At Last Read online

  “I’m serious, Fender. You may think no one wants the information you have in your office, but you need to store your financials properly.”

  “I back them up.” Fender bent his long, lean form inside the refrigerator as he snagged a handful of long necks. “Just like you set up for me.”

  There was no winning when Landon went on one of his tears, so despite the princess comment from earlier, Nick formed a wall of solidarity with his brother as Fender handed him one of the beers. “Lay off the geek speak, McGee. We get it. And when we fuck it up, you’re here to fix it, like always.”

  “What he said. You know we worship at your geeky altar, L.” Fender’s bottle weaved in Nick’s direction, the beer wobbling dangerously close to spilling, when Mama Lou smacked them both from behind.

  Along with the swift punishment, her tone announced she was firmly on Landon’s side. “Your brother has a point. You’re both businessmen now, and the community depends on you. Take care of all facets of your business or you’ll be finding yourself making some rather large apologies someday, when you have to go door-to-door telling the neighborhood their credit card information was stolen.”

  Nick avoided the urge to roll his eyes that usually accompanied her demanding tone. Not only could his mother sense it through those magical eyes in the back of her head, but she was right about the security. And just like that—even more swift than his mother’s backhand—adulthood reared its head. He was a businessman. A damned good one. And he owed the people who parted with their money inside his walls a safe environment.

  Wasn’t that the real reason why he was so bent about the possibility of drugs inside his bar?

  Glancing down, he realized he still held the bouquet in his free hand. “These are for you.”

  “Doesn’t mean you don’t need to clean up that mouth.”

  He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. “You know you love us anyway.”

  “Of course I do.” With a small smile twitching the edges of her lips, she pointed toward the stove. “So stir my sauce while I get these in water.”

  Nick heard the muttered “suck-up” bouncing off the butter-yellow walls. Before he could respond properly—his hands flower-free and ready for finger gestures—the doorbell rang, and then Fender’s singsong tone echoed through the kitchen. “Get your game faces on.”

  Yep, Nick thought with a grin. His mother’s weekend band of misfits had just arrived.

  Louisa Mills had been hosting Sunday dinner in the kitchen of her Cherry Street brownstone for over two decades. After she’d gone home to wallow in Brooklyn after the “Kincade Disaster,” as she’d come to think of it, she’d taken stock of her life. Who she was. What she wanted. And, most importantly, who she was meant to become.

  It had all become clear the day she stood inside Old Mr. Shepherd’s dry-cleaning store and he’d told her about Mrs. Weston’s brownstone for sale. She’d taken the turn for Cherry Street instead of toward that dismal apartment she was renting, and that was when she’d found her future.

  When she’d met her boys.

  Her gaze drifted to them as it always did, one by one, as she catalogued the men they’d grown into. Looking at them now, it seemed almost easy. But at the time, she’d had no idea what she was doing. Or if she was the right woman to raise them.

  But something had called to her that day when she saw the three of them on the playground. So tough, yet so frightened underneath the bravado.

  Just like me, she’d thought.

  And as she’d looked into each of their eyes—Nick’s pale blue, Landon’s serious brown, and Fender’s bold, dare-me green—she’d known they were hers.

  Nick set a serving plate of brownies on the table, the move pulling her from her reverie almost as fast as Emily Weston’s hand as it snaked out and grabbed one of the rich treats. Keying back into the banter around the table, Louisa didn’t miss the distracted haze that filled Nick’s eyes.

  He was upset when he’d come in, and she understood why, but it seemed like something else was bothering him, too.

  His father?

  She dismissed the thought as quickly as it appeared. Arch Kelley had abandoned his paternal role long ago, the job infinitely less appealing when his son’s fists grew strong enough to return the man’s blows.

  Arch had come around a few times after Nick made the NFL, looking for a handout. But Nick had put a swift end to that, and the man hadn’t returned. Last she’d heard, he’d moved on to somewhere in Florida, and she was glad of it.

  Glad the ghost had vanished for parts unknown.

  By the time they made it to dessert, their usual Sunday afternoon conversation had morphed, as it always did, through a number of topics: from Landon’s latest freelance gig doing programming security for a major auction house in the city, to Fender’s restoration job on a Pontiac GTO, to Nick’s plans to expand his business.

  “You really think you’ve got a shot at the Unity Brewery? I thought Vandenburg was going to hang on to that place until he dies.” Dave Maxwell, their neighbor and one of Park Heights’s newer widowers—damn, resident, she meant resident—grabbed a piece of garlic bread, his gaze speculative. “Especially now that he’s got his daughter helping him run it.”

  Louisa had heard the same about Emma Vandenburg’s return to Park Heights, and was surprised Nick hadn’t, if the clear notes of shock on his face were any indication. Her son owned one of the major nodes on the Park Heights grapevine, so the fact that the news hadn’t traveled his way was not only surprising, but suggested Vandenburg was downplaying Emma’s return more than Louisa had realized.

  Wasn’t the man happy to have his daughter home?

  She’d hated the years Nick lived away while he played. She’d encouraged him, of course, but it hadn’t diminished how much she missed seeing him.

