I turned toward him as he shut the door. "Do you have a shirt you could put on?"
He sighed, but grabbed what looked like a dirty garment off the couch, sniffing it before pulling it over his head. "How are you?" he asked.
"I'm fine I guess. I've been calling you."
He looked at me blearily for a moment, his eyes red and bloodshot, before he ran a hand through his hair and headed for the small kitchen to the right of his living room. I followed. "I know. I was told not to have any contact with you." He held up a bottle of water.
"Sure," I muttered, taking it and drinking a big sip before replacing the cap. I needed to hydrate. I still didn't feel one hundred percent. "Told by whom?" I asked.
"Brogan Ramsay." His facial muscles ticked as if in response to uttering the name of Lucifer himself.
I paused, frowning slightly. "I didn't think that pertained to the phone."
He shrugged and took a drink from his own water bottle. "How did he treat you in Connecticut?"
I frowned. Apparently Stuart wasn't overly concerned about me in any capacity. He was at home, not calling me, having a drunken pity party instead of concerning himself with my welfare. "Fine. He's trying to protect me, Stuart. Protect me from the men you owe money to now." I couldn't keep the tremor of anger from my voice.
He exhaled a big breath, leaning on the counter, fidgeting slightly before crossing his arms as if to force his body to still. "This is all his doing, you know."
I shook my head. "You can't blame him for your own foolish choices, Stuart—"
"You think me losing was an accident?" he gritted out. "Either time? They set that up, too, Brogan and that other Irish fucker. The blond one."
I shook my head. Fionn? Fionn wasn't any part of this. Was he? "They didn't hold a gun to your head and force you to gamble!"
"Not the first time, but they did guarantee I'd lose. You remember how good Brogan was with numbers. I bet anything he was counting cards, the motherfucker. And what was I supposed to do after that? I'm ruined. And so yeah, I gambled again. What other possible way did I have of earning any money? Was I not supposed to try anything I could? Was I not supposed to take every chance I had available to try to win our father's company back?"
I rubbed my temples. Hadn't that been the reason I'd given myself? Work for Brogan and beg him for our company back? That I wouldn't allow the regret of not trying anything and everything I could, even if it meant risking my pride?
And yet, after hearing the hope and excitement in Trudi's voice yesterday about the results the team Brogan had brought in were achieving, I was questioning what I had once fought so hard for. Despite my current feelings for Brogan Ramsay, what if . . . what if what was best for De Havilland Enterprises—what would actually keep my father's dream alive—was for Brogan to run it? God, I couldn't think clearly. The wine from the night before was still muddling my thoughts.
Stuart rattled on. "They're orchestrating my entire downfall, and now they're trying to make it look like they're going to help me. But they're not. Mark my words. This is just another part of the overall scheme," Stuart spat out, twitching again. "They won't be happy until I'm dead in the ground."
God, he was paranoid. How had he deteriorated so quickly? "They don't want you dead, Stuart. You're lucky they're trying to help you out of the mess you yourself created."
"Oh really, Lydia? I'm supposed to be thankful? I created this mess? Brogan Ramsay created this mess. We'd be at our desks right now at our family company if not for Brogan Ramsay."
I sighed. Brogan Ramsay had created this mess. Originally. Not that things were fine and dandy even before he'd come along. My feelings for him, and this situation, were all warped and confused. But regardless, Stuart had made things worse. Stuart had created a situation that not only ended in his financial ruin, but perhaps his very life. And mine. Regardless of what Stuart thought, Brogan was not behind that. Right?
"You shouldn't be here," Stuart said flatly.
I pulled out a bar stool and sat down. "I know. But I had to talk to you, to check on you. You're my brother. I worry about you." Take care of your brother, Lydie.
His face seemed to soften, a look of sadness passing over his expression. "I worry about you, too, Lydia. God, I'm such a failure. I'm so sorry." His voice was hoarse as if tears were lodged in his throat.
I remembered a time when I'd heard that same tone in his voice. Stuart had been about twelve, and he'd come home with an art project he'd done that received an honorable mention in a school art fair. His eyes had shone with happiness. I'd gushed over it. It had been good. It was a portrait of our house, the sprawling lawn, horses grazing in the pastures beyond. He'd looked so proud as he showed it to my father. My father had taken a brief glance at it, grunted noncommittally, and then said, "You need to focus on things that matter, son. Scribbling on paper isn't going to earn you any money in the future."
My brother had agreed, but he'd looked crushed and to my knowledge he'd never drawn again. My heart gave a lurch of sympathy. Sometimes I felt like Stuart had never grown up. He was still that twelve-year-old boy who would always be a failure in his father's eyes. But I couldn't be his babysitter forever. It was killing me. Even before all of this—even before Stuart had lost our company in a poker game—it had been killing me. I could admit that now.