Vero expelled a hard cough into her hand. She pressed her red lips tight.
“Delia Marie!” I pointed with a hard finger to her room. With a huff, she tromped up the stairs. Nick took the hit with a self-effacing smile, wincing as if maybe it still stung a little.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be. Her dad’s probably right.” He cleared his throat, looking down at the floor.
“I … should check on the kids,” Vero said, disappearing up the stairs.
Nick didn’t speak for a painfully long time. “Is everything okay?” I asked. My gaze slid purposefully to the hand behind his back. If he was serving me a warrant, there was no sense dragging it out.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Every nerve in my body sagged with relief as he pulled a bottle of champagne from behind his back. “I never told you congratulations. For your book.”
Guilt gnawed at me as I reached for the bottle. “I should have congratulated you, too. Georgia told me you earned a promotion.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I didn’t exactly do it alone.” His eyes lifted to mine. I studied the bottle, feeling my cheeks warm. It wasn’t a cheap brand. He’d gone all in for the good stuff.
“You didn’t have to, really.”
“No, I did.” He rubbed his empty hand, as if he weren’t sure what to do with it now that the bottle wasn’t there. “I’m sorry for the things I said. I was just … caught off guard by the article in the paper. And you were right. About everything. It wasn’t your fault. I was the one who got you involved.”
“Still,” I conceded. “I should have told you about the book.”
He shrugged, in dismissal or acknowledgment, I wasn’t entirely sure. “We did sort of use each other, I guess. But I was thinking…” His dimple flashed with his tentative, crooked smile. “If you’d like to use me again, maybe I could take you to dinner sometime.”
It was tempting. Nick was attractive. Steady, reliable. And my toes curled a little at the prospect of making out with him again. But I’d made more than my fair share of impulsive choices lately. And I’d spent a lot of time trying to be someone I wasn’t. Nick had never seen me in my wig-scarf or a dress. He’d never known me as Theresa or Fiona, or anyone other than Finlay Donovan. He’d been inside my house and met Vero and my kids. He’d seen me in my bathrobe and slippers, and yet … Nick didn’t really know me. Could never really know me. Because if he did, I’m guessing he wouldn’t like what he saw.
Like Steven, sometimes it felt as if Nick only saw the parts of me he wanted to. For once, I just wanted someone who saw and appreciated what was really there all along.
I touched the label on the pricey bottle of champagne cradled in my arm. “Can I think about it?”
Nick’s face fell. He quickly picked it up again. “Sure, absolutely. I understand,” he said, trying not to look surprised as he took a step back toward the door. “You know, call me. Anytime. If you change your mind.”
“Thanks again for the champagne. And good luck with the trial.” I hoped he’d be able to put Feliks away for good, for both of our sakes.
We said an awkward good-bye at the door, me inside and him outside, and I sighed as I closed it behind him, hoping I wouldn’t regret this in a few hours when I was lying in bed alone, staring at the ceiling.
Vero leaned around the corner. I held out the bottle of champagne. “Is it over?” she asked with a sympathetic smile. I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the investigation or my relationship with Nick.
“For now.”
She wrinkled her nose. Tipped her head toward the kitchen.
“The lasagna!” We ran to the oven as tendrils of smoke slipped out through the seams in the door. I flung it wide and dragged on my baking mitts, dropping the smoking casserole on the stove top. Vero opened the windows, waving at Mrs. Haggerty as a cold wind blew through the room.
“Pizza goes better with fancy champagne anyway,” she said over the blare of the smoke detector.
I leaned a hip against the counter, fanning smoke from my eyes as it billowed through the kitchen. “Pizza sounds perfect. I’ll buy.”
According to our agreement, Vero was entitled to forty percent of the large supreme with extra cheese we shared that night, but neither of us bothered to count the slices this time.
CHAPTER 43
A few hours later, after Vero and I had polished off all the pizza, an order of hot wings, and the last of the Oreos in the house, I carried my beer upstairs to my bedroom. The champagne had given me a headache after the first glass, and I’d poured mine down the drain, washing away the stubborn remains of Patricia’s letter.