Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3) (40 page)

“Is the New York job what you want?”

Twenty minutes ago, while scrolling through the travel agent’s website, she’d been ninety-nine percent positive she
did
want it. She’d flicked through some old e-mails from her graduating class—little snippets and photos of their lives in Auckland, Sydney, and a couple who now worked in London. Here she lingered, treading water in Oban, unemployed and hopelessly in love with a man who didn’t love her. At least, love her enough to share with her the part of him that’d been broken and hurting.

Yet each second she stared into Del’s clear blue eyes, her ninety-nine-percent-sureness scrolled downward like a stopwatch in reverse.

Make a decision, Shaye. Make a goddamn decision, see what he says.

“Yes. It’s what I want.”

A muscle twitched once in his jaw then stilled. He nodded, his gaze never leaving her face. “Then you’re right. Your family will support you, but they’ll miss you, too.”

Er, wasn’t Del supposed to say,
“Don’t go baby, because I’ll miss you?”

Shaye frowned. “No more than your family will miss you when you return to LA.”

Del crossed to the counter where she leaned and stood facing her. “I’m done with LA, I’m staying here. This is my home now.”

Her pulse leaped from a dull thud to a jarring throb.
Hope. Ohmigawd
. “But you hate Stewart Island, ass end of the world, remember? And what about
Ward On Fire
, if you make it to the finals?”

He lifted a shoulder, his chef jacket clinging to the hard muscles beneath.

Don’t think about what’s under his jacket. Don’t you dare remember how amazing he smells and the feel of his stubble-roughened skin when you kiss that spot under his ear.

“There’s nothing in my contract saying I have to accept a place in the finals, so I won’t.”

Well, fuck a duck, as her big sis would say. Life sure had a narky sense of humor and ironic timing. She’d secretly hoped for weeks Del would change his mind and stay, and now he had. Just when she’d been offered a job of a lifetime.

But Del…staying at Due South?

No, she couldn’t look at the world through rose-colored glasses anymore. Del had taken one issue—the issue of him returning to the States—out of the equation, but it didn’t mean they’d removed the other, more important hurdle out of their path.

“Del,” she said softly. “What Ethan said last night…about your drinking”—she sucked in a deep breath—“I’d like to hear what you have to say now.”

“Do you really need to hear how fucked up I was?” His lips curved in a cool twist, which masqueraded as a smile. “How I was a mess for months after Lionel died—drinking almost every night, staggering into work the next day hung-over or still half pissed, hiding it from the head chef as long as I possibly could? Then how my life fucking imploded after Jessica nearly drowned?”

Two quick steps forward and he gripped her upper arms. “I was selfish, blindly ambitious, and yeah, a drunk. The kind of man you would’ve justifiably hated. Nothing mattered to me but getting wasted and getting laid. But I haven’t had more than a couple of beers at a time since I’ve been back—West’s wedding was the exception. I’m not that guy anymore. Do you believe me?” He dropped his hands from her arms and slid them around her waist, looking down at her with clear, guileless eyes.

“I believe you.”

And she did believe him. In some ways, he was unrecognizable as the man she’d met on the ferry.

“What’s between us is more than amazing sex—a lot more, and you know it,” he said.

Shaye’s eyelids stung, so she closed them—accomplishing nothing more than heightening her other senses. Her nose filled with his cologne, her ears with a thunderous heartbeat, and her fingertips tingled as she slid them over the crisp cotton of his jacket.

Hands cupped her bottom, pressing her intimately into him. She gasped, and he kissed her—a deep, wet kiss that unraveled her resolve. Unable to help herself, she rubbed against him like a cat.

Del groaned, a harsh sound vibrating through his chest. He pulled away, dropping hot kisses along her throat. “Baby, you’re more addictive than anything on the top shelf.”

Words the equivalent of an ice bath.

Shaye jerked, every muscle going rigid. She’d let him hypnotize her again, drag her under with his talented mouth, making her forget all the reasons why she and Del Westlake wouldn’t work.

