She dropped the shots onto the closest table like they offended her—and that was when her eyes locked on Brendan, and his stomach plummeted at the utter humiliation there. “Piper.”
“Sorry. I’m . . . Wow.” She backed toward the exit, her hip ramming into a chair and sending it several inches across the floor, making her wince. “I’m so sorry.”
As quickly as she’d arrived, she was gone, like someone had muted all sound and color in the room. Before and after Piper. And Brendan didn’t think, he just dropped his beer onto the bar with a slosh and went after her. When he started up the stairs, she’d already cleared the top, so he picked up his pace, weaving in and out of the Friday-night crowd, grateful for his height so he could look for pink sequins.
Why did he feel like he’d been socked in the stomach?
She didn’t need to see that, he kept thinking. She didn’t need to see that.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of pink crossing the street. There was Piper, in what appeared to be ice-pick heels, heading toward the harbor instead of back home. Someone called his name from the bar, but he ignored them, pushing outside and following in her wake. “Piper.”
“Oh no. No no no.” She reached the opposite sidewalk and turned, waving her hands at him, palms out. “Please, you have to go back. You cannot leave your wife’s memorial to come after the idiot who ruined it.”
Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t go back. His body physically wouldn’t allow it. Because as much as he hated her obvious embarrassment, he would rather be out there chasing her in the street than in that basement. It was no contest. And yeah, he couldn’t deny anymore that his priorities were shifting. As a creature of habit, that scared him, but he refused to simply let her walk away. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
She scoffed and kept walking.
He followed. “You’re not going to outrun me in those heels.”
“Brendan, please. Let me cringe to death in peace.”
“No.”
Still facing away from him, she slowed to a stop, arms lifting to hug her middle. “Pretty shortsighted of me to leave those shots behind. I could use about six of them right now.”
He heard her sniffle, and bolts tightened in his chest. Crying women didn’t necessarily scare him. That would make him kind of a pansy ass, wouldn’t it? But he’d encountered very few of them in his lifetime, so he took a moment to consider the best course of action. She was hugging herself. So maybe . . . maybe one from him, too, wouldn’t be a bad move?
Brendan came up behind Piper and cupped her smooth shoulders with his hands, making sure she wasn’t going to run if he touched her. Lord, they were so soft. What if he scratched her with his calluses? Her head turned slightly to look at his resting right hand, and he was pretty sure neither one of them breathed as he tugged her back against his chest, circling his arms around her slight frame. When she didn’t tell him to fuck off, he took one more chance and propped his chin on top of her head.
A sound puffed out of her. “You really don’t hate me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I really didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s enough apologizing.”
“They all must hate me, even if you don’t. They have to.” He started to tell her that assumption was silly, too, but she spoke over him, sounding so forlorn he had to tighten his hold. “God, I am an airhead, aren’t I?”
He didn’t like anything about that question. Not the question itself. And not the way it was phrased, as if someone had used that bullshit term to describe her. Brendan turned her in his arms and promptly forgot the process of breathing. She was gorgeous as hell with her damp eyes and cheeks pink with lingering embarrassment, all of her bathed in moonlight. He had to call on every iota of willpower not to lower his mouth to hers, but it wasn’t the right time. There was a ghost between them and a ring on his finger, and all of it needed resolving first.
“Come on, let’s sit down,” Brendan said gruffly, taking her elbow and guiding her to one of the stone benches overlooking the nighttime harbor. She sat and crossed her legs in one fluid move, her expression bordering on lost. Lowering himself down beside her, Brendan took up the rest of the space on the bench, but she didn’t seem to mind their hips and outer thighs together. “You aren’t an airhead. Who said that to you?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s true.”
“It is not true,” he barked.
“Oh yes, it is. I have left an endless trail of proof. I’m like a super-hot snail.” She smacked her hands over her eyes. “Did I really say ‘Why the long faces’ at a memorial dinner? Oh my God.”