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She kisses my neck. “I’m going to remind you that you said so.”
“Under duress,” I tease.
Then I help her down, and we clean up. I relinquish her stockings and, regrettably, her underwear.
Miraculously, there’s no one waiting when we leave the bathroom. It feels too good to be true, like it always feels when you get away with something you shouldn’t.
We walk toward the door to the private room, hand in hand, but before we go in, Ruthie turns to me. “If Josie still wants to give me a reading, I’ll do it.”
“You don’t have to,” I insist. “I’m the one who got us into this mess. I’ll tell them we have to leave.”
“Here you are again, admitting to something,” she says with a half-smile. “You keep it up, I might get used to it.”
“Maybe I want you to,” I say, not totally clear on what I mean other than that I want this to mean something.
Her answer is to kiss me, and I find myself backing her into another wall, the one just beside the door, because I can’t seem to get enough. It’s like my desire for her has infiltrated my bloodstream, and it’s the only thing my body recognizes as being important for survival.
Then the door to the private room swings open, almost hitting me on the ass—all of it happening so quickly I can’t pull away from her, not that I’m inclined to. Then I see who’s at the door, and I do pull away. Slightly. Because it’s Mr. and Mrs. Legal Beagle, along with Josie the Great and Poe, who’s carrying a plate of appetizers that’s so large that I don’t need to be psychic to see a to-go box in their future.
“Goodness, they just can’t keep their hands off each other,” Mrs. Legal Beagle says. She doesn’t seem displeased by it. Based on that, her lack of judgment about the weird roses story, and her taste in movies, I’m guessing she’s a romantic. I feel almost fond of her for it right now.
“Just like us, back in the day,” Freeman says fondly, patting her on the back. And I’m in the very uncomfortable situation of having a hard-on in front of my boss. I’m still angled toward the wall, but even so…
“Come on,” Josie says, wearing a veil now, which I suppose signals her readiness to get down to business. “We’re ready for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ruthie
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Shane says, his arm wrapped around me. “We were about to go home. Izzy’s having a hard time getting to sleep.” The lie unspools from him so naturally, it disarms me.
He knows how to lie, I remind myself, because I can feel something alarming happening. It started in the hallway of this restaurant, where we’re standing now. He let me see past his walls to the boy he’d been, giving me a new perspective on the past we’d shared.
I’m falling for my husband, and it’s not just because he looks good in a suit and a tie, or because he has a big dick that he knows how to use. It’s because he’s a stubborn asshole who sees me for the stubborn asshole I am—and cares about me anyway.
Just like I’m starting to care about him. Again.
Maybe it’s that thought that turns me stubborn and contrary, but I find myself splaying a hand on his hard chest. “It’s okay, Shane. I’ll do it. Izzy will want to hear all about it.”
He gives me a look of concern that seems genuine before nodding tightly.
“Oh good,” Josie says. “I wanted to do you. I already know what’s going to happen for Shane.”
He gives her the flat look of someone who doesn’t intend on asking for the clarification she obviously wants to give.
But I want to know.
“What’s that?” I ask as we head back through the door to the low music, buzz of conversation, and scent of sauce. I glance at Shane, remembering what he said about the sauce. He usually comes off as so reserved and self-contained, but there was raw agony on his face when he told me about his father. Even now, my heart bleeds for him. I’m filled with the need to protect him, to take care of him, and—
I’m sure he’d be amused to know how badly I want to prove him wrong. I don’t care. I need to show him that becoming great in the way the world demands—known, spoken of, feared—isn’t the only way to make a lasting impact. And that his father is likely remembered more than he believes. Danny remembers him, at the very least. He talks about him sometimes, how he used to bring both of the boys out on hikes and bike rides when they were little, a tradition they continue to this day. That’s a legacy, or a piece of one, and I’ll bet there are others.
Maybe it’s hypocritical, me wanting to show Shane that, because I’ve always been eager to make my own mark—to be someone who matters. But if I can prove to him there’s more to life, maybe I’ll internalize the message myself.
“Well,” Josie says, “Shane’s going to win my case, obviously.” There’s a bit of an or else attached to that, I think. “I won’t reveal the rest of what I’ve seen for him in front of everyone else unless he asks me to. It’s like attorney-client privilege, you know?”
“Thank you for your forbearance,” he tells her dryly.
Josie leads the way to a tall, two-person table where she’s set up her crystal ball. Waving me toward the high-legged stool opposite her, she sits down, her boyfriend hovering next to her with his enormous plate of appetizers. I lower onto my stool, very aware of my legs and arms and the awkwardness of everyone in the room staring at me. I’m not someone who minds being looked at, necessarily, but I don’t like that they’re all waiting to hear my fate, same as I am, like I’m at my own sentencing. Then, to my surprise, a warm arm settles around my shoulder—Shane, standing behind me, wrapping his arm around me.
