He’s just tired. Guilt slithered in, as slick as the chicken grease now coating her hand. She sagged over the sink with a weary sigh. Of course he was. The poor man worked sixteen hours a day for the last week—who wouldn’t be testy? After all, Luke McGee was a reasonable man. Her lips shifted to the side. Most of the time. Her gaze fell to the bouquet on the counter. And he had brought her flowers and cuddled her with that lovesick gleam in his eye. She thought of his lips on her neck, and a warm shiver tingled through her. And she’d certainly missed him as well—probably more than he’d missed her.
A thought flitted through her mind, and her knife stilled on the chicken, embedded deep in a thigh while a smile tugged at her lips. “Of course! I’ll tease him out of it like I do when he’s a grump.” She glanced down the hall at the sliver of light beneath the bathroom door and grinned. Yes, a cool shower would calm him down, but hopefully not enough to cool the passion she’d seen in his eyes.
Rinsing her hands, she quickly dried them off and reached for the tube of Barbasol shaving cream she’d bought him from Woolworth’s. A grin tipped her lips as she placed it in the middle of the hall floor rather than waiting to put it away in the bathroom, almost giddy at the prospect of his response over her little “tease.” He would see it and smile, she was certain, then tickle her until she picked it up, no doubt, calling her Miss Sass and sealing it with a kiss.
As always.
Humming to herself, she finished cutting the chicken and sealed it into two butcher-wrapped packets. She paused, noting the shower had stopped, then smiled and hefted a package of chicken into the icebox. Singing her favorite song, she reached for the second packet. “Five foot two, eyes of blue, but oh, what those five foot could do. Has anybody seen my—”
A massive hand clamped on her wrist, and she gasped. The chicken in her hand plummeted to the floor in a dull splat as she broke free and spun around. He stood barefoot, striped pajama bottoms with muscled chest bare, blond hair dark and spiked from his shower.
“Pick it up,” he breathed. A spasm twittered in the hard line of his jaw. “Now, please.” With a heated gaze fused to hers, he jabbed a stiff finger toward the Barbasol in the middle of the hall floor. The deadly voice held a note of pleading, although his features could have been solid rock. “Pick it up, Katie.”
“No, you pick it up,” she quipped, her smile suddenly fading at the fury in his eyes. “Luke, I was just teas—”
“I said, pick it up—now,” he repeated, his face as white as the paper-wrapped chicken lying on the floor.
Body quivering, she did as he asked, and when she rose, he snatched the tube from her hand. Without another word, he stormed down the hall and entered their room, then left once again with pillow and sheet in hand.
She followed him to the parlor, her heart in her throat. “Luke, it was just a joke, the shaving cream in the hall, I promise. Can’t we talk this out, please?”
He hurled the bedding on the sofa before striding to the window to jerk up the sash, muscled arms bulging with the motion. “The time for talking is long past, Katie,” he said in a harsh tone. “Go to bed.”
“But, Luke—”
“I said . . . go to bed.” He stilled her with a look.
She blinked, fighting the sting of tears in her eyes. She’d only seen him like this one other time—the night Parker had walked out on them both. Hard, cold, angry . . . and hurt. She shivered and backed away, well aware that nothing she could say would soften him tonight. “I love you, Luke,” she whispered. “Good night.”
He ignored her and rolled on his side, his broad back stiff and knotted with muscles.
Katie returned to the kitchen, the heave of a sob in her chest as she put the groceries away. Her lips quivered as she spied the package of chicken on the floor, and she closed her eyes, hand to her mouth. What have I done? She sagged against the counter and began to pray, not sure when Luke would forgive her or even when he would speak to her again. And at the moment, she had no earthly idea if she would even see law school in the fall.
But . . . there was one thing of which she was absolutely certain. She swiped the tears from her eyes and bent to put the chicken away, a cold realization shaking her to the core.
The honeymoon was definitely over.
“You know, Bert, I do believe we’ve worn the boy out.” Emma peeked in the supply room, now Sean’s makeshift office, a smile squirming on her lips at the sight of her new assistant manager sprawled in his chair with eyes closed, sleeves rolled, and arms propped behind his neck.
