Page 12 of Grift

Patrick

The gallery is empty, but running water sounds from the small attached bathroom. It’s a private place to talk. I’ll wait.

Minutes tick by as I stare at the paintings and artifacts, uncomprehending. There’s a basket there that catches my attention. It’s sitting on one of the central exhibit tables, in a style that I actually recognize. When I look closer at the attached description plate, I see that it’s a Nantucket basket, woven by a famous artist I’ve never heard of.

No surprise. I’m not the kind of guy that knows his art.

Something about seeing the basket sparks distant memories: me as a kid, playing with my brothers Callan and Finn and our sister Siobhan in the surf on the one trip we’d taken with my mother’s family to Nantucket. My father wasn’t there.

One of the happiest and freest times I can remember in my young life. It’s strange. I haven’t thought about that in years. Now I’m standing here wondering what it would be like to be on a deck overlooking the ocean on Nantucket with Jessica next to me enjoying the view.

Jesus. Two hours ago, I didn’t know this woman even existed. Now, because I didn’t do my due diligence and lost my fucking control again, we’re both caught up in something I’m not sure we’re getting out of.

In the end, I don’t care how beautiful she is or how captivating. I’m not confusing a marriage of convenience with one that’s meant to last.

The bathroom door clicks open, the sound getting me out of my head and back into my body. There she is. Jessica Kensington, still every inch the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. The light and shadows of the gallery’s expensive lighting play over the silk of her ivory dress, throwing every curve into stark relief. A man could lose himself in those curves, in those glossy waves, in those eyes. Her long hair falls back over her shoulders and her face is freshly washed.

Even under the freshly applied makeup, it’s obvious she’s been crying.

Fuck.

Kensington talked to her then, and she’s clearly not happy at the prospect. Part of me respects her instincts. Part of me wants to take advantage of this whole thing to claim such a beautiful woman for my own. Part of me wants to ask what’s so bad about marrying a guy like me.

However, this conversation isn’t about me.

And I might be an idiot, but I’m not an asshole.

It’s not personal. It’s the circumstances. Five minutes of flirting earlier tonight when we didn’t know who the other person really was; that in no way could have prepared her for this.

“We need to talk.”

She’s working hard to compose herself, her face going neutral and forcing a small, practiced smile. “So I hear.”

“We don’t have to do this, Jessica.” Even as I say it, I know it’s bullshit. But if she tells me straight out that she doesn’t want to do this, I’ll figure a way out of it for her sake. Maybe she’s got a man already. Maybe she doesn’t even like men. Maybe she’s got a serious aversion to me in particular and she’ll let me know. There’s so much I don’t know about this woman.

Yet for some reason, I need to know what she wants before I decide how to go forward. Really decide in my gut.

“I didn’t get the impression that either of us has much of a choice,” she sounds tired and resigned. Maybe she’s in shock. “Unless I’m wrong.” There’s a hopeful note there that’s like an icy stab.

She’s got a realistic perception of our shared predicament and she’s not begging me to get her out of this. That at least opens a door to some kind of compromise or the possibility of working together.

Shaking my head, I close the distance between us until I’m standing just a few inches away. She’s standing close to the wall, very little space to go in either direction. Part of me wants to pin her there in this moment, the way we’re being pinned down by circumstances. Even up close, she’s flawless. Her tiny body throws so much heat that she’s threatening to start a fire I might not be able to contain.

“The way I hear it, you’re marrying a Carney. If you’d prefer one of my brothers,” my voice comes out a low growl of frustration at the idea of her with another man. It’s stupid, but it’s there. “You might have some leverage there. Is that the problem?”

Tears threaten to spill over in those beautiful pale iron depths. Instinct has me reaching up to brush a tear away with my knuckle. I hate that she’s crying. I want to destroy everything that’s taking her joy. Starting with myself. But we need to talk through this.

Reason, not instinct.

Going the other way is partly what got us into this situation. Me, anyways, and by extension her.

Fighting for emotional control, she looks up at the ceiling and then into my eyes, sending another shower of electric sparks through my body. “There’s no Carney I’d rather marry. It’s just – I don’t understand how this even happened.”

Absently, her tongue licks her lips and it’s hard to pull my eyes away. Soft, kissable, and I’d love to imagine her moaning my name. Christ.

With a force of will, I exhale, take a step back, and try to set a different tone.

“Jessica, do you think we can be friends?”

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