Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3) (41 page)

West clapped him on the shoulder. “Anytime,” he said quietly. “Night or day. I’ll be there.”

His mother, seated next to Bill, stretched over and squeezed Del’s other hand. “What your dad said, honey.”

Piper, on the other side of West, watched him with her Harland eyes, almost a carbon copy of her younger sister. She said nothing, her cop-face fixed on—the one she would’ve used in the city dealing with drunks and druggies on a regular basis. His sister-in-law was razor sharp, he’d give her that. She’d have immediately seen what had been the final nail in the coffin between him and Shaye.

Piper stood and gestured him to his feet. He got up—this would be where she kicked his ass in real time for letting Shaye go. Before his imagination ran wild any further, Piper covered the few steps to stand in front of him. Her cop-mask slipped, exposing the slight sheen of tears.

“This,” she said, sliding her arms around his waist and hugging him so tightly it felt as if she cracked a rib, “is from me.” She kissed his cheek. “And this is on behalf of my little sister, who I bet you loved enough to let her go to New York.”

Of all the things that changed him since he’d returned to Stewart Island, falling in love with Shaye Harland had altered him down to his very DNA. He wasn’t the same soulless, husk of a man who’d left LA all those weeks ago. Shaye brought the real Del back, layer by layer, her gentle touch like a master
pâtissière
creating tiramisu.

He wasn’t the same, but Shaye was right. He needed to let her in—all the way in, and trust that their strength together could repair both their broken parts.

“No, I let her go because I’m an idiot. But I do love your sister. I love Shaye.” The words spilled over the smile peeling back his lips, and he wrapped his arms around Piper and squeezed.

Piper beamed then leaned in closer to whisper in his ear, “Give her a reason to come home then, Hollywood.”

***

3 weeks later…

She’d had visions of snowflakes falling between towering skyscrapers, of catching a Broadway show, and hailing a yellow cab with a whistle. Of plating meals on premium-grade china and being so busy she wouldn’t miss Del Westlake. Not even for a single New York minute.

Hah!

Shaye avoided a clump of greying bubble-gum as she navigated the steps out of the Lexington/59th subway, crushed between a charcoal-suited businessman snarling into his phone and a teen grooving to the tinny music blasting from his headphones. Another day, another subway ride on the E train from her tiny apartment in Queens. Another freezing walk down slush-covered sidewalks. Another opportunity for touts to hassle her or shoppers and tourists gawking at
Bloomies’
window displays to get in her way.

A walk sign buzzed green, and Shaye crossed with the flow, a good little lemming. Now, of course, all the stores were decked out for the holiday season—each one more impressive than the next. The lights, and colors, and constant honking hurt her head.

Hurt her heart.

A little over two weeks until Christmas, and she missed her family and the green,
silent
hills of Oban so much her stomach remained in a permanent double knot. Great for the waistline though—hell, she could pass on some diet tips to Holly and the girls.

Never need Spanx again!
Shaye smiled grimly as she skirted around a bell-ringing Santa. Just get your heart broken and move nine-thousand miles to chase a dream you no longer think you want, and voila! Pounds will melt away!

Seriously
, she thought turning into the narrow alley that led to the staff entrance of
Ward’s
. She should write a book.

Shaye rapped on the metal door with her
I’m so happy I work here and I don’t care that I’m demoted to a fricken’ commis-trainee chef
smile fixed solid. So much for being a line cook and Ethan Ward’s protégé; she’d only clapped eyes on the man twice since she’d arrived.

The young dishwasher with spiked blond hair known only as Bub, short for Bubbles, opened the door.

“You back again, Kiwi?” His white teeth were a gleaming crescent in his chocolate brown skin.

Shaye returned his smile—a genuine one, this time. Bub was the only person who bothered to treat her as another human being. The girl from a teeny tiny island somewhere near Antarctica had never considered other staff members at
Ward’s
would resent her presence. Or think she’d slept with Ethan to get there.