One of Sean’s eyelids slitted up while he rested at his battered desk during one of the rare moments he’d been able to slow down all week.
Bertolina Adriani cocked a hip to the door and folded thick arms across an ample chest. Legs crossed at the ankle, she eyed him through piercing hazel eyes, a perfect match for the tailored brown suit jacket and skirt that pulled tightly across generous hips. “You did tell him he has to do his sleeping at home, didn’t you?” Dark brows scrunched in question, but the twinkle in her eye betrayed the gruff edge of her tone.
Alli giggled while Emma pursed her lips, studying Sean with a squint. She folded her arms across a moss-colored cardigan Charity claimed brought out the “dangerous green” in her eyes and then tucked a finger to her chin, as if deep in thought. “Mmm . . . I failed to mention that, I guess, but then maybe the cot in the corner gave him the wrong idea.”
A slow grin eased across Sean’s lips. “Keep it down, will ya, ladies? I need quiet if I’m going to save your hides here, brainstorming ways to counter that 25 percent dip in sales.”
“Likely story,” Bert said with a grunt.
“Come on now, Bert,” Emma said, enjoying the first real banter she’d allowed herself with Sean since he’d started. “He did spend several days on the dock getting Horace organized and inventorying all deliveries, as well as building those displays for Michelle and drafting the ads for our Labor Day Sale.”
“And he did rectify all the registers and balance the books the day I left early,” Alli said.
“Not to mention his willingness to take over all monthly inventories, which is a huge plus.” Emma crossed her arms and tapped a finger against her lips. “So what do you think—should we keep him on—despite his propensity to nap at the end of the day?”
“End of the day?” Sean eyed the watch on his wrist, then jagged a brow, obviously attempting to mask his smile with a frown. “Maybe for you slackers, but not for me. Because after you people mosey on home to your comfy-cozy apartments and homes, my workday will just be starting.”
Bert cocked her head. “Well, he is kind of cute, I suppose, especially with that nasty scowl bunching up all those freckles.” An evil glint shone in her gaze. “That is if we can keep him away from Michelle.”
He flashed some teeth, but Emma couldn’t help but grin at the ruddy color inching up his neck.
“Come on, Bert, just give me the word, and I’ll dump Michelle Tuller to build you those shelves you’ve been whining about.” His smile broadened when Bert’s cheeks hazed to pink, a rare occurrence for the crotchety Italian who was as much a mother to Emma as secretary.
Emma shook her head, feeling a sense of satisfaction that warmed her more than the teasing about Michelle. It meant Bert actually liked Sean, a great accomplishment for anyone at Dennehy’s, much less a man. But then, what was there not to like? The memory of his behavior at Kearney’s suddenly niggled, but she quickly dismissed it, shaking off her unease.
He paused, giving Bert a slow wink. “Or maybe I should see if Horace wants to build them for you . . .”
Bert’s pink cheeks fused to scarlet, and Sean laughed outright.
“Humph. I say give him his walking papers right now, Miss Emma. The boy’s a little too big for his britches, if you ask me.” Bert’s tone was as tart as one of those lemon drops she kept in a bowl on her desk. She tugged a stylish new cloche over her dark finger-waved bob and waggled scarlet fingernails in the ai
r. “My feet hurt—I’m going home. Toodle-oo.”
“G’night, Bert,” Sean called. “Thanks for the meat loaf sandwich.”
Emma hiked a brow, her whisper laced with awe. “She brought you a meat loaf sandwich?”
“And her famous pound cake,” Alli said with a giggle.
He slanted back in his chair with a lazy grin. “What can I say? The woman likes me.”
Emma folded her arms with a new respect in her eyes. “Bert doesn’t give anybody anything unless it’s a hard time, except for Alli and me. That alone makes you worth your weight in gold.”
He grinned. “Well, we’ll have to talk to Charity about that, now won’t we?”
Emma chuckled. “Yes, we will.” She glanced at her watch and gave Alli’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Scoot, Alli. Mrs. Tunny’s taking you to the theatre tonight, remember?”
