The Good Chase (31 page)

“Okay.”

“My name goes on the deed. You close the deal and it's my name on the papers. I've looked into it, and if you do that, then I'm the one responsible for the taxes. Once the purchase goes through, you'll step back. That's the only way I'll let you do it.”

He rubbed a thumb across his bottom lip, considering. The tax thing made sense. In case something did happen to them.

Which it wouldn't.

“And I would like to try to pay you back,” she said. “It may be in small increments, and it may take forever, but that's what I want.”

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying,
But what if I marry you?

“Done,” he said instead. “So does this mean—”

“That I met with Whitten today. This morning.” Her face cracked wide open. One of the biggest smiles he'd ever seen on her face.

“And if you're prepared to take on taxes for a good chunk of New Hampshire while starting up a new business and trying to pay me at the same time, I take it you and Pierce reached some kind of deal?”

Her head bobbed, the braid swinging. “Nothing formally contracted yet, but the salary numbers we kicked around were more than I thought. Twice as much. And today's brainstorming session . . . Byrne, I felt like I was right where I needed to be. His staff had all these ideas for me, and yes, some of them were shit, but they probably hated some of mine, too. The bottom line is, we were on the same page about the projects I want to do under his umbrella. And he gets me. He's behind me.”

“Of course he is. He'd be a fool not to be.” That's when he touched her, reaching out to fit his palms over her smooth knees. “And the Amber?”

The smile faltered and she looked away. “Part of me will be sad to let it go, but the other part, the larger part, will be glad to be out from under Lynch. Did you know he actually had the gall to text me this morning and tell me how wonderful my embarrassment had been for the Amber's bottom line?”

Byrne's fingers tightened as anger took over his brain. “
What
?”

Shea pushed her hands into his hair and brought his forehead to hers, instantly cooling him down. “Never mind. Forget it. It's done and I'm gone. You are not Lynch. And you're definitely not Marco. I know this and I don't fear you or what you want for me, and us. I think I was subconsciously still trying to lump you in with them, to protect myself. But I don't have to do that with you.”

“No, you don't.”

She smiled. “And now I have something new.”

The feathers of her breath tickled his mouth, and his lips dropped open, wanting her taste. Instead his eyes closed and he just
felt
. Felt her skin beneath his hands, the heat from her body enhanced by the close quarters of the tent, and the greater meaning of her words.

“Please say you mean me,” he whispered.

A finger touched the outer corner of his eye, and he opened them.

“I do. My dreams are partly made of you,” she said. “But we have so much to figure out. I mean, the farm's six hours north. In New Hampshire. And your job is here.”

“Well, you're not moving up there tomorrow, are you?”

She laughed. “No. But eventually . . .”

“Eventually I may be doing something else with my life, too.”

She blinked several times. “What do you mean?”

Shrugging, he said, “I have no idea. But I say that from now until you move up there, we play everything by ear. See how we feel. Go for what we want, determine how to get it, all while we figure out how to be together. Piece of cake.” He grinned.

She stared at him for a long second before tightening her hold on his head, and then she smashed her lips against his. The groan that vibrated in his throat came from so deep inside he felt the strain on his heart.

Felt like it had been fucking forever since they'd kissed. Really kissed. With no bullshit or worry stacked behind the action. No doubts poking at the breaths in between. Nothing but them together, and the sweet, hot taste of her tongue. The unquenchable need.

Sure her whole future had been upended and then righted with none of the original pieces left, but just one look at her told him she was doing the right thing. She had everything she needed to embark on a new life. All the new pieces, right there in front of her. All she had to do was arrange them.

Her brilliance and enthusiasm and initiative and charisma would send her sky-high. The industry was hers to do with as she pleased. And he'd be standing back, watching and loving her. There if she ever needed him again.

Breaking the kiss, he slid his hands around the backs of her knees, then yanked her legs out straight, pulling her closer. She laughed, her torso slanting backward, and she had to catch herself on her hands. Too bad he had the full intention of sending her even more off balance—both in body and in mind. He wrapped her ankles around his lower back and scooted her onto his lap. As his dick hit hard against the warm cradle of her body, the flare of desire in her eyes was almost the perfect reward.

