I can hardly stand under its weight.
I cup his neck and pull his mouth to mine. I taste beer on his tongue. Never the shy one, he deepens our kiss and we receive wolf-whistles for our PDA.
The band returns to take the stage, making it far too loud to converse any longer. I finish my beer. I dance. I order another.
I bask in the glow of being anonymous. Ordinary. Overlooked.
Chapter Nineteen
Vivian
It’s official. Nate has turned me into a hibernating bear.
I wake to an empty bed in the hotel and stretch my arms overhead. The white bedding is muted given the room-darkening curtains. Thankfully he left them open a crack. If not for the wedge of sun streaming in I might have slept even later. I quickly search the room, but Nate, as per his usual, has already risen and shined. Who knows where he’s gallivanted off to. I imagine he’ll return with a gift, or better, breakfast.
I shower and wash my hair, shaking off the fatigue from our travels and that “one more” beer I indulged in at Pint Haus. That last one is never a good idea. When will I learn?
I’m in the middle of drying my hair, naked, thanks to my towel falling off mid-blowout, when I hear the door open and close. Nate strides by.
“Hey, you.” I grab my towel and loop it around my body, intending to flash him when he turns around. What stops me is his expression. Murderous isn’t the right word, but close. There’s a palpable hurt beneath the rage that makes what he’s feeling hard to classify.
He sets down the white bakery bag and offers me a paper coffee cup. “Cappuccino. Croissants.”
“How very French of you,” I say carefully, gripping my towel. His eyes go to my hand but they don’t glaze over with lust. Something is very, very wrong.
He presses his fingers to his forehead as he strolls across the room. I pull on some clothes while he looks out the window, his jeans and T-shirt silhouetted in the sunlight streaming through the now-open curtains. His shoulders are tight. His back muscles twitch.
I approach on cat’s paws and touch his arm. “Nate, are you—”
“I saw her.”
My heart sinks to my stomach. Not at his words, but his tone. He faces me. The hurt triples as some of the rage fades.
“My mother,” he explains. “I found out where she lives and I paid her a visit.”
I want to ask how she is but I’m not sure how he found her, so I keep my question to myself. He saves me the trouble.
“She wasn’t high.”
“That’s good.”
“She asked me for money so she could get high. I told her no. She yelled. She screamed. She told me I was abusing her by not giving her the ‘medicine’ she needs.” He speaks through clenched teeth. I have no idea what to do. Touch him or don’t?
“I’m sorry.”
“I begged her to go to rehab. I offered to take her right then. Told her I’d pay for her stay and visit twice a month.” His hurt-filled eyes hit me like a sock to the stomach. “Know what she said?”
I shake my head. I don’t think I want to know what she said. Unfortunately he’s going to tell me.
“She told me her son abandoned her. That I was dead as far as she was concerned. Then she attacked me. I think she was going for my wallet.” He holds his arm out. In the sunlight, I make out shallow scratch marks.
“Oh my God. Nate.” I reach for him but he shakes me off.
“I envisioned reconciling some of the guilt I still feel for leaving her. I thought I could help. I can’t help her if she doesn’t want it.”
“You’re right. You can’t.”
“It’s my job to help others.”
“No. Your job is to provide homes and workplaces for people who want to be part of a community,” I correct. “Not drag people to a conclusion they have to reach on their own.”
“What about last night?” he asks, a frown carving his brow. “You didn’t need dragged to a conclusion that Walter Steele isn’t running your life?”