“Oh, no!” The brown eyes widened. “I haven’t done register totals yet.”
“Go home, Alli,” Sean said. “I’m staying late, so I’ll be happy to log ’em in.”
Her smile lit up the room. “Bless you! And for the record, I don’t think you’re too big for your britches.” She waved and hobbled back to her desk to collect her purse. “Good night.”
“G’night, Alli,” they chimed in unison.
With Alli’s departure, Emma’s chest suddenly tightened. Clearing her throat, she shot Sean an awkward smile before turning to go. “I’ll let you get back to work—”
“Wait—” His voice halted her at the door and she turned. “No reason to rush off, is there?” he said with a tentative smile. “I was kind of hoping we could talk since it’s the end of my first week at work. You know, get comfortable as co-workers?”
He must have detected the hesitation in her manner, because when she opened her mouth to speak, he interrupted before she could say no. “Come on, Mrs. Malloy—don’t turn me down, please? Even though we’re almost family and have been friends for years, somehow it seems like we’re strangers in this office.” He shot her an endearing smile, brows arched in appeal. “Please?”
She paused, painfully aware that her comfort with Sean had been shattered the day of the wedding. And yet . . . how could she allow one awful moment to prevail over all the wonderful ones they’d shared over the years? She longed to let it go—this edgy feeling that his temper had unleashed, reminding her so much of Rory. But it wasn’t easy. Like Sean, Rory had had the same ready smile and easygoing manner, lulling her into a sense of peace and security until his rage had taken it all away.
Emma drew in a thick breath and glanced up, noting the strain of Sean’s smile, the plea in his eyes, and something inside wanted to believe he was different. That deep down, he was nothing like Rory. She slowly exhaled before finally moving forward to sit down, albeit stiffly, in one of the chairs in front of his desk. She clasped her hands in her lap. “So . . . why aren’t you going home?” she asked with a polite smile. “The whole reason you’re here is so all of us work less hours, remember? Besides, I thought you had a game tonight.”
He glanced over his shoulder out the two-story window where ominous rain clouds pelted the empty park across the street. Windblown spray misted the marble sill, infusing the room with the fresh fragrance of rain. “Nope, rained out. So I figured I’d stay and work on some promotion ideas that have been rolling around in my head.”
Emma blinked, noticing the weather for the first time. “Oh, my, I’ve had my head so buried in payroll today that I haven’t even noticed the weather.” Heat dusted her cheeks. Behind closed doors—avoiding you. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, helping to chase the stiffness away. She needed to do this—for herself, for Sean, and for the store—get comfortable with him again, at least as a co-worker. She could be warm and professional here and keep her distance whenever she saw him at O’Connor family functions. I can do this, she thought with resolve, the clean scent of rain washing some of her doubts away. She slowly released a cleansing sigh, allowing her head to rest on the back of her chair. “Oh, I love the smell of rain,” she whispered.
———
“Me too,” he said quietly, suddenly aware he’d been holding his breath. Easing back in his chair, his chest slowly contracted as the air left his lungs in one long, silent release.
Eyes closed, Emma seemed content to rest, head cushioned on the padded back of a gold velour dining room chair that matched the furniture in her office. The scent and sound of the rain seemed to tranquilize her, dispelling the anxiety he’d sensed after Alli had left, allowing him to study this woman who aroused his curiosity like no other. She was the reason his gloomy mood had lifted in the last week, the reason he’d enjoyed working at Dennehy’s so much, despite the fact that her interaction with him had been painfully professional. He thought he had known her, but she had surprised him more than anyone ever had, slipping out from the shadows of ambiguity to become a strong and steady force in a world where men reigned supreme. He’d watched her dicker with a salesman over surcharges on a foreign shipment, battle a shipping agent over late delivery, and soothe a disgruntled customer, all in one day. She was calm and kind to her staff without leaving any room for lax behavior from any employee whose paycheck she signed. And yet through it all, she was Emma, a woman who preferred to fade into the background, and yet wielded a power that was serene, gentle, and strong. And somehow—in the intimacy of this setting—sensual. His neck warmed.
