Page 54 of Keeping Kaitlyn

“Look at me—” I lift an arm from under the covers to show her the ink it’s covered in. “You ran away and married some tattooed asshole fromCalifornia.” Dropping my arm, I push it back under the duvet to re-wrap it around her waist. Pulling her closer, I laugh. “I have both of my nipples pierced for God’s sake. Seeingmyring onyourfinger was the mother of allfuck offs.”

“My father doesn’t know your nipples are pierced.” Kait smiles again and this time it holds, making me feel like I justwon a war. “But if I ever talk to him again, I’ll make sure to tell him.”

THIRTY

WENTWORTH

Con:I don’t know what you’re doing, asshole but I’ve got a life on hold that I need to get back to. The least you can do is answer the goddamned phone when I call you.

He sent that text three days ago and followed it up with about a half dozen calls, all of which I’ve ignored. Matter of fact, I’ve been ignoring Conner for the past week because I know what he’s going to tell me.

It’s time to come home.

It’s all over the news—the subpoena that Con filed in federal court was finally granted and he was able to obtain the security footage from the ATM across the street that was pointed almost directly at the bus bench at the time of the accident. As it turns out, Lexi was telling the truth—shewasn’tthe one behind the wheel when her car plowed into that bus bench.

The driver, identified as twenty-eight-year-old Aaron Mercer, works as a bartender at the nightclub Lexi Chase was spotted at, the night of the accident, and can clearly be seen placing Chase in the driver’s seat and fleeing the scene, directlyafter the accident. Subsequently, LAPD’s prime suspect, hotel tycoon Wentworth Hawthorne, can be seen arriving on scene approximately fifteen minutes later to console a distraught Chase, only seconds before placing the 911 call that likely saved Brian Maxwell’s life. Mr. Maxwell, age forty-three, is said to have been recently upgraded from critical to stable condition and is expected to make a full recovery. When asked, representatives for Ms. Chase declined to comment.

When they flashed the bartender’s mugshot on screen, I can begrudgingly understand why it was so easy for the cops to believe it was me. Even though he’s about six inches shorter, the dark hair and hand tats made us a close enough match for a lazy detective who wanted to make headlines and close their case, all in one felled swoop.

It's not just Conner’s calls I’m dodging. Silver and Delilah have both called and sent texts. Silver to check on me and ask if I’m okay, and Delilah to tell me that our mother is getting ready to make an appearance onThe Today Showto let America know that she knew I’d been wrongfully accused all along and that Hawthorne Hotels International is still their number one luxury hotel chain.

I hope she went light on the Botox this month or she won’t be able to cry for the cameras.

Sending them bothI’m finetexts, I reread Conner’s last text. I owe Con a hell of a lot more than dicking around and ignoring his phone calls.

Me: Sorry. Power’s been out here for the last few days. Phone’s been dead. Just got it charged.

My phone rings about thirty seconds after I hit send.

“I’m not even going to ask what hole you’ve been hiding in,” Con says as soon as I answer. “Because I really don’t give a shit. All I want is for you to hop on your little jet plane and fly the fuck home.”

“Okay.” Even though it’s the last thing I want to say, it’s the only thing Icansay becauseI don’t want to because I fell in love and got married while you’ve been fighting to clear my name and keep me out of prisonisn’t what he wants to hear. “I’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrowmorning,” Conner corrects me. “I gotta get home. My dickhead brother is pitching a fit because he’s the only one behind the bar, helping my dad.”

Sometimes I forget that Con isn’t an attorney all the time. That when he’s not busy rebuilding transmissions and rotating tires, he’s slinging drinks in his family’s bar. He earned his law degree from Harvard while he was technically still in high school because he was bored. As far as I know, I’m his only client.

“Yeah, okay,” I tell him, already regretting it. “Tomorrow morning.” Waiting a beat, I clear my throat. “The news said Maxwell is going to pull through?”

“Yeah—as soon as the swelling in his brain was manageable, they woke him up. He’s looking good. Responding to stimuli. There’s some memory loss but the doctors are confident that it’ll recover over time.” Conner’s quiet for a moment before he continues. “The family’s been asking who’s paying for everything so I set up a GoFundMe and wrote a program that donates random amounts from generated accounts attached to one of your offshore bank accounts.”

I also forget that on top of lawyer, mechanic, and bartender, Conner Gilroy can also do some scary shit with a computer.

“While you’re at it, why don’t you wire yourself what I owe you for the last six-weeks,” I tell him on a laugh.

“Already done,” he tells me. “I am now the proud owner of Castinetti Automotive—which will be Gilroy Automotive as soon as I get home. Don’t worry, I gave you the friends and family discount. You got a suit?”

Thinking of the suit I wore when I married Kait, I feel my stomach give a slight clench. “I’m sure I can get my hands on one.”

“Good—make sure you’re wearing it when you step off the plane because we’re rolling into the press conference straight away,” he says, suddenly all business again. “After that, we’re going to be accepting our very loud, verypublicapology from the LAPD. The mayorandthe governor are going to be there. I need you bright and shiny.”

“Tomorrow morning in a suit,” I say on a sigh. “See you then.” I hang up before he can remind me to shine my shoes. Turning my phone off, I toss it onto the coffee table in front of me and stand. Kait’s been in the bedroom for the last hour or so, filling out nursing program applications while I worked up the courage to turn my phone back on. Standing, I give my face a rough swipe because I can’t put it off any longer.

I have to tell Kait I’m leaving.

Shit.

Making my way to the bedroom, I stall out in the partially open doorway when I catch sight of her because she’s lying on the bed naked, save for a black lace thong, her long dark hair spilling over her bare shoulders. On her stomach and facing away from me, her face buried in one of her notebooks, Kait doesn’t see me but she hears me.

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