Almost.

“It's a big deal.” She was breathless. “A huge thing, what we're doing. Are we ready for it? Can we do it?”

A wave of warmth cascaded over him. “I'm convinced you can do anything.”

Since he had control over her bottom half, he circled her hips one way and ground his growing erection in the opposite. He loved the feel of her body so much, the firmness of her muscles and the utter softness of her skin.

But he loved her even more naked.

“I don't really care what you do with the farm,” he said against her mouth, “as long as I get my tent sex. Right here, right now.”

“So I could sell it and take the money and move to North Dakota as long as you could orgasm on a sleeping bag?”

He pretended to consider that, until she broke out laughing and wrapped her arms around his neck. He'd had rugby players take him down with gentler grips, and he didn't care. Didn't care if she ever let go. They kissed hard in the heat of the tent.

“Tell me you love me,” she panted.

“Gladly.” His fingers dipped into the back of her shorts, his thumbs grazing the sweet dimples above her ass. “Just as soon as I'm inside you.”

24

S
hea kicked through the fresh, powdery snow on her way back to the main house from the outbuilding that was still in the process of being renovated into her personal office. Five o'clock in the evening and it already felt late at night, dark and cold and mysterious, the shortest day of the year having recently come and gone.

The Christmas lights outlining the house's windows and every peak and valley of the roof clicked on, courtesy of a timer. Though the lights had been put up weeks ago, it was the first time she'd been standing outside to watch them come on, and part of her saw it as magic. Like the stuff in the crazy books she always caught Byrne reading. Like the portal to her own private world she'd described that first time she'd brought him here.

That had been a lifetime and four and a half months ago. So much had changed since then. And everything for the better.

Hers. This whole place was hers. The future was a bright, never-ending road.

She stopped halfway between the office building and the house, her boots settling on the shoveled stone paver pathway. From the huge barn off to her left came the whir and bang of saws and hammers as the workmen finished up another day of overhauling the space to accommodate the distillery. The mash tuns and fermentation tanks and barrel racks, and about a hundred other needed things would be delivered in the spring.

The first shipment of grains would arrive when the weather warmed, the harvests were ready, and the country roads were clear. She'd already had a horticulturist out to determine the viability of eventually growing her own rye and corn and millet in the back fields, and the outlook seemed promising.

The cold bit through her bulky fisherman's sweater, and she hurried the rest of the way down the path, then stepped through the back door that opened into the spacious, warm kitchen. Eventually this room, too, would have to be refurbished if she wanted to make an old Scottish-style manor house hotel out of the place. But . . . one thing at a time. There was the first batch of whiskey to distill and get stored in barrels. That was priority number one. Then there were all her exciting obligations to Right Hemisphere to fulfill, including the first couple of parts of the travel series that would send her back to Scotland in April.

And of course, there was Byrne.

It had been two weeks since she'd seen him. Two arduous weeks full of torture, longing, long-distance love, and physical self-gratification. She'd learned rather quickly, however, that her hand wasn't nearly as talented as any part of Byrne. And so she made herself wait, comforted by the fact that he, too, had vowed to keep his hands off himself in preparation for their reunion.

Just as she set the teakettle on the stove, her phone rang. She hadn't realized how eager she'd been to hear its sound until she fumbled getting it out of her pocket and almost shattered it on the slate floor.

“Hi, hi!”

“Were you running a marathon?” came the wonderfully familiar and terrifically sexy voice on the other end.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. About to cross the finish line. Where are you? Sounds like you're driving. Are you on your way here?”

“Almost there, actually. Took a day off work and got an earlier start than planned.”

Kind of ridiculous, how the butterflies danced in her stomach upon hearing that. Usually when he came up to the farm, he left after the workday ended and didn't pull in until nearly midnight.

“You mean you took a day off the weekend before Christmas? How scandalous. How will your boss ever forgive you?”

Byrne chuckled. “He'll live. He was surprised I did it, though.”

