Come On Closer (5 page)

The woman was tough as nails, and Larkin adored her. So much that she sometimes wanted to call Rocco in Milwaukee and give him an earful for not visiting his mother more often. He was married, and divorced, and married again. Gina said he had too much of his father in him . . . but it was clear she doted on him anyway. Larkin knew what that was like, loving people who just weren't equipped to love you back the way you needed them to.

It was one of the more unfortunate things they had in common, but at least they understood each other.

“You're supposed to tell me I'm right,” Larkin said. “That I'm making a good decision to keep things platonic with him.”

“I can't know that, though,” Gina said, waggling her fork at her. “How could I? Sometimes the wrong guy turns out to be the right one, and vice versa. I mean, if you just don't like him, that's one thing. I'd question your taste a little, because the man is built like—”

“I
know
,” Larkin interrupted, not sure she wanted Shane's hotness extolled yet again. It wasn't like she hadn't noticed. “And of course I like him. We're friends. He's a flirt, but I wasn't expecting him to kiss me.”

Gina's delight was evident. “Ha! I knew there was something you weren't telling me!”

Larkin hunched her shoulders. Her mouth could be a blessing and a curse. “Yeah. Well. It happened.”

“Was it awful?”

She flushed. She couldn't help it. “God, no.”

“You
liked
it, then.”

Larkin leveled a look at Gina that served well enough as an answer.

“Okay, you liked it,” Gina continued. “Nothing wrong with that. So he kissed you, you liked it, and then you told him to get lost.” She shook her head. “Elementary school drama isn't nearly this interesting. Can I come work in your bakery once a week just to watch the show?”

“This wasn't in the shop. I let him tag along to deliver a cake, and that's when he pounced.”

“Oh, it's
pouncing
now.” Gina leaned forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “What did he do, just grab you and plant one on you?”

“Well . . . no. It was more like sneaky pouncing. I was stupid, I guess, because even when he started to put the moves on me I didn't see it coming, and then when I figured out what was happening I just stood there. Because, you know, he has those eyes. And the shoulders. And he's so
big.
 . . .”

“This is starting to sound like one of those skin flicks on late-night premium cable,” Gina said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Larkin realized she'd been about to go off on a rhapsodic tangent about Shane's many, many physical assets and stifled a groan. This was all very bad news.

“Hey! I have a point.”

“Which is . . . ?”

Larkin exhaled loudly. “I don't know. He and I have nothing in common, really. It's not just worrying that I'd be one more of a billion notches on his bedpost. But I think I hurt his feelings, which I didn't even think was possible, and now everything is awkward and I just . . .
ugh
.” She rolled her eyes back into her head and downed the rest of her glass of wine. It felt good, she guessed, to get it all out. But now all she wanted to do was bury her face in pasta and try to pretend the rest of the day had never happened.

A gentle pat on the hand drew her attention back to her friend, who was watching her with sympathy and refilling her glass. “Well, whatever you decide to do about it, you can count on one fact to remain constant. Men, even the worthwhile ones, are complete pains in the ass.”

Unexpected laughter bubbled up and helped to wash away all of the day's confusion and finally, finally let her sink into the comfort of Gina's kitchen and begin to relax.

“Yes. Yes, they are,” Larkin replied. Even when nothing else made sense, good friends did. That was a truth she'd discovered when she'd stopped looking for someone who could make her happy and started figuring out how to make that happiness for herself. Good friends, baked goods, busy hands, and plenty of the color pink—those were the necessary ingredients of her life. Men were more like . . . sprinkles. Okay, maybe not sprinkles, because those were pretty necessary, too.

Larkin lifted her glass. “To keeping things simple,” she said. She had a full, rich life already. Why
complicate it? Gina lifted her own glass, a wry smile curving her lips.

“Simplicity is overrated. How about . . . ‘to keeping things interesting'?”

Whose side are you on, anyway?
Larkin wondered. But the thought of Shane resurfaced just then, and she found herself clinking her glass against Gina's. “To keeping things interesting,” she agreed.

