Vero crept to the door. The lock snapped and the door swung open, letting in a rush of cold air.
“Hey, Vero. Is Finlay here?” My spine drew up tight when I recognized the gravelly voice outside.
“Detective Anthony,” Vero said loudly enough to give me fair warning. “We weren’t expecting you.”
Georgia hadn’t mentioned any new developments in the ongoing investigation when I had talked to her earlier. As far as I knew, the depositions had gone well. And Feliks had pled not guilty on every count, so Harris’s death didn’t necessarily stand out from the others. Nick and I hadn’t talked since the day he’d seen the pressrelease about the book. So what reason did he have for coming here now?
I stood frozen in the kitchen through Vero and Nick’s awkward pause.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure, yeah, sorry,” Vero sputtered.
Steeling myself, I came out of the kitchen. Nick stood close to the door wearing a grim expression. His dark brows pulled lower when he saw me, and he held something behind his back. I hoped to hell it wasn’t an arrest warrant. “Hey, Finlay.”
“Hey,” I said, one eye on his hidden hand.
“What’shedoing here?” Delia asked, peeping around the stairs in the pink satin princess costume she’d been wearing all week. Vero and I looked to Nick for an answer, waiting through the tense silence. The shadow of his jaw was freshly shaven, the dark waves of his hair neatly combed back. He wore his signature black jeans and a hunter-green Henley, and through the open lapels of his leather jacket, I could just make out his sidearm in its holster. I couldn’t tell if he was dressed for work or a date, or if there had ever been any difference for him.
“I just came to visit your mom,” he said.
“Oh.” She fidgeted with her plastic tiara, her scrunched-up face the picture of bemused innocence. “My daddy says you’re an asshole.”
Vero expelled a hard cough into her hand. She pressed her red lips tight.
“Delia Marie!” I pointed with a hard finger to her room. With a huff, she tromped up the stairs. Nick took the hit with a self-effacing smile, wincing as if maybe it still stung a little.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be. Her dad’s probably right.” He cleared his throat, looking down at the floor.
“I… should check on the kids,” Vero said, disappearing up the stairs.
Nick didn’t speak for a painfully long time. “Is everything okay?” I asked. My gaze slid purposefully to the hand behind his back. If he was serving me a warrant, there was no sense dragging it out.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Every nerve in my body sagged with relief as he pulled a bottle of champagne from behind his back. “I never told you congratulations. For your book.”
Guilt gnawed at me as I reached for the bottle. “I should have congratulated you, too. Georgia told me you earned a promotion.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I didn’t exactly do it alone.” His eyes lifted to mine. I studied the bottle, feeling my cheeks warm. It wasn’t a cheap brand. He’d gone all in for the good stuff.
“You didn’t have to, really.”
“No, I did.” He rubbed his empty hand, as if he weren’t sure what to do with it now that the bottle wasn’t there. “I’m sorry for the things I said. I was just… caught off guard by the article in the paper. And you were right. About everything. It wasn’t your fault. I was the one who got you involved.”
“Still,” I conceded. “I should have told you about the book.”
He shrugged, in dismissal or acknowledgment, I wasn’t entirely sure. “We did sort of use each other, I guess. But I was thinking…” His dimple flashed with his tentative, crooked smile. “If you’d like to use me again, maybe I could take you to dinner sometime.”
It was tempting. Nick was attractive. Steady, reliable. And my toes curled a little at the prospect of making out with him again.But I’d made more than my fair share of impulsive choices lately. And I’d spent a lot of time trying to be someone I wasn’t. Nick had never seen me in my wig-scarf or a dress. He’d never known me as Theresa or Fiona, or anyone other than Finlay Donovan. He’d been inside my house and met Vero and my kids. He’d seen me in my bathrobe and slippers, and yet… Nick didn’t really know me. Could never really know me. Because if he did, I’m guessing he wouldn’t like what he saw.
Like Steven, sometimes it felt as if Nick only saw the parts of me he wanted to. For once, I just wanted someone who saw and appreciated what was really there all along.
I touched the label on the pricey bottle of champagne cradled in my arm. “Can I think about it?”
Nick’s face fell. He quickly picked it up again. “Sure, absolutely. I understand,” he said, trying not to look surprised as he took a step back toward the door. “You know, call me. Anytime. If you change your mind.”
“Thanks again for the champagne. And good luck with the trial.” I hoped he’d be able to put Feliks away for good, for both of our sakes.