“So you haven't told him you're leaving yet, I take it.”

“Nah. Not before the holidays.” He paused. “Not when I have family in town.”

At first she thought that was a vague reference to her, but then she heard muffled voices in the background, coming through under the hum of the car. She gasped. “You got your family to come up?”

“I did.” A grand sigh full of contentment. “They let me buy them plane tickets to come up for the holidays. Couldn't be happier.”

Shea had always sensed that it would only be a matter of time before his family felt more comfortable and more receptive to tiny favors once he backed off from the “Let me take care of you for the rest of your lives” angle.

“And you have them with you right now? Coming here?”

A toddler giggled in the background. “I do. All of them.”

Shea squealed. “I can't wait to meet them.” And that was the honest-to-God truth.

“They can't wait to meet you, either.”

“I'll go turn on the heat in the extra bedrooms. It's not like I don't have enough of them.”

“No, it's all good, Mom. You're not imposing,” Byrne was saying. Then to Shea, “Remind me where this portal is again?”

She gave him directions from the Route 6 turnoff, even though he'd been up to the farm dozens of times over the past four months. He was great with money and numbers, terrible with directions. It was partly Shea's fault, because they spent so much time on the phone while he was on the road, catching up on what they'd missed in each other's lives while apart.

Apart. More days than together.

At first it had been hard. Damn near impossible, actually, with her zooming back and forth between New Hampshire and New York, and him flying all over the ever-loving world. The reunions were amazing, though. They erased any tidbits of doubt that had managed to wiggle into her mind during the empty space. This weekend—this Christmas—would be no different. She just knew it.

Exiting the kitchen, she walked through the grand, empty foyer and went up the sweeping, curving staircase to the third floor, where the extra bedrooms were located. Based on Byrne's location when he'd called, she had about an hour to get the place ready. She ran from room to room, adjusting the thermostats and throwing wood into the fireplaces. She stretched clean sheets over the new mattresses that, unfortunately, still lay on the floor. True beds would have to come later.

She was stuffing a pillow into a case when she saw through the front window the twin dots of light that indicated a car approaching on the access road. Leaving the pillow half-naked, she sprinted from the bedroom and almost tumbled down the main staircase to the front door. She burst outside and stood in the snow to watch as the car meandered down the narrow road. It turned to roll through the gates that would never be locked again.

Christmas lights entwined with evergreen boughs draped the length of the stone fences along the driveway. They twinkled and served as runway lights, directing the car that seemed to be taking freaking forever to get here. The boat of a rented sedan finally swerved around the front circular drive, skirting the pickup trucks and vans that belonged to the contractors, and parked beneath the porte cochere.

Shea dashed around the hood, preparing for one of her and Byrne's typical greetings.

The driver's-side door opened and Byrne stepped out. Jeans, hiking boots, sweater. Luxuriously, gorgeously casual. Shea was about two seconds away from attacking him and licking away his broad, crooked smile, when the car door behind him opened, and out stepped a dark-haired woman who could only be Caroline.

How do you properly greet the man you love more than anything after two weeks apart when his family was present? Conundrum, conundrum.

Byrne solved it without consulting her, sweeping an arm around her waist and tugging her in for a tight embrace and a long, sweet, close-lipped kiss.

“I missed you,” he whispered against her lips. “So much.”

She said nothing. She couldn't. Even after five months together—more if you started counting from Long Island—he still managed to do that to her.

His parents had exited the car and were staring at her, so she gently pushed Byrne away.

“Hi.” Shea gave them a wave as she felt her face heat.

“Let's go inside for introductions,” Byrne said with a chuckle. “My Southern family isn't built for the cold.”

So Shea led them all back inside and enclosed them in the warmth of the big old house. She turned around in time to see Mr. Byrne's mouth drop open at the sight of the richly carved wooden staircase and the gleaming floors and the rooms that seemed to go on forever. Mrs. Byrne glanced around for a moment, then her face turned red and she looked at her feet. Shea knew intimidation when she saw it. Even she had felt overwhelmed during her first walk-through of this place.