Just not
too
interesting
, she silently amended. But even as she tried to let the day's worries go, she couldn't shake the suspicion that when it came to Shane, “interesting” was only the
beginning.

S
hane shuffled into the office at eight o'clock every morning and proceeded to bury himself in work for the next nine or ten hours. He saw clients, finished drawing up a couple of wills, spoke with several people in various states of estate planning, and argued for the umpteenth time with billing at a local nursing home on behalf of a widow whose late spouse, now deceased for an entire year, was still being harassed to pay money she didn't legally owe them.

It was a completely normal week, apart from his total lack of interest in being around other human beings. His assistant, Tammy, finally poked her head in about five in the afternoon on Thursday looking concerned.

“Hey. You knew we ordered from Mulligan's for lunch, right?”

He glanced up at her, a short, sturdy woman with bright blue eyes and a stylish gray streak in her
chin-length bob. She'd been here longer than he had, and apart from being a font of useful information, was also a hell of a lot more pleasant to work around than his father. She was another hand-me-down from Jim Sullivan, in fact, replaced by a younger model. It was one of the few times Shane was grateful that his father was too much of an ass to know what a mistake he'd made.

Shane mustered a smile. “Yeah, I knew. Just not too hungry today. Thanks, though.” He didn't know what was wrong with him. “Hungry” was one of his defining attributes. Larkin turning him down might have been a kick in the nuts, but it shouldn't have stopped him from eating.

All he had a craving for these days was cupcakes, damn it.

Shane rubbed his face. Last weekend was still messing with him.

Tammy looked at him as though he'd grown something new and bizarre on his person, like an extra head. “Are you feeling all right?”

No. Yesterday I went home, worked out for an hour, and then made the world's grossest batch of chocolate chip cookies, most of which are now in my garbage. Then I read until I fell asleep. I'm a boring person in lust with somebody who isn't interested and apparently I now hate everything. Thanks for asking
. He didn't want Tammy's patented death glare, though, so he kept his excuse simple. “Sure. I ate so much yesterday I could probably hibernate for the rest of the winter.” He looked out his window and watched the steadily falling snowflakes for a moment. They'd been coming down all day, which meant his car would be covered and cold as hell. This time of year, fresh snow could
make him just about crawl the walls. He should have relocated somewhere with palm trees.

“Maybe I should think about hibernating,” he grumbled. “I think bears have the right idea.”

His stomach chose that moment to growl piteously, ratting him out. Tammy's brows rose, but he knew she wouldn't pry. There was that, at least. “Well, if you decide to get hungry, I ordered you a hot turkey sandwich and a cup of French onion soup. They're in the fridge.”

“Really? Thanks, Tam. That's really nice of you.” She was a pro, and had never coddled him back when he was starting to learn the ropes, but she also liked to surprise him, every once in a while, with reminders that despite her disinterest in putting up with his crap she did actually like him. It seemed like those reminders would pop up just when he needed them, too. Like always, he found himself absurdly grateful for that small bit of kindness. Not that she would do anything but brush him off if he got too mushy about it.

“Not a problem. With how much you usually eat, I worried you'd starve to death. I don't want to do
all
of your work for you.” She smirked, and Shane chuckled.

“It would probably get done faster.”

“Goes without saying.”

Shane looked down at the sheaf of papers on his desk, seeing words that had all started to blur together about twenty minutes ago. Tammy stayed in the doorway, lingering long enough for him to look up again, perplexed. It wasn't like her to fuss over him. “Was there something else?”

“No, no.” She looked at him critically. “You've just seemed kind of
off
this week. You sure you're not getting sick?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Okay,” she said, her tone indicating that she didn't really believe it but was willing to accept his assurances for now. She had a point, Shane thought. He was usually out of his office as much as he was in it unless there was something really bothering him . . . or he was coming down with something gross.

“I'm not going to infect you with the plague,” he said. “I'm just tired.”

“Uh-huh. First it's fatigue, and then it's projectile vomiting.”

He smirked. “If you're that worried about it, disinfect the doorknobs after I leave. I know you will anyway.”