The fawn-colored eyes opened, revealing a hint of pale green hue, and he suddenly saw her as she must have been years ago, perfect features, hypnotic eyes, and a magnetic innocence so strong, it aroused both a strange longing within and an ache in his chest. He observed the faint scars on the left side of her face—and realized that for him, they had never hindered her beauty. “You’re different here,” he whispered, “secure, resolute, invincible.”
She smiled, and weariness weighted her delicate features. “That’s because too much rests on the success of this store—my debt to Mitch and Charity, the livelihood of every employee here . . .” She drew in a frail breath and buffed her arms. “My own peace of mind.”
“You’re a special woman, Emma Malloy. I’m honored to be working with you.”
A wash of color ebbed in her cheeks and she quickly rose to her feet, avoiding his eyes. “Well, if I can’t convince you to go home, then the least I can do is give you half of my supper.” She peeked up, her manner tentative despite a shy smile that quickened his pulse. “It’s not Bert’s meat loaf by a long shot, but it should be enough to tame your hunger pangs for a while.”
His lips parted in a grin. “Sounds good. And while we’re dining, I’ll share some of the ideas I have for increasing market share.”
She paused, her hesitation halting the breath in his lungs. “Sorry, I’m . . . afraid I have a lot of work I need to finish before I go . . .”
“Ten minutes,” he said quietly. “That’s all it’ll take to bolt some food and hear my ideas.” He studied her profile, stomach cramping at the reluctance he saw in the downcast eyes, the shift of her throat, the hand on the knob. She was no longer comfortable being alone with him, and the very thought twisted his insides into a knot. Her lips parted in slow motion, and he held his breath, unwilling to hear the wrong answer. He rushed on, his voice quiet but firm. “Emma, we need to talk. To clear the air. Please . . . if only for my peace of mind?”
His words stilled her for a moment before she finally nodded, rib cage slowly deflating. Without another word, she slipped from the room, leaving him alone with his regret.
He released a weary breath and dropped his head on the back of the chair, a bittersweet smile edging his lips at the thought of dining with Emma and clearing the air. Whatever it took, he would regain her trust. Her friendship was too important. And so was the harmony they’d need to work side by side.
With a heavy inhale, he propped his hands behind his neck and surveyed the once-cluttered storeroom that now served as his office. Anxious to transform the
large storage area into usable business space, Emma had taken advantage of Sean’s carpentry skills by insisting he build floor-to-ceiling cabinets to partition off the supply area on the other side. The result was a cozy, rectangular office boasting a tall, arched window that flooded the room with sunlight during the day and lamplight during the night. Despite the close proximity of quarters, Sean felt at home here, and the view of the city park was certainly more pleasant than the littered alley outside of Kelly’s.
“I assume being a full-blooded Irishman, you like corned beef and cabbage?” she asked upon her return, gaze averted despite a faint smile on her lips.
She deposited a small basket on the edge of his desk and popped the lid to unearth slices of corned beef swaddled in wax paper and a small bowl of cabbage sealed with aluminum foil. Smoothing out the foil, she carefully placed a sliver of corned beef on top and then scooped a child’s portion of cabbage alongside. She produced two forks, obviously from the makeshift kitchen at the back of Bert and Alli’s office, then placed the rest of the corned beef into the bowl with the cabbage. With an almost childlike focus that made him smile, she carefully slid it across the desk, keeping the smaller portion for herself.
He pushed it away. “Oh, no you don’t—you take more than that.”
“Don’t make me pull rank on you, Mr. O’Connor. This is all I want.” She nudged it back.
His tone was gentle. “You haven’t called me Sean once since I started, Emma. Why?”
She fumbled with her foil, suddenly preoccupied with positioning the corned beef just so. “I just thought you’d appreciate more formality in the workplace, you know, in front of the employees.”
“Emma,” he said quietly. “Will you look at me?”
Her gaze lifted slowly, and his heart squeezed at the caution in her eyes. “We’re alone now, but even if we weren’t, I’d prefer you call me Sean.”