Shea held out her hand to Mrs. Byrne. “I'm Shea, Mrs. Byrne. I'm so glad you're here. Merry Christmas.”

Byrne had told Shea that his parents had had him when they were in high school, so even though they were thin and looked a little haggard around the eyes, dating them beyond their years, there was a gleam of resilient youthfulness in their expressions.

“Call me Betty. Please.” A little of the intimidation faded as Betty shook Shea's hand.

“I suppose if I kept calling you Mrs. Byrne we might get confused,” Shea added.

“Well, you could just call him Jasper,” said the sister.

Byrne choked. Tried to laugh and then choked some more. Shea laughed for him. She'd seen his real name—Jasper Patrick—on the farm's paperwork, but he'd made her swear to never use it, upon pain of death. Or never giving her an orgasm again. That was an easy bargain to make.

“No,” she said. “I don't think I could
ever
call him that.”

“I'm Caroline,” said the sister, “and this is Kristin.” Kristin flopped her hand around on her wrist in a baby's attempt at a wave. “You okay over there, Jasper?” Caroline smacked Byrne on his back, as he still couldn't catch his breath. And Shea noticed that the lopsided smile was a lovely family trait.

“I'm Matthew,” said Byrne's dad. “And we're grateful you're having us here over the holiday. When J.P. said it would be a surprise . . .” As he faded away, an expression of humbleness overtook his face.

“He knew that I'd be ecstatic,” Shea finished for him. “And I am. Come in, come in. The only two furnished rooms right now are the living room and the kitchen. Why don't we sit and have some tea to warm up before I give you the grand tour?”

She led them to the front corner room, where the cushy sofas that had made her New York apartment feel so cramped now looked like doll furniture. As the Byrne family sat by the lit Christmas tree and Kristin immediately lunged for the scant few ornaments, Byrne himself wandered over to the big reclaimed wood table and picked up one of the large sheets of paper laid out there.

“Wow.” He whistled, drawing everyone's attention. “These are all fantastic. Have you picked one yet?”

Shea looked up from where she was dangling a cheap penguin ornament in front of Kristin's face. “Think so.”

“Picked what?” Caroline asked. And just like that, Shea knew she liked her. A woman who came right out with it.

“Logo and brand ideas for my distillery,” Shea said. “My friend Willa's a graphic designer. Really talented.”

Byrne put down the sheet he was holding and picked up another. “This one. I like this one the best. Not that I get a say or anything.”

Shea went over to him. “But I appreciate opinions. And it must mean something, because that's the one I'm leaning toward. Beautiful and modern, but with a sense of history.”

“Exactly.” Byrne was staring at her, not the artwork.

He circled around her and brought the paper over to the couch where his parents were sitting. Willa had done an incredible job of accurately drawing one section of the stone wall in front of the Gleann house. The crumbled part looked just like the walls that had swirled around Granddad's old house back in Scotland, but since it was actually on-site of the distillery, it was decidedly American and locked in the present.

Betty touched the corner of the paper but didn't take it. “It's pretty.” She peered at the writing. “Gavin Distillery. How'd you come up with the name?”

Shea stood behind the couch, admiring the way Byrne looked holding her future, standing in the house he'd bought that started it all. “Gavin was my granddad's name.”

“What did your dad say when you told him the name?” Byrne asked.

“He loved it. He teared up.”

It might even have managed to smooth things over between her chosen profession and her parents. After learning that, the fact that she would be producing her own liquor seemed to not make their mouths twist in unspoken discomfort. Last week her mom had even inquired about Shea's progress, and they were coming to the farm for New Year's Eve. She planned to buy them a computer so they'd be able to watch the travel series once it started airing on her new, Right Hemisphere–produced website.

Much later, after Shea made the Byrne family a dinner out of whatever was left in the fridge, and gave them a tour of the whole house, she linked her fingers with those of
her
Byrne, and together they walked slowly down the second-floor hallway. She'd deliberately chosen a bedroom as far away from anyone else's as possible. The whole north wing was pretty much hers.