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“You forgot your shoes,” he said flatly.
When I spun around, he held them up, his face set in hard lines of dissatisfaction.
“Thank you.” Without meeting his eyes, I clutched them to my chest along with my purse. “Now let me go.”
“Let me at least walk you home.”
“That’s not necessary.” I’d been getting around the city by myself my entire adult life. I didn’t need a man to escort me for protection. Especially not the man I desperately needed to get away from.
His eyes swept over my face, and I had the sense he was trying to decide if it was worth arguing the point further. I tipped my chin up, forcing myself to meet his gaze with a challenging glare.
“Fine.” With a sigh of resignation, he removed his hand from the door and took a step back. “I won’t stop you if you want to go.”
I didn’t hesitate. As soon as the path was clear I got the hell out of there.
CHAPTERELEVEN
DONAL
Tess had been abso-fucking-lutely right about one thing. Last night had been a huge mistake.
What had I expected to happen when I kissed her? That she’d fall into my arms and we’d pick up where we left off thirty years ago?
Yeah, right. What kind of delusional fantasyland was I living in?
This was all so goddamn predictable. Tess had been an irresistible temptation back in high school, and that still hadn’t changed. I was still throwing myself at her like a fool, knowing full well she could barely tolerate me. She was a bad habit I hadn’t grown out of. Whenever I got around her, my good judgment went straight out the window. She’d always brought out the worst in me: my competitiveness, my impulsivity, my reckless disregard for common sense.
I didn’t want to be that guy anymore. And I sure as fuck didn’t need to be chasing after someone who’d never wanted me. That was some twisted, masochistic bullshit. I had enough problems without letting Tess’s contempt for me get under my skin.
Like right now, for instance. I needed to keep my wits about me. Because I was about to face my Irish-Catholic mother and confess that I’d knocked a girl up in high school, kept it a secret for thirty years, and—surprise!—she had another granddaughter she’d never met.
This was not going to be a pleasant conversation.
But it was time. I was telling my kids about Erin tomorrow night at dinner. Which meant I needed to tell my mom too. And I needed to do it in person.
My mother still lived in the house I’d grown up in, a brick three-bedroom on a postage-stamp lot. Although she’d retired from her bookkeeping job a few years ago, she kept herself busy with gardening, volunteering, church activities, and generally being a busybody. My mother didn’t simply know everyone in the neighborhood, she also knew their parents, all their grandchildren’s names and birthdates, where they did their grocery shopping, and which church they attended. She was generous, industrious, saintly, and completely exhausting.
The front door flew open before I could ring the doorbell, and I quickly pasted a smile on my face. “Hi, Mom!”
“Hello, sweetheart.” She gave me a sharp once-over before jerking her head to beckon me inside. “Nice of you to come see me. Even if I did have to miss the after-mass coffee to rush home and put the cookies in the oven.”
Ah, yes. My mother’s specialty: passive-aggressive guilt trips.
“I didn’t mean for you to go to any trouble.” I stepped over the threshold and bent to hug her, casting an uneasy look at the large crucifix hanging in the foyer. I’d lapsed years ago, a fact my mother had grudgingly made peace with, but I still felt a pang of Catholic guilt whenever I set foot in this house.
“It’s not often my only son asks to come visit me, so of course I wanted to make your favorite treat.” She kissed me on both cheeks before pulling back to stare into my eyes. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping.”
“I’m fine. You look stunning, as usual. Is that a new church dress?”
“I got it on clearance at Field’s. Seventy-five percent off.” Turning on her heel, she beckoned me to follow her through the house. “Come on, I’ll put the kettle on.”
“How’ve you been?” I asked as I trailed her to the kitchen.
“I’m fine.” She set the kettle on the stove and waved a hand toward one of the cabinets. “Grab a plate for the cookies, would you?”
While I transferred warm butterscotch cookies from the baking sheet onto a flowered china plate, my mother kept up a steady stream of conversation, regaling me with the latest tales of her church friends’ triumphs and tragedies as she bustled around gathering mugs, tea bags, milk, and sugar. In between sneaking bites of cookie whenever her back was turned, I made appropriately sympathetic or approving noises at her anecdotes.
When the tea was ready, we carried everything to the small oak kitchen table and sat down beneath the Belleek Irish blessing plate hanging on the wall next to a St. Brigid’s cross my sister had made in CCD a million years ago.