  Nick’s surprise shifted easily, his ability to change gears on the run as evident as always. “Vandenburg has a great product, but doesn’t know jack shit about marketing it. Hell, his brewery’s named after Brooklyn’s motto and he’s done nothing to play that up.”

  A resounding cry of “In unity there is strength,” rose up at the table before Nick shot them all a big grin. “I knew I kept you all around for a reason.”

  “It’s your gain, Nicky. One of the big breweries tried to gobble him up a few years ago.” Mrs. Weston, the original owner of their brownstone and current resident of the top-floor apartment, laid down the law as only she knew how. “Peter’s been a fool to hang on to that place so long. He should have gotten out years ago. Now his sorry ass is going to have to sell it to you for a song.”

  Although Louisa knew it wasn’t quite that easy—Peter didn’t have to do anything—the return of his daughter to Park Heights would likely throw a crimp in Nick’s plans. He’d had his eye on the brewery for over a year, working and saving to make his offer.

  Would Peter’s daughter ruin that, now that she was back in the picture?

  Before Louisa could gently reprimand the older woman, Father Thad jumped in. “Now, Emily. That’s unkind and you know it. Pete’s struggled terribly with Marcy’s passing.”

  “So what was his excuse before, Thaddeus? The man’s an ass.” Mrs. Weston waved her wine glass, the move decidedly solid for almost ninety years of living. “And he should have gotten out when the getting was good. Like I did.”

  Mrs. W’s exaggerated wink showcased some rather heavy eye shadow, but Louisa knew it was hard to argue with the truth. Emily had rather gleefully sold the brownstone years before, contracting in residence on the top floor as part of the sale. The situation had worked out surprisingly well for all of them, with Mrs. W. knowing where all the hidden quirks of the house were, including backward taps, while also supplying ready babysitting before the boys were old enough to stay home alone.

  She was still the closest thing they had to a grandmother, and Louisa had been grateful for her every day.

  Her gaze drifted once more over her sons, then to Emily
as she dove for a second brownie. She watched Father Thad’s thoughtful gaze as he stirred sugar into his coffee before his rich baritone echoed in agreement with Fender’s continued complaint of a bad call against the Yankees.

  Dave got into the act, his quick grin and easy demeanor appealing.

  Fascinatingly so.

  Pushing the thought away, she stared down at her own cup of coffee, lost once more in thought. She’d made her bed a long time ago, and she had no right to think about Dave.

  In it or otherwise.

  The phone call she’d received three days ago had made that fact more than evident.

  Emma smoothed her skirt and fought the rising tide of anxiety that churned in her stomach. She’d skipped breakfast, thinking food would make her feel worse, and now sorely regretted her haste. The coffee she’d drunk on an empty stomach had soured quickly, and she pushed her mug away when she caught a whiff of the cold brew.

  With nervous fingers she brushed her hair behind her ear, accidentally hitting the tender spot near her eye and cheekbone that still throbbed from her Friday night run-in.

  The run in before you ran out, her conscience taunted her as her hands drifted away from the mottled bruise. The bruise her father had been bitching about since the moment he saw it.

  “You’re here early.”

  As if she’d conjured him up, Peter Vandenburg walked into the conference room, his steaming mug in one hand and a donut in the other. The donut was his third this morning—she’d noticed the first two were missing, their O-shaped greasy spots evident when he’d opened the box upon his arrival—and she wondered how he’d been managing since her mother’s passing.

  What had started out as grief five years before, and an unwillingness to cook for himself, had shifted into a devil-may-care sort of daily living that included copious amounts of sugar, butter, and anything else he could find that came out of a fast-food window or from a bakery counter.

  She’d tried discussing it with him, only to be cut off with swift anger and grumbled complaints and questions about who the parent was here.

  But she worried.

  Worry that had only escalated with his latest decision to sell the brewery—a bit of news he’d dropped on her over dinner at the diner the previous afternoon.

  “I’m here early to try and convince you once more what a bad idea this is,” she said.

  “I’m done being a businessman. Done with the Unity and running a sinking ship. I want off, and I’ve found just the buyer.”

  “It’s only a sinking ship because you refuse to invest in it. And you didn’t want off before. Even after Mom died, you weren’t ready to sell.”

  “I want off now.”

  She looked at him—really looked at him—and was humbled by what she saw. The once-vibrant man now hunched, the heavy paunch around his waist seeming to pull him down. His thick, wavy, blond hair—courtesy of his Dutch ancestors—had gone a sickly yellow, white peppering the edges. But where she saw it most clearly was his eyes.

  Their warm brown had hardened, becoming dull and jaded with disinterest.

  Her father had always been a hard man, but losing her mother had changed him. And when she looked past the physical, Emma knew she hadn’t helped the situation with the choices she’d made in her life.

  She’d missed her mother’s illness, choosing to stay in Chicago, believing things couldn’t have been that bad until it was too late to pretend any longer. Her own problems had been a crushing weight at the time, and she’d readily accepted the continued reassurances from her parents that her mother was fine. Hindsight had provided the lesson—her mother had kept the truth of her diagnosis quiet in deference to Emma’s miscarriage and subsequent marital problems.

