"You've got something up your sleeve, you Irish fucker."
I let out a weary sigh, glancing around at his trashed apartment, noting there were napkins and magazines and receipts littering the table surfaces and even some floor space, all of them featuring drawings and doodles. I looked more closely at the swirls and small pictures. I envisioned him sitting alone in his apartment, in a drug-and-alcohol-induced state, obsessively creating art anywhere and everywhere. It was odd and unsettling. And yet, it wasn't only amateur doodling, it was . . . good. It was really good. "You could go back to school and study art," I murmured, almost to myself. "It seems like—"
A look of rage so sudden and intense came over Stuart's face that it startled me. He barreled toward me, his fists flying. I easily sidestepped him, but he seemed to be possessed by something stronger than himself as he came at me again. I ducked and then struck out with my fist, connecting with his jaw as he let out a loud grunt and whirled backward, falling onto his couch, the anger seeming to drain from him as he gripped his jaw. "You asshole," he choked. "I will fucking kill you someday." He kept rubbing at his jaw, looking strangely lost now. Despite the threat, the only thing I felt was pity.
Stepping over a lamp lying on the floor, I moved toward his apartment door, shaking my hand. It'd been a long damn time since I'd had to punch someone.
"I'm broke," Stuart said flatly. "I don't even have enough money to eat, much less figure out a plan for my life."
I paused, the doorknob in my hand. He couldn't know it, but it was my Achilles heel, the thing I couldn't walk away from without helping—hunger. I blew out a breath, reaching into my pocket for my wallet. The vision of him throwing the hundred-dollar bill on the floor and me having to bend to retrieve it floated through my mind. I supposed I should feel vindication in this moment—the tables had turned in such a literal way. So why instead did a sad ache fill my chest?
I had a little under a thousand dollars in cash on me. I took it all from my wallet and laid it down on the table next to the door. "Be well, Stuart." And I left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lydia
I walked out of Brogan's home gym, rubbing a towel over the back of my neck as my breathing slowed. I'd used his treadmill for a slow, five-mile run, and though I felt invigorated, it had been harder than it should have been. I was out of shape. I needed to get back on the regular exercise wagon.
As I stood under the hot spray of the shower, I hummed the tune of the song the Irish band had played the night we went to The Black Dragon. This morning I felt free, light, unencumbered.
Although I checked in with Trudi almost every day, I had taken a small step back in recent weeks, knowing De Havilland Enterprises was doing just fine. And honestly, it was a relief to let go of the constant worry, to let the capable team Brogan had put in place take on the responsibility of what I had been carrying mostly alone for so long.
In the weeks since, I'd gone to work with Brogan every day and it almost scared me how much I loved working with him—or not even with him precisely, although that was wonderful, too. I just loved doing what he did. Problem solving for others who didn't have the means to be creative in the ways we did was fun and challenging and more gratifying than anything I'd ever been involved in to date.
My father had always given charitably, and I would, too, as soon as I was financially able, but this was different than that. This was offering my talents and my heart in a way that was useful to others. And the reason my love for it scared me was because I knew it was temporary. I had my own job to go back to at some point soon. Which was a good thing, but . . . I'd miss the lilting accents, the kids running in and out, the cheeky boys who I could make blush with just a look, the colorful characters we worked with in one capacity or another, the bursts of Gaelic that rang out like sweet bird chatter throughout the day. And the way I felt valuable—not because I had money, but because of me. It was really the first time I'd felt that way. Ever.
Rinsing the last of the conditioner from my hair, I let out a sigh. Yes, I'd miss it terribly. Maybe I could convince Brogan to let me volunteer a couple of days a week after work.
Brogan—intense, complex Brogan. A shiver ran down my spine just thinking about what we'd done the night before. Foreplay that had lasted for hours . . . we'd both come mere seconds after he'd slipped inside me. I couldn't get enough of him. But it wasn't just sex—I loved talking to him, too. Loved being curled up in his arms, listening to his deep voice, noticing the places where his accent broke through and knowing it was always telling, informing me what to listen closely to, what topics affected him the most. He had a few small "tells" and I knew only the people closest to him knew what they were.
As I toweled off, I heard my cell—the one Brogan had replaced for me after mine had been shattered on the street—ringing from the kitchen counter downstairs, but ignored it. I pulled on my clothes—a pair of black, silky shorts and a thin pale gray sweater that fell off one shoulder. I heard my phone ring again and ran down the stairs to grab it, wrapping my wet hair in a messy bun and securing it as I went. I grabbed my phone on the final ring. "Hello?" I said breathlessly, noticing Daisy's name right before I picked up.
"Lydia?" she asked, tears in her voice.
"Dais? What's wrong?"
"He's cheating on me," she said, hiccupping. "I suspected it. I have for a long time. I guess I," she let out a small sob, "I just didn't want to believe it."