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“Sit,” Booker said to her. “I’ll handle this.”
Okay, maybe someone might guess, but she couldn’t sit, because this was beyond handling. She took a step toward her mother. Denise circled to the other side of the table and kept on talking.
“Now I know why you don’t give a shit about the insurance money. Who cares if they know you were in the bakery that morning, emptying your safe? Who cares if they deny your claim? You’ve got a bigger payday lined up.”
“You’re wrong,” Laurie shot back, but her voice now held a fast, desperate edge. Her legs started to shake.
Denise laughed and crossed her arms, letting the bottle dangle from her fingers. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong. You’re sitting with Rebecca Motherfucking Booker, all tight with her son. You’re trying to cut me out, little girl, but you cut me, and I cut back. I offered you a fair deal. I’d keep quiet about a few inconvenient facts you preferred the insurance company never know, and all I requested in return was half the money. But you’re selfish. You think you’re so much better than me. Always have. Well guess what, Lauralie, we’re exactly the same, and I’m going to make sure everybody knows it.”
She felt rather than saw everyone at the table shift their attention to her, and her cheeks burned. Booker reached Denise and took her arm. She tried to jerk away and fumbled the bottle. It crashed to the terrace and shattered.
“Godammit! Look what you made me do.”
Laurie stepped over the glass to Denise’s other side. “Booker, please.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. “Go back to your family. This is my mess to deal with.”
He wasn’t a man who lost his temper often, but the grim look he sent her told her he barely had a lock on it now. “This is not your mess to deal with. It never should have been, but it sure as hell isn’t anymore, and I thought we were clear on that. Apparently I was wrong.”
“Booker—”
“Sit down, Lauralie, or I’ll charge you with obstruction.” He hauled Denise around and marched her toward the terrace doors just as two members of hotel security and two deputies arrived.
“Am I under arrest?” Denise slurred.
“Hell yes,” Booker answered.
She burst into loud, dramatic sobs.
Cut, print, wrap. Scene complete. Numbness settled over her as she watched Booker hand Denise off to a young deputy. The poor kid’s expression said he’d rather touch a live rattler than touch the drunk-assed, bitch-load of crazy that was her mother, but he steered her toward the exit.
Booker spared a backward glance at the group. “Kate, Aaron, congratulations—”
“Booker, wait…” She took a hesitant step toward him, but he shook his head, turned away, and followed the deputies.
She turned to find the entire table staring at her, silent and shocked. Hot, sharp shame split the cocoon of numbness holding her together.
Get out of here. Now.
“I—I’m sorry,” she offered, and managed to propel herself forward despite her unsteady legs. “I should go.” Her purse dangled from the back of her chair—the satin bag she’d deliberately chosen so as not to offend Booker’s mom.
Good news. Your purse didn’t offend anyone.
She snatched it up and hurried toward the doors. Behind her, a voice called, “Laurie…”
Booker’s mom. She quickened her pace. By the time she reached the lobby she was running, heels skidding on the marble. The voice in her head kept repeating the same thing. Go. Go. Go.
She went, as fast as physics and speed limits allowed—almost crashing into a line of garbage bins as she took the turn into her complex—but not stopping until she closed her apartment door behind her. Then came the crash. Her, to the floor. Tears started. And once they started, she couldn’t seem to stop them. She curled up on the hardwood and sobbed into her fist until her head pounded and her lungs ached. Drained, she got to her feet.
The sofa beckoned, but as soon as she landed there everything she’d run from piled on. She shot up and walked to the window. Then back to the sofa, then to the window again.
Pacing her living room left her fidgety and exhausted, but every time she stopped moving the appalling scene from the rehearsal dinner replayed in her mind—Mommy Dearest stumbling in, spewing venom while everyone within earshot stared on in horror or fascination. Worse, the look on Booker’s face haunted her. She didn’t need to imagine what he thought of her right now. His shuttered expression told her better than words.
Her fault. She could blame Denise for being a malicious drunk, and ruining his family’s happy occasion without the slightest hesitation, but she couldn’t blame her mother for the rest. Underneath all the woman’s insults and rage lay the ugly truth.
She’d fucked up completely—even in her one noble intention of keeping Booker at a safe distance from her mistakes. Her worst-case scenarios never included watching the ticking time bomb she’d failed to defuse explode all over him. She’d known the fallout was going to hurt like hell, but she hadn’t counted on him being right there at ground zero with her while his poor family looked on.
The knowledge cut deep—past her pain, and her battered conscience, and straight to her soul. She had to fix this. Apologize. She didn’t know how, but prowling around her apartment wasn’t going to get it done. Screw it. She’d drive over to the sheriff’s department and wait. The worst he could do was send her away.
Propelled by purpose, she grabbed her purse from the floor, pulled her front door open, and…stopped short. Her heart bounced around in her chest and then sank heavily to her stomach. Booker stood there, jaw tight, eyes dark, fist lifted in mid-knock.