  And now she not only was an ungrateful child, but a divorced woman, too. One who had come home, her failure in full view of her father’s disapproving gaze.

  “So why’d you wait until I’d completed my education, ready to come back and help you? Worse, you dropped this on me without even giving me a chance to give an opinion.”

  “Education?” Disdain coated his words as thickly as sugar coated the damn donut in his hand. “You went to learn a trade your family’s had for generations, after you flitted around for nearly a decade. Then you let that school come in the way of your marriage, pushing your husband farther and farther away. Now you think you’re going to magically fix everything here? It’s too late.”

  “The Siebel Institute is one of the most respected courses of study in the world,” Emma tossed out, repeating one of the arguments she’d tried repeatedly the day before. “And there’s nothing magic about proper training and hard work.”

  Her father’s gaze flitted to the box of donuts before settling back on her. “You’d have been better off working hard to fix your marriage.”

  “Cole and I had problems, Dad. Problems that weren’t going to get better.”

  “If you’d tried harder. Maybe tried for another baby.”

  He’d intimated as much before, but had never said the words. She was shocked that they had the power to slice so deep. Like looking at a photograph and then seeing someone in person, the memory of losing the baby never quite compared to the sharp clarity of the real thing.

  The old Emma, the one who’d foolishly believed her marriage had a future, had thought the same thing once—that another child could help heal the marriage. Women miscarried all the time, and while painful and personal, it didn’t necessarily spell the end of having a family.

  Except Cole had been unwilling to try. Excuse after excuse had piled up until she’d finally had to acknowledge the truth: The life she’d believed in wasn’t meant to be because the man she’d expected to share it with had already checked out well before the miscarriage.

  “A baby wasn’t meant to be for us.” Emma spoke the words carefully, desperately hoping to end the conversation there. She could talk about the baby—it had taken a while, but she could do it—so it was a surprise to realize the pain was still so fresh when talking to her father.

  On a deep breath, she went back to her initial argument. “Look. We don’t need to move forward with a sale. Siebel is an incredible institution. Every major brewery counts graduates among its staff.”

  “Then you’ll have no problem getting a job.”

  The conference room phone buzzed, effectively ending the round. A numbness settled over her, the result of yet another skirmish in the circular argument with her father that she seemed unable to end. She’d worked her ass off for the last few years to make a change. To prove her worth to her husband, her family. But most of all, to herself.

  It might have been a bad move to come home, but she’d be damned if she was going to hide, with her tail between her legs.

  So why’d you run from Nick’s bar the other night?

  The thought rose up, swift and immediate, crushing her chest with swift blows and taking her “I am woman hear me roar” routine down a peg.

  He’d had things to do. Problems to deal with. He didn’t need her loitering in his office while he handled those problems.

  But those heated moments in his arms were never far from her thoughts.

  She owned the fact she’d run, but the past few days had her reconsidering her actions. And in her bolder moments, thinking maybe she should take a walk over to the End Zone for the bar’s weekly ladies’ night, later that same day.

  Bolstered by the thought of decisive action, she reached for the phone. “Yes, Cynthia?”

  “Mr. Santola and his client are here.”

  Her father piped up before she could reply, his voice firm. Unrelenting. “Send them in. Weatherford, too.”

  Emma stabbed the off button on the phone before summoning up one last salvo. “We don’t have to do this. I’ve got connections, and I’ve got credentials now. I know we can get a loan to float us for a bit longer. I can turn this around. I can make something of the Unity once again.”

  “It’s too late.”

  For to
o long, she’d assumed her choices were done, and her life was set in stone. But bad choices weren’t set in stone, and a life could be remade. She’d remade hers, damn it. She’d done it, and she was done cowering. And fucking done apologizing.

  “This brewery is my inheritance. I’m not going to give up this easily.”

  Her father’s gaze drifted toward the conference-room door, his face a mask of hard lines once more as the door swung open. “Then fight with them about it.”

  Tommy Santola came through the door first, his warm smile and stocky build exactly the same as they were in high school. She stood, her hand going out in greeting before her gaze caught on the large man following Tommy through the door.

  Her breath caught in her throat, but this time it was with feminine knowledge instead of wistful imagination. She knew those broad shoulders. Those long, strong fingers. Those firm lips.

  She knew the power and passion that lived inside that impressive frame.

  But most of all, she knew the determination that lived behind those blue eyes.

  Nick Kelley had come to buy her future.

  Chapter Four

  During his first practice after being drafted, Nick had taken a tackle from behind. They weren’t practicing at full strength, but the raw nerves of a bunch of rookies had caused the collision all the same.

  One minute he’d been on his feet, reading the field and lining up a pass, and the next the ground was rising up to meet him at double speed, and he was laid out flat, a three-hundred-pound payload on his back.

  He’d seen stars that day, and still considered it one of the worst hits he’d ever taken in the pros.

  But even that—the big one that had set the stage for the rest of his professional career—hadn’t packed the same punch as seeing Emma Bradley standing across the conference room.

  She’d applied makeup, but he could still see the greenish-yellow tinge of a bruise around her eye. The sickly color was a perfect match for the pitch and roll of his stomach.