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I was quiet again.
“Matt was over, we were having some beers,” he belatedly answered. “Sasha called, and he put her on speaker so we could all talk together. They started in on you, and I laid them out then asked Matt to leave. Sasha was a mess. But fuck it. She’s old enough to know better.”
Sully was one year older than her, so he’d know.
Not to mention, he was correct.
“You asked Matt to leave?”
“Did you tell him to talk to your dad?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s it?”
“For the most part, to my recollection.”
“And he’s pissing and moaning about that? If Gage was carrying a grudge for…fucking…ever, I’d tell him to sort his shit too.”
It was then I realized.
He was a firstborn, the responsible one, the protector.
The same as me.
I had someone who got it.
I could not talk to him about Susan Shepherd. I could not rope him into maybe (or discuss the merits of maybe not) getting involved with that with Dad. And as such, I couldn’t discuss the pros and cons of making a call to the mysterious Rhys Vaughan. And because Sullivan was so protective (case in point, this call), I couldn’t tell him about Vaughan at all.
Dangerous mystery man who lands a file on me that the only thing it didn’t include on my father’s lover was her bra size, then he shows at my shop exuding menace and making me wonder if he’s who James Bond was after, or who Bond wished he was…
Sully would lose his mind.
And absolutely I couldn’t talk to him about Judge.
But I could talk to him about this.
“Obviously, I need a cocktail to fully commit to my pissing and moaning about how infantile my brother and sister are being.”
Sullivan’s lips twitched and he replied, “Obviously.”
Even though it was much later in Indiana, I went to the kitchen.
Sully kept talking.
“You should know, Gage is coming up this weekend. He says he’s taking you ‘on the town.’ Prepare to party in someone’s garage.”
I started chuckling.
But I felt better than I had in days.
“And I want you to think about coming out for a visit,” he carried on.
“To Indiana?” I asked, aghast.
He laughed. “Yes, to Indiana. I’ll take you to Harry’s. And we’ll drive down to Indy. On tours, they take you in a van around the track at the 500.”
“This is not a selling point, Sullivan.”
He laughed more.
I made my cocktail.
And yes, as we chatted, it started seeping in.
Feeling loved.
Looked after.
Not alone.
Understood.
Definitely.
I felt better than I had in days.
But when it was over.
When it was dark and I was in bed, a bed that was empty, save for me.
I didn’t feel better at all.
Chapter 16
The Lunch
Corey
Three and a half years ago…
Chloe had picked the restaurant.
But of course she had.
He’d heard about it.
And what he’d heard, it was superb.
They had a two-top table. He’d arrived before she did, selecting the chair on the outside that would face the booth bench on the inside that sat against the side wall.
He made this selection not only because the lady should get the better seat, but also so people could look at her, and with Chloe being Chloe, they might not notice Corey at all.
He saw her in the gold marbled mirror above the bench seat, making her way to the table.
Dark hair falling in waves and curls over her shoulders. A pair of oversized, cropped jeans with wide hems that displayed to their utmost her brown crocodile pumps. An asymmetrical cardigan that buttoned on a slant to the tip of her shoulder, had long, slouchy arms, and some added bit that fell off the back on one side to wind around and dangle down the other arm like a shawl. It ended above her waistband.
She had on sunglasses with very small oval lenses sitting horizontally, just barely covering over her eyes.
And last, deep red lips.
“Bonjour,” she sang from behind him, right before she made his side.
She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned in from behind to kiss his cheek.
As she rubbed at the lipstick she’d left, murmuring, “Ça va, Uncle Corey?” Corey’s annoyance at her shifted to the point it almost entirely evaporated.
Once she’d erased her mark, she tossed her small bag on the bench before she tossed herself in it, her hair gliding and bouncing as she moved, her body lithe as only young people’s bodies could be.
His gaze went back to the mirror.
Every man in the room had eyes to her.
He sighed before he greeted, “Hello, Chloe.”
She looked fed, well, though her skin was pale. It was late autumn in Paris, not the warmest season.
However.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she declared. “I haven’t seen anyone from home in ages.”
“This would be because you haven’t been home in over two years.”
She lifted a hand. “Uncle Corey.” She flicked out that hand toward a window. “Paris.”
Corey was who he was.
