The jangle of the bar’s door was perhaps the only bell sound during that time of year that set his skin to crawling, not for its tinkling tone in particular but for who it announced his presence to.
The crowd was as thick as expected this close to Christmas. A few empty tables here and there, but otherwise the place was filled out nicely, with an assortment of weary heads all wearing the same distilled haze of disappointment bent over glasses filled with liquids of various depths.
Alec knew those looks. They were the disillusioned expressions of people who’d just had the shit kicked out of them by a holiday that hadn’t even happened yet.
Poor bastards. I can relate.
Without sparing them another glance or look of commiseration, Alec found his quarry sitting at the bar sipping a dirty martini with—he narrowed his eyes and cursed—three olives.
Fuck.
Phoebe only indulged in that many olives when she was in one of her cryptic these calories don’t count rages.
He took the seat next to her, the one with the coat he’d loaned her the day of the dog shit debacle draped over its back, and declined the offer from the barkeeper to get a drink started. “You didn’t have to return it.”
“I had no reason to keep it.” She smoothly took another sip without so much as glancing at him.
“Well, thanks anyway.” Then he caught her profile. “I haven’t noticed those before. Your glasses,” he said, pointing to the thick black frames that seemed a bit too bulky for her face, but like hell he was about to point that out, especially when she was holding a metal martini skewer not a foot from him. “Have you started needing a prescription?”
“Since when do you notice anything that isn’t rugby related?”
Fuck. He knew this was coming. Knew it, prepared for it as best he could, and still bloody hated it.
“I came to make peace. I didn’t do right by you. I know that now. I was incredibly selfish and had no business stringing you along. You deserved so much better than I could ever have hoped to offer you. I was damn foolish for treating you the way I did.”
Phoebe scoffed, her polished lips lifting on a sneer. “No, Alec. You weren’t the fool. I was. I knew I was staying longer than I should have, but I suppose I just didn’t care.”
“Then let’s not make any of it worse now.” He pinned her with his stare, giving her no choice but to face him. “I know what you did, and I’m giving you the chance to make it right.”
Her stony expression betrayed nothing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t make me say it. Jesus fucking Christ, Phoebe, you’re better than this. I’m better than this. I shouldn’t even have to be here telling you the difference between right and wrong.”
She adjusted her glasses but still didn’t acknowledge his words.
He sighed, hoping things would have gone differently, but not surprised they hadn’t. “I know you were the one who purchased the lot of the Jamaican extract from that West Indian grocer. I called the place on Marisa’s behalf, trying to see whether there was something I could do to get another shipment in for the Jamaican gingerbread treats she was planning on serving at the Crystal Christmas Ball. I spoke to the owner’s nephew, who said they’d just sold their last bit of supply to a woman offering to pay double the retail price if it could be delivered the same day. I asked whether he recalled the name, and thank goodness for clueless teenagers, the bloke told me who’d placed the order. It was arranged under the name Phoebe Boyle.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes and plucked an olive from the skewer. “We live in a free enterprise market, Alec. A woman is allowed to conduct legal business however she sees fit.”
“Look, I get it. It was a mistake for Marisa to post what she was planning on serving online, and you were within your rights to compete, but this has all gone too far. I’m the one you should be attacking and dragging through the mud, not my girlfr?—”
Alec knew it was a mistake the moment the word began to fall from his lips, but as much as he tried to pull it back, there was no erasing the hurt that had struck Phoebe’s features so harshly.
Fuck. Fuck. He dragged a hand over his face.
“She’s not your girlfriend,” Phoebe stated.
“No, she’s not. I mean, she is now, I think, but wasn’t before, though even that doesn’t sound at all fair.” Goddammit, he was making a hash of this, and he hadn’t come to drag Marisa’s name into his mess. He’d come to get her out of it.
“What is she, Alec? It’s a simple question.”
“She’s . . .” He blanked, not knowing how to categorize things himself, let alone explain them to a woman who had no love for either him or anything in his life anymore. How much clarification did he owe to Phoebe, to the world, or to himself when the only straightforward offering his brain could come up with was the most basic one?
“She’s mine. And you’ll be leaving her alone. I’ll not have another woman suffering for her association with me.”
He rose out of his chair, nearly toppling the thing once he yanked his coat free, and stormed toward the door. But before he walked out, bitterness had him slowing his steps as his throat thickened with the pain he’d seen mirrored in Phoebe’s eyes. Pain he’d failed to grasp so long ago because he’d been too busy darting from country to country seeking praise and glory from everyone except the people he’d left behind.
The ones who had always been waiting, more than ready and eager to give their praise, if only he’d chosen to be there to receive it.