So that’s what she’d endure for the rest of the shift—hours of non-stop orders and in-her-face blustering from the sous chef. Then freezing her ass off on the subway to her tiny place to spend the next few hours watching bad re-runs, and aching to feel Del’s arms around her. Fun times.

“Yeah,” she said, trudging inside.

Too dumb, too stubborn, too proud to quit, that was her. The door slamming behind her echoed like a cell-block lockdown.

***

“Whaddya want? Entrance is ‘round front.”

Del held his ground at the back door to
Ward’s New York
and leveled a stare at the guy with punked-up hair. “I’m looking for Shaye Harland. She finished her shift yet?”

“Who’s asking?” The man folded his arms over his solid chest. “You her brother?”

Judging by his food-stained apron and harried expression, Del figured he’d interrupted the dishwasher during his busiest time.

“A friend.” He tried to crane a look into the kitchen, but the guy’s bulk blocked him. “I’ve just flown in from New Zealand to see her. Twelve hours next to a screaming toddler, then another five cramped next to a fat guy in cattle class into JFK. So put me outta my fucking misery. She here?”

“Nope. She’s done, man. Skipped out ‘bout fifteen minutes ago.”

Del swore and kicked the step. Knew he should’ve come straight from the airport instead of dumping his bags at a hotel. He glanced up at the man who watched him with cool, dark eyes.

“You’re not going to tell me where she lives, I’m guessing?”

A bark of laughter. “Aw, hell no. Kiwi’s a scary girl when she gets riled up.”

“Yeah.” Del shook his head, but a grin teased up the corner of his mouth. “She really is and then some.”

The big guy showed him a flash of white teeth bared in what Del hoped was a smile. “Name’s Bub, and Kiwi’s more than your friend, isn’t she? She’s your girl.”

“She was. I’m hoping to convince her to be again.”

“Screwed up, huh?”

Del grimaced. “Big time.”

“She know you coming?”

“Nope. Hoping to surprise her.” And hoping she wouldn’t tell him to piss off. Which was why he needed to speak to her face to face, and not try to convince her over the phone. “Shit. I’ll have to come again tomorrow. What time is she on?”

Bub shook his head. “Brother, there’s no use coming back tomorrow. I told you, she’s done. She quit.”

Del eyes popped wide. “Fuck. She what?”

Bub glanced over his shoulder and stepped down into the dirty alleyway. “You didn’t hear from me, but they treated Shaye bad. Your girl stuck it out long past what any normal cook would. She’s
stubborn
, that one.”

Del bristled, his fists clenching. “And Ward? He around?”

Bub’s nose crinkled as if he’d sniffed something rotten. “The man don’t bother to show up ‘round here less a camera crew’s with him.”

What the fuck was Ethan thinking, promising her a way into his world and then abandoning her like a new-born chick? His phone burned a hole in his pocket, an idea forming in his mind.

“I got this, Bub. Thanks for your help.”

“You take care of my Kiwi girl,” Bub said and went inside then he turned, the door half closed. “And you better do it quick. She probably stopped for a slice of that pizza she loves, but those E trains leave every five minutes—better hope she hasn’t gone home already.”

“Gotcha.” Del nodded and dragged out his phone.

Standing in the now-deserted alleyway, Del scrolled through his contacts and hit send. While the call connected, he smoothed out the fury bubbling in his gut.

“Ethan,” he said coolly, when the other man barked a hello down the line. “It’s Del Westlake. We didn’t part on the best of terms, but I’m asking you to do me a favor.”

***

Graceful and not-so-graceful skaters circled the ice below, some wobbling, some spinning, others clinging to the handrail with white-knuckled grips. Shaye wrapped the knitted scarf her mother had made tighter around her neck, the merino-possum blend wool carrying a hint of Chanel No. 5. She closed her eyes to cast a wish at the Rockefeller Plaza’s gigantic Christmas tree.

