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“Jeez, no. See you soon.” I go out of the room and close the door.
The corridor’s empty. I walk along it and into the living room, and close the door behind me. That’s empty, too.
I go through to the kitchen and discover Missie standing by the sink, looking out at the small garden. She’s holding a glass, and a bottle of vodka stands on the counter with the top off.
She didn’t know Lee was having an affair. Ah, Jesus. What a thing to find out on the anniversary of the day he died.
I walk up to her, wondering if she’ll let me comfort her. But as I get near, I realize with some surprise that her cheeks are dry. And when she glances at me, I see it’s not sadness in her eyes, but anger. Her eyes are blazing. She’s furious.
Whoa, if that isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
Chapter Twelve
Missie
“Are you mad at me?” Alex says.
I blink. “For what?”
“For talking to Finn. I know you overhead us.”
I bristle. “I’m not going to apologize for listening. This is my house.”
“I’m not expecting you to.” His gaze is direct, a tad admonishing.
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. You’ve just been incredibly sweet to my son. I’m angry and resentful, but not at you.”
“Missie, it’s okay. You’ve had a hell of a day. And after that revelation, I’m not surprised you’re furious.” He tips his head to the side. “You’re very beautiful when you’re angry, by the way.”
I stare at him.
After a moment, his lips twist. “Sorry. That was probably inappropriate timing.”
But in a single second, all my frustration dissipates, and the iron frame holding up my skeleton vanishes. I lean back against the counter and study the man I’ve been keeping at arm’s length for so long.
“No, it was perfect timing,” I say softly.
He continues to look at me, his gaze brushing down me, soft as a feather, then coming back to rest on my mouth before returning to my eyes.
Lee never called me beautiful. My eyes prick with tears, and I look away and finish off my vodka.
“If you want to leave, I’ll understand,” I whisper, placing my glass on the counter.
In answer, he opens the cupboard doors one by one until he finds the glasses, takes one out, and picks up the vodka bottle. He doesn’t want to leave. My heart swells.
“No.” I open the cabinet where we keep the alcohol. “You’ll prefer this.” I take out the bottle of whisky and pass it to him. “It’s only a cheap blend,” I admit, a tad embarrassed, as he, James, and Henry have joked about enjoying the most expensive single malts.
But, ever the gentleman, he just says, “Thanks,” and pours himself a shot before tipping more vodka into my glass. I get some ice from the freezer and add it to both tumblers, then add a splash of tonic to mine from the bottle in the fridge. “Come on,” he says when I’m done, and he takes my hand and leads me into the living room.
We both sit on the sofa, a few feet apart, turned toward each other, not quite touching. He swirls the whisky over the ice and takes a mouthful.
“I’m guessing you didn’t know,” he says.
I blow out a long breath and tip my head back on the sofa. “It’s a long story.”
