Page 41 of Grift

His eyes narrow and something in his countenance shifts. I brace for a fight – not necessarily the physical kind, although I’d love the chance to take a swing at his smug face after that bullshit comment. But his eyes look me up and down.

“No problem. I’ll send Bridget,” he says. “The men always love her anyway.”

It’s meant to piss me off, and it does. Bridget’s got no business being sent to these events, and my father knows I’d do anything to protect her from his scum cronies. They won’t hurt her, but they’ll leer at her for hours.

But this isn’t about Bridget, and if she has to suffer through a boring party to make the point, so be it.

Besides, I’ll text Catriona the second he leaves. Bridget won’t be going alone and that’s just another way to get at my father. When the society pages or his friends are calling to report Catriona’s antics – and I’ll make sure there are antics – he’ll get a double dose of regret.

I give a sharp nod, not answering.

“Enjoy your plans with your bride,” he tosses over his shoulder.

The truth is that I don’t have any plans with Jessica tonight, a fact that makes me feel like shit when I realize it. Things have been getting more heated, more complicated there. Just the thought of her has the blood rushing below my belt and all I can think of is the sweet taste of her on my lips while she cries out my name.

But I can’t go down that road. Every night she spends almost in my bed is going to make ripping this band-aid off that much worse. She doesn’t need to get further entangled with me, and I don’t need the complications.

Still, though, I’d worked late last night at a business dinner and when I’d come back to the apartment, she’d been working quietly on her laptop again. The remains of an empty takeout container were abandoned beside her. She’d had no expectations of anyone noticing what she did, wanting to spend time with her, or offering her something interesting to do with her evenings.

Fuck me.

This might be temporary, but that doesn’t mean she can’t have a good experience. She deserves to feel like she matters. Even if this is temporary, maybe I can help reset some of the fucked-up messaging she’s picked up over the years, courtesy of her father.

And don’t think for one minute that it’s not the selfish desire to just bask in her glow.

I fire off a text to Catriona, who quickly replies that she’ll handle the Bridget situation. Catriona and I might not have much in common, but one thing we both care about is making sure our little sister is safe.

Then I call my wife.

“Patrick?” she answers on the first ring, sounding nervous.

I look at the clock. “Be ready for a car to pick you up in an hour.”

There’s a long pause while I wait for a response. Fuck. I should have said please or asked her plans. But the truth is that the idea of her saying she’d rather grade papers or binge watch some bad show on Netflix than go out with me will break me tonight.

“Of course. May I ask where we’re going? Or rather, what type of attire might be appropriate?” her voice is tentative.

Shit. I don’t know where we’re going, but then an idea hits me.

“Dress warm for being outside. And shoes you can walk in.”

We end the call, and I quickly dial an old friend who owes me a favor. There’s an arboretum a short distance from the city, not the big one but a private space that a wealthy family sometimes opens up to the public. Usually it closes at dusk. But they still have the holiday lights on the trees, and for a Carney and a substantial bribe, he’s willing to make an exception.

Ninety minutes later I’m standing outside the entrance to the arboretum, checking my phone when the sedan with Jessica arrives. She steps out of the car elegantly, pausing to thank the driver before turning to find me.

Holy shit, she’s an angel.

She looks perfect. Sexy boots skim her calves stopping below the knee, hot as hell but with a practical sole. She’s wearing a dark dress that shows her body to perfect effect, with a heavy wool coat, gloves and a scarf. Her chestnut waves are long, and she’s wearing just enough makeup that her beauty pops.

Christ. This isn’t a good idea.

But then I remember the alternative, taking her out on a dog and pony show for my father. Hell, no.

“Have you ever been here?” I ask by way of greeting.

She shakes her head, and I’m pleased to see how her eyes light up when I swing back the door and she sees the long paths of trees ablaze with white holiday lights.

“This is beautiful,” she says, and then looks at me quickly. “But are they open?”

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