If you’re listening, Santa, I want to go home. Even more, I want he-who-won’t-be-named-because-I-can’t-think-of-him-without-crying back. I think I screwed up big time.

Sucked to be an adult with little faith in Christmas wishes.

Stamping her cold, aching legs, she walked away from the rink and skirted the crowds to the 50th Street entrance of the Top of the Rock observation decks.

After telling
Ward’s
sous to insert the job in his nearest available orifice, Shaye had stalked up Lexington to her favorite pizza joint. And to hell with it—she had stopped to eat, instead of returning to her cold, empty apartment. Alone. And unemployed.
Again
. Yeah, real happy thoughts she’d been entertaining when Ethan Ward rang. Bloody nark of a sous chef.

But Ethan still talked her in to meeting him on the sixty-seventh floor observation deck at ten tonight, promising an ear to her complaints.

“Why on earth would you want to meet there?” she’d asked.

“Didn’t I promise to show you the world? You can see it from the Top of the Rock.”

Trust a city slicker to think the world could only be seen from a skyscraper. Not
her
world. That was visible from the choppy waves of Foveaux Strait, or from the highest peak of Stewart Island, Mount Anglem.

New York wasn’t her world and never would be.

Ethan probably thought by showing her Manhattan’s lights she’d cave like wet cardboard and return to being Ward’s dogs body.

Nuh-uh.

Shaye followed a group of tourists up the inside ramp, past the huge windows overlooking Radio City Music Hall’s neon signs and into the elevator, which whisked her up to dizzying heights. She trailed after the tourists into the spacious lobby, funneled with them to the observation decks. Small clusters of people stood at the sheer glass walls. No Ethan, but then she’d arrived a little early, and Ethan was known for being late.

In the distance, the Empire State Building’s red and green holiday lightshow dominated the nightscape. Shaye crossed the tiled deck and a beautiful mosaic compass with arrows pointed in four directions. North, uptown. East and the East River, West and the Hudson River. South… She tugged her scarf up higher, hot tears prickling her eyes. South, lay Due South and Stewart Island.

“I made it, Daddy.” The protective glass walls were icy under her fingertips. Far below came the faint sounds of city traffic, and the expanse of lights shimmered. “All the way to New York City.”

“He would’ve been proud,” someone said behind her.

A rough, sweet, and familiar voice melted along her frazzled nerves. Boy, a woman could fry eggs on a voice that hot.

Del? Or had over-tiredness and stress caused her to hallucinate?

She turned slowly. But no, there was Del in his black pea-coat, jeans, and Converse sneakers, with at least forty-eight hours of stubble. He walked closer, his blue eyes brighter than any holiday lights.

Del’s here! He’s really here!

She sucked in a lungful of crisp winter air, the cogs in her brain spinning. “Ethan’s not coming, is he? You set this up.”

Del gave her a crooked smile. “Are you disappointed?”

Disappointed
? She wanted to twine around his tall, hard body like gift-wrap and then kiss the turkey stuffing out of him. But until she knew why he’d come, she’d do her best to avoid a second humiliating experience this evening.

Shaye shoved her hands into her coat pockets, just in case they misbehaved and reached for him. “Not disappointed, just curious.”

There. Her voice came out calm, smooth, and without a trace of
oh-my-gawd-kiss-me-already
.

He grabbed the strap of a small backpack on his shoulder. “I brought you something.”

Del unzipped the bag and drew out a stack of what looked like cards, tied with a red ribbon.

“Love letters?” she said dryly, but her stomach gave a little pirouette.

“In a way, yes.” He passed them over. “They’re from all the people whose lives you’ve touched. Mr. Peterson. Mrs. Taylor. The Komekes. Jade and Zoe. Holly, Erin, Vince, Bill—and two dozen others. Even your brother wrote a card.”

“That’s…” Her voice caught. “That’s very sweet. Thank you.”