My eyes narrow. “And neither did I.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” She tightens her hold on her purse, turning away.
Without thinking, I grab the crook of her elbow, hooking my hand around its curve, and I’m shocked when I feel Violet shudder, her curvy body trembling beneath my touch. Her skin feels warm beneath my hand—hot even.
I stand to my full height, feeling powerless despite my size. Lost for words.
But Violet’s eyes speak volumes as she stares at me, and her willingness to walk away without another word is a like a twist to my gut, a stab I hadn’t expected quite to hurt as much.
And who was I to talk hurt?
I was the one who walked away. Flew, in fact.
Three thousand miles and twelve months couldn’t lessen the lust that flared every time I saw the tantalizing attorney, and I’m still slammed in the solar plexus as I lay eyes on her, every ounce of my body desperate for another second. I motion to her expensive drink, still sitting there—lonely—on the mahogany bar. I nod towards it, inhaling harshly through my nose.
“You going to let that go to waste?”
She glances over at the glass with a shrug. “Drink it, if it suits you. Fucking snort it. Inhale it. Do with it what you want.”
“We’re still going to have to see each other.”
“Up until Marilyn gets better. Or you fly back out of town. Whichever comes first.”
The dig stings, and I try to shake it off, the comment piercing a fragile piece of me I didn’t know existed. I tighten my hold on her.
“Marilyn is counting on all of us to pull it together for her. I know my sister. I don’t know about you…but I wouldn’t want the wrath of Marilyn Sparrow on my ass. I’ve seen my sister break people down till there’s nothing left but their balls.”
Violet flashes a dry smile. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t have a set of balls.” She turns once more.
“You’re really going to do this, Keats?” I call out as she slips from my grasp. “Keep up this wall?”
She turns, stopping several feet down the bar. “You built up this wall, Heath. I’m just reinforcing it.” She shakes her head, letting strawberry strands of hair swing. “Have a good time in New York while you’re here, Heath. Don’t make this any worse. Or do. I don’t care.” She blinks, raising her face to me, her chin set in resistance. “But I do care about your sister.” She inhales. “And I know you do, too. If we give two fucks about her, we’ll keep the focus on her…” She hesitates. “And not each other.”
My stomach sinks with each passing second, reality setting like an ice-cold blanket of New York snow.
But Violet Keats isn’t what I came back for.
I’m here for my family only. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I’m reminded when I pick up her discarded glass, draining the entire drink. The taste is smoother than I thought, the bite nuanced. It’s not as bad as I predicted, but I know the few days will be…
As soon as I tell Violet why we can’t stay apart from each other—a fact that’s entirely out of my hands and in my father’s. A fact his lawyers made damned sure I can’t fight.
Chapter Six
VIOLET
Saturday afternoon
The next morning, I have the worst hangover of my entire life.
Except it has nothing do with alcohol and everything to do with Marilyn’s brother, a bastard I can’t seem to get out of my head.
It’s a Heath hangover. And I wish it would go away.
I try to sleep it away at night, try to run it away at the rising dawn. I try to freeze it away on my frigid fifteen block walk to Marilyn’s hospital room. And I try to shop it out my system two hours after I leave the beautiful brunette’s bedside.
Times Square is stuffed to the gills on this cold Saturday afternoon, packed to capacity with traveling tourists. Christmas has come and blanketed its cheer all over the city. The air shimmers with excitement and lights, and as I amble over to Rockefeller Center, shopping bags in hand, I marvel at all the city has given me…
And taken away.
The tourist-filled streets outside my personal bubble of space seem peaceful somehow—a quiet chaos. Metal and brick behemoth buildings cast a shadow over me as I now wander aimlessly, and with each slowly moving block, I watch the streets come alive with this year’s crop of fresh holiday decorations, my gaze dancing along all the dangling glitter that stretches as far as the eye can see.
That’s the thing about Manhattan.
Its shiny surface hides the multitudes of sin that lie beneath. No sin as deadly as the deceptively sexy sight of Heath Sparrow back in my city, his mere presence a punishment I hadn’t quite expected.
I’m still thinking of all that sexy sin when I slam headfirst into a wall of lilac scent and hair, my bags bumbling out of my hands and towards the icy sidewalk. I stumble, almost seeing my Maker as the slippery ground beneath me almost causes me to lose my footing.
Bending over to pick up the scattered bags, I see a pair of manicured hands reach into help. I’m almost bowled over again when I notice that they belong to a familiar face. I gasp softly as she grins.
“Emily.” I stolidly take my bags from her hands as she passes them to me, my face frozen as I try to find additional words. I stare at my office secretary, surprised to see her on this side of town. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
She smiles, as if I’ve asked the stupidest question in the world. She motions upwards into the air, catching a few snowflakes in her bare hands. She inclines her head towards the sky.
“What everyone else is doing here, of course. Enjoying Christmastime in the city.”
I almost catch myself cursing out loud. Of fucking course.
“I love this time of the year,” she inhales, breathing soundly through a set of small nostrils. “You can smell the holiday spirit in the air.”
I lift one eyebrow. “Sure that isn’t the city sewage?”
She giggles. “You joke…but this is the greatest season in New York. A season of change. Of new beginnings. When everybody puts the bullshit of the year behind them and starts fresh.”
The words strike a small chord within me. “Starting fresh” sounds better than ever in a year of so much tumult, but I’m starting to think that “starting fresh” is just an illusion. At least, for me.
It’s hard to kick off a beginning in the midst of so much rotten. And I’ve had enough rotten experiences—especially during holidays—in the last two years to “spoil” me for a lifetime. I nod as if I understand Emily’s enthusiasm, my small smirk wilting as I stand.
I blow out a cold breath that looks like smoke. “Well…” I start. “It was nice seeing you. Take care.”
Emily reaches for my arm, her tiny hands wrapped around my wool coat. Her eyes go as wide as saucers.
“Wait,” she utters. “You’re not going to stay?”
I glance around. “For what?”
“For the ice-skating, of course.” She glances towards the rink I hadn’t noticed. Until now. Her hazel gaze glows from within. “You can’t miss this. It only comes around this time of year.” She huffs laughingly. “What kind of New Yorker are you?”