“I've got the spray bottle all ready to go,” she replied. “Dan and Brigid are still here, but your dad's gone. You can cut out early if you need to.”

Dan McNamara and Brigid Olsen were the other two lawyers in the firm, neither of whom he had any issues with. Dan had been with his father for years, and Brigid had come on board shortly after he'd gone off to college. They all went out for drinks occasionally to get sloppy and talk shop. All but the famous Jim Sullivan, of course, who had better things to do than waste his time with subordinates.

His son included. Same as it ever was.

“Let me guess . . . ‘business dinner'?” Shane asked, curling his fingers into air quotes. Tammy's smile was as sharp as a blade. It said far more than her words ever did.

“Of course.”

“Barbie in tow?”

“Is that even a question?”

Shane grunted. It was hard not to be a dick about
the fact that his father's assistant's name was
actually
Barbie. Especially because it was extremely accurate. “I don't know why my mom puts up with it,” he muttered, saving the file he was working on. “The man's been pulling this shit for too long to call it a midlife crisis.”

“Don't even try to figure it out. People are complicated.”

He thought of Larkin, and the heat that had snapped between them even as she'd backed off. He still didn't get it, but it didn't seem like any explanation was going to be forthcoming, so he'd just have to deal with it. At this rate, that was going to be inscribed on his tombstone:
Shane Sullivan: He dealt with it.
“Yeah. I know.”

“Well. He's gone, anyway,” Tammy said. She wouldn't get into discussing his father's proclivities any further than that, and Shane didn't blame her. Jim Sullivan was still her employer, and the man managed to inspire enough awe and fear to keep everyone in his orbit in line. He'd probably work until he was eighty, Shane thought, and the realization made him feel like sinking through the floor.
This is your life, man. You made it; you own it.
Tammy's eyes were full of sympathy, so he straightened his shoulders. He wasn't big on pity parties. At least not in polite company.

“Thanks. I've just got a few things to finish. Appreciate the heads-up. And I swear, I'm not going to puke,” he said.

“I'll hold you to that,” she replied, and vanished from the doorway as quickly as she'd appeared. Shane shoved a hand through his hair once she was gone and sighed. The weekend couldn't come soon enough, and he still wasn't able to muster up much excitement about it. The
weather didn't help—the forecasters were calling for even more snow this weekend, and Saturday was supposed to be messy. He should probably grab a few things at the Fresh Pride on the way home.

Spring couldn't come soon enough, either.

He managed to poke at a few other items on his to-do list, but after another half hour, Shane knew his focus was shot. He gathered up his things, pulled on his coat, and headed out, waving at Brigid on his way by her office. A quick detour into the small kitchen netted him the neatly packaged sandwich and soup Tammy had mentioned—dinner, Shane decided, since he wasn't in the mood to cook.

He walked outside, glancing up at the flakes still falling from the pitch-black sky as he shut the front door. The prospect of spending a few days in his own company made him grimace. He'd thought about getting a dog, but he didn't really have the time for one right now. Sam had tried to con him into a cat, but he wanted to live with an animal with decent social skills. Cats were out. He didn't like snakes, and fish were boring.

“Xbox it is,” he muttered. Maybe he could talk Fitz into ditching work and coming over to hang out. They were the only two singles left in the makeshift little group they'd formed after Jake had given Cici and the rest of their old friends from high school the boot. He had to admit, that had been a good move. Awkward at first, since he'd tried to hang with them a couple of times shortly after Jake had told them all to piss off, but it turned out that minus Jake it basically sucked anyway. Best friends didn't just turn up every day, so he'd made his choice. It had been a good one, except for the whole couples thing it was turning into lately.
Marriages, engagements . . . One of these days there'd be a baby tossed into the mix, and then what?

He'd be, like . . . Uncle Shane. Jesus.

Shane stalked to his car. He spent the drive to Fresh Pride brooding over the horrors of this imagined future. He'd have a freezer full of microwave dinners, he decided. And he probably
would
have a cat. The kind that did nothing but hide under furniture and launch bloodthirsty attacks on people's feet. And he'd spend every Wednesday down at the Tavern ogling younger women, who would all find him creepy. And then—

“Shane?”

