Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
I’m breathing hard like I’ve sprinted half a mile flat out. Her smile is soft and fond, warm as a fire crackling on the hearth in a room I can see through a window, from outside in the freezing cold.
So, I reach for her hand. It feels like something in a movie then—like she’s pulling me free of icy water that threatens to engulf me, like she’s bringing me in from the cold.
“Mick?” she says, holding my hand in both of hers. I have to clear my throat before I can answer her.
“Yeah?”
“Let’s get out of here, okay?”
“You want me to take you home?” I say.
“No,” she says. “I want to go with you. Are you going home?”
“I can,” I say. “I had planned on going to the Pearl, but I’d rather take you home.”
“Where’s home exactly these days?”
“I’ve got a couple different places. Some nights I stay in the apartment above the Pearl.”
“But where do you live? Your actual home?” she presses.
“I got a place out on Castle Island,” I say.
“Castle Island? And to think Rory thought he was the shit when he got an apartment on East 8th Street that was about 100 square feet and the stairway smelled like a dead rat. You live on Castle Island?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty. Got a little roof deck, nice view,” I say. I keep my answer short to try and hide how much it excites me to get to show it to her.
“Take me there?”
I’m touched by the shyness in her voice. I pay the check and walk her out to my car. In the haze of the streetlight, I stand there and look at her face for a second. I can’t help leaning in and kissing her forehead right by the bandage.
“I don’t ever want to feel like that again,” I say with a reluctant groan.
“Pissed off that some jerk