The line was silent for a beat as I chewed on my lower lip, wondering what he was thinking, how he was processing what I could only imagine to be somewhat shocking news.
Then I heard what sounded like a hand hitting a desk. “Well, it’s about dang time. Who is it? Anyone I know? Someone from corporate?”
I laughed to myself at the irony. My brother was a die-hard Atlanta Hawks fan. Had season tickets. So he most certainly knew of Lachlan.
“His name is Lachlan Hale,” I answered very matter-of-factly.
“No shit? There’s a pitcher on the Hawks whose name is Lachlan Hale. Actually, he’s been all over the news lately because his sister just…” He trailed off, neither one of us saying anything for several seconds.
I could practically hear the wheels spinning in Wes’ head as he put the pieces together. My brother was exceedingly smart. He’d attended Harvard, for crying out loud. Now he was one of the most sought-after architects in the country, if not the world. The instant I mentioned Lachlan’s name, I should have expected it wouldn’t take long for him to figure it out.
“Jules…,” Wes began, a teasing quality to his voice. “What’s going on?”
It reminded me of how he sounded when he caught me sneaking in after curfew. Or in the hallway outside our father’s study after I picked the lock and stole some of his expensive whiskey. Or under the bleachers during football games with a bag of something that looked alarmingly like marijuana.
“How much time do you have?” I joked.
“For you, Julia, all the time in the world. You know that.”
“That I do.”
Over next several minutes, I told Wes everything that had happened since my first morning here when I decided to take a stroll along the beach. How I stepped on a jellyfish and Lachlan came to my rescue. How we kept running into each other. About the night we spent talking on the beach. About the arrangement we made to spend the week together, then walk away. How neither of us knew each other’s real names, using names we came up with for each other instead. How I learned who he was when I was at the studio yesterday and saw a news piece on his sister’s death.
Then how I recognized his sister as the woman who’d approached me last week. How I’d refused to listen to her, desperate to protect Imogene from enduring any more pain because of Nick’s actions. How, hours later, Claire was found dead of an apparent suicide. How I originally thought Lachlan knew who I was and had only agreed to sleep with me in the hopes of finding out the information I refused to tell his sister.
How I was wrong.
Then I shared what Claire had uncovered. How the suicides coincided with the dates of death of Nick’s victims. How Claire and Ethan believed someone who idolized or admired Nick was doing this. And how I showed Lachlan a photo of the necklace I’d just received, as well as the one received around this time five years ago, and he easily identified both — one as belonging to his sister, the other belonging to his former girlfriend.
When I was about to explain who Piper was and what happened to her, Wes cut me off.
“I know all about what happened to Piper Kekoa. It was messed up. Lachlan had just been promoted to the majors after pitching a no-hitter for the Hawks. Went home to Hawaii to celebrate, and bam. His entire life was destroyed in the matter of minutes.”
I closed my eyes, heart squeezing at the reminder. I’d been through a lot of shit. But just thinking about what Lachlan had endured the past few years tore me apart. Not to mention the knowledge that he was the one who ultimately pulled the trigger.
It was no wonder he was so closed off. Why he was a bit of an arse, as he put it, when we first met. If I’d lost as many people as he had, I’d probably be angry, too.
But I hadn’t really seen that Lachlan since the night on the beach, drinking Opus One from the bottle. Even last night, as upset and frustrated as he was about facing the ghosts of his past, he wasn’t bitter. Wasn’t hostile. Wasn’t distant. I liked to think that maybe I had something to do with that, even though everything inside me told me I shouldn’t even entertain the notion.
“So what’s the deal with you guys?” Wes pressed. “Is this the real thing?”
“Nah,” I said dismissively, hoping he couldn’t pick up on any reluctance on my part. “Like I told you. We made an agreement. One week, then we walk away. That hasn’t changed.”
“Do you like him, though?”
“What do you take me for, dear brother? Some floozy who’d sleep with anything with a pulse?” I joked. “I may have just turned forty, but I still have standards.” I played up my Southern drawl a tad, although he probably didn’t notice. His was even more pronounced than mine, but in a dignified sort of way that was quintessential Atlanta society.
“If you think I don’t know what you’re trying to do, using humor to avoid answering the question, you’d better think again.”
I was about to argue to the contrary, when he continued.
“I know you, Julia Blaire Prescott. You tend to make jokes when discussing things you’d rather not. But you don’t have to do that around me. So… Do. You. Like. Him?”
I sighed, laughing slightly at the mere idea. But I couldn’t deny the truth.
“I do, Wes. I know what you’re probably thinking,” I added quickly. “That he’s twenty-seven and I just turned forty.”
“I wasn’t thinking that at all. Actually…” He chuckled slightly. “I was more hoping you’d be able to pull some strings so I could hit a few balls in the stadium.”