He jumped a little at the sound of his name. He recognized the laughter as he spun around, bag of bread in hand. A tall, attractive brunette looked back at him, the amusement in her brown eyes clear. “You going to attack me with that?”

His laugh was forced. “No. Hi, Cici.”

“Hi yourself. Long time no see.”

He shrugged. Harvest Cove was small, but big enough to avoid certain people if you made an effort. It was strange to see her now, after all the years he'd wasted carrying a torch for her. She'd always been perfectly happy to use him when she needed things, but for her, it had always been his best friend, Jake. Even when she'd come back home from North Carolina after her divorce, long after Shane had come to terms with the fact that his teenage infatuation hadn't had much relation to reality, that stupid torch had tried to sputter back to life.

Except it had turned out that what he'd really missed was being eighteen and still able to imagine he could crawl out from under the heavy weight of familial expectation and get away.

So much for that pipe dream.

“How've you been?” Cici asked. She looked the same, like she'd just stepped out of a magazine. Lean, athletic, stylish in a way that looked effortless . . . and more than a little artificial. He thought of Larkin and the frosting on her nose—she never seemed to be trying to be anything but exactly who she was. And he missed the freedom that came with being anyone
but
who he was.

No wonder she ran in the other direction.
Shane glanced at the small basket he carried and shifted his weight. He wasn't really in the mood for small talk with a former friend.

“I'm fine. Busy. You know,” he replied. When she simply stood there watching him, he tried to draw on what little patience he had to muster up some manners. “How about you? You still like the Cove better than Charlotte?”

“Oh, it's fine. It's home.” She didn't sound convinced. He guessed her triumphant return hadn't been what she'd expected, either. Might have helped if she'd acted a little less like a pit viper.

“Yeah, it is,” Shane replied. They looked at each other, and he realized he'd sounded just as excited about it as she had. For a brief moment, all the years and ugliness fell away, just enough to let the humor through. This time, his laughter as it mingled with hers was genuine. He shook his head. “Gotta love the Cove,” he said. “Same as it ever was.”

“You got that right. Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”

“It's not
that
b . . .” He happened to glance off to Cici's left, and his voice trailed off as he saw Larkin at
the end of the aisle watching the two of them with an intense expression that looked like it should be accompanied by lethal bolts of lightning headed his way. The instant their eyes met, she looked away, cheeks reddening as she pushed her cart around the corner and out of his sight. There was a metallic
crunch
and a clatter of cans an instant later that had him stifling laughter.

Stealth was definitely not one of Larkin's attributes.

Funny, there had been a time when he would have hung on every word that fell from Cici's lips. Now it was the easiest thing in the world to walk away. He guessed he wasn't the only one around here who'd changed. Not that he wasn't still doomed to his lonely, cigar-chomping future as Uncle Shane, but at least he'd managed to make a
few
improvements. “Hey, I'll catch you later, Cici. I just saw someone I need to talk to.”

“Sure. Tell . . . everyone . . . I said hi.” Her mouth tightened for a moment, but when he blinked it was gone, replaced by the wide, carefree smile he was used to from her. He knew who she meant by “everyone,” and he would
not
be relaying the message. He liked Jake's wife. He didn't want Sam to have to feel bad later for throwing something at his head.

Shane moved as quickly and quietly as he could, knowing Larkin would be expecting him to follow. There was no sign of her in the next aisle except for some cans that looked as though they'd been hastily put back on the shelf. She was probably hiding out as far from him as she could get, he decided. Their all-too-brief kiss had been five days ago, and he was already tired of things being weird between them.

Turned out he didn't just want her—he
liked
her. In a friendly, fully clothed way, even. Unexpected, kind
of strange, but there it was. He was missing her smart mouth as much as he missed checking out her butt every time she turned around. That was enough reason to try to fix things. Plus, any woman who glared daggers at Cici Ferris just for talking to him was worth chasing around the grocery store.