Shaye shoved his chest—hard. He stumbled back, eyes still hooded with leftover passion. As her breath heaved in and out, his gaze sharpened.

“Unfortunate choice of metaphor, huh?” He shoved a hand into his hair. “Shit. Look”—the laser beam of his intense stare sliced through her—“I’m not like your father. I won’t cross the line into alcoholism; there are too many people here who’d kick my ass before letting that happen.”

“You’re saying you’re accountable? To your father and brother? To Ben? Ford?”

“Sure.” His eyes cut left then returned, but he didn’t meet her gaze.

“You haven’t told them how bad things were for you in LA, have you? Just like you didn’t tell me—I had to overhear you telling Ethan. You didn’t trust me enough to share that part of your life”—she sucked in a ragged breath at the guilt on his face—“and you knew, right back at the beginning, that your past would push my emotional buttons. But instead of being completely honest with me, you chose to keep me in the dark.”

Tears stung her eyes but she blinked them away. “Do you really think so badly of me, Del? That I’m so judgmental, that I wouldn’t feel any sympathy for what you’ve been through and how hard you’ve fought to change?”

“I don’t think badly of you—you’re making too big a deal about this.” He took a step toward her.

Shaye backed up, slowly shaking her head. “It’s a big deal to me, and I’m sorry you can’t understand
why
it’s a big deal. My father died because he was ashamed and hid his struggles from the world. When things got tough for you in LA, you didn’t talk to anyone. You opted to turn to a bottle, and in your own words,
your life imploded
.”

She held up a hand to ward him off. “So, what if, God-forbid, your dad doesn’t make it through a kidney transplant? How will you cope with the sort of shit life can throw at you if you won’t let me or anyone else get close enough to you to share that load?” Her throat clogged, but she gamely swallowed. “Let the people who love you help you, Del.”

He jammed his hands into his pants pockets and glared. “I don’t need anyone’s help or a fucking intervention, goddammit. I’m not one of your stray charity cases. I’m trying to figure out how to make us work.”

“
You’re not listening
. We won’t work because you can’t admit there will be times when your bad-ass self isn’t enough to deal with shit alone.” She arched her chin and looked him dead in the eye. “I love you, you big jerk, but how can I stay here when you shut me out? When you won’t let
me
, the woman who bloody
loves
you, stand with you when you need it?”

Del’s jaw sagged, and his eyes widened. The only sounds in the kitchen were the hum of the refrigerator and the pounding in her ears.

Oh, cinnamon-freaking-sticks
. She’d told him she loved him, and
ohgodohgodohgod,
he just stared and said nothing.

Del’s mouth snapped shut, and his eyes turned flinty.

“Then go, cupcake.” He swept a dramatic hand toward the door, a tight, sardonic smile on his lips. “Go to New York and take it by storm. Maybe you’ll even find your Mr. Perfect there, since I can’t possibly measure up.”

A voice outside the kitchen grew louder, but Shaye’s feet stayed glued to the checked linoleum. The swinging doors blasted open, and Fraser sauntered in, phone clamped to an ear.

“—And I was all, ‘Yeah, whatever, dude’—oh.” Fraser skidded to a halt, his gaze flicking between them. “Oops.” He moved to scuttle back out.

“It’s fine, Fraser. I’m leaving,” she said.

As Shaye hurried around the counter, Del’s Converse sneakers squeaked on the floor.

His clipped voice rang out from the far side of the kitchen. “Fraser, off the fucking phone. Ethan’s due in fifteen minutes, and I want the floors mopped again.”

The hope he’d prevent her leaving to tell her he loved her, and that they’d work their problems out together, died a fiery death. Shaye threw herself through the swinging doors.

Decision made, then. She’d ring Ethan to accept his offer. He’d promised to take care of everything, so she’d book a one-way flight to New York in three days’ time.

Three days. Seventy-two long hours to figure out how to excise Del from the pieces of her broken heart, permanently.

Chapter 21

Ten days later…

So…his life had come to this.

Del sat on his deck and fed Bird-Brain his daily peanut fix, staring at the ocean. All nine thousand miles of it, stretching between him and Shaye.

The waves hissed and tumbled, the kaka squawked and flapped his wings, and Del kept firing glances at the six-pack sitting on the step beside him. The same beer his father brought over nearly three weeks ago. The same beer that had sat untouched in his fridge, to prove to himself he didn’t need it.

Didn’t need anyone’s help to remain stone-cold sober.

Del scrubbed a hand over his face. Closed his eyes. Felt his ribs contract as he pictured Shaye the last time he’d seen her at Due South. He hadn’t attended her thrown-together going away party or shown up at the airport farewell to see off her and Ethan’s crew.

Fucking coward that he was.

He’d copped an earful from West and Piper when they’d returned from their honeymoon. Didn’t matter he’d almost bitten his tongue in half to prevent himself from begging Shaye to stay. Didn’t matter that after hearing she wanted the job, he’d gotten the hell outta the way so she could follow her dreams. Did he get any credit for it? No. Just sad-eyes from Piper and a clip on the head from his brother. He’d walked away from the pair of them before he’d tackled West to the ground like they used to do as kids.

Yeah, pride had shoved a red-hot poker up his ass when Shaye nailed him about his inability to ask for help, and he’d reacted like a typical hothead male telling her to go. He groaned—and freaking suggesting she find her Mr. Perfect in New York?
Moron
.

But dammit…he’d still done the right thing.

Bird-Brain flapped his wings, dropped to the deck beside Del, and waddled over in the kaka’s peculiar gait. The bird nudged Del’s elbow, looking for more peanuts.

“Sorry, buddy.”

The chink of beak on aluminum jerked him out of his daydream.

“Hey!”

Bird-Brain squawked and flew up to the railing. Del stared at the cans, the cool sides the right circumference to fit in a man’s hand. The beer would be icy cold and just the thing to ease the raw burn in his throat. And hell, if six tinnies didn’t do the trick, there was always the top shelf in Due South—since he would be, after all, part owner of the place soon.

Del lurched to his feet. Bird-Brain screeched and took off into the bush behind the house. He snatched up the beer and glared at the cans.

Was this the path he’d chosen?

With or without Shaye, was he
that
guy now? The one who kept promising to get his shit together—just a couple more beers first. The guy who stayed at home with Jack Daniels, lounging in the dark with the TV tuned to endless cooking shows, hurling vitriol because, hey, he used to be a goddamn
chef
, you know. Would he someday be the embarrassing uncle to his brother’s kids, the one who arrived drunk to family events, until no one wanted him around?

Del popped all six tops off the cans and upended them over the sand at his feet. Then he tugged his phone out of his pocket and texted West.

Was he that guy?

Hell-fucking-no.

An hour later, Del sat at his dad’s dining table with his mom, dad, brother and new sister-in-law surrounding him.

“This better be frickin’ life or death,” grumbled West. “It’s not even half seven.”

Piper nudged West’s arm. “Haven’t I taught you anything? You don’t bitch at a family meeting.”

“Now, now, lovebirds,” said his mom, bringing over a tray of mugs. “Let Del explain.”

Eight pairs of eyes lasered in on him. How the hell was he supposed to start?

Hello, my name is Del Westlake, and I’m trying bloody hard not to become an alcoholic?

His knee bounced, the vibration making his chair creak. Forcing his leg still, he took a breath, his lungs feeling like perished rubber sticking together.

“Here’s the thing. I have a problem. With alcohol. I need…” His throat closed, and he swallowed twice before he could continue. “I need your help.”

He looked from his father to his brother, expecting condemnation—to his mom and Piper, expecting disappointment.

Bill spoke first, reaching across the table to cover Del’s hand. “Whatever you need, son. You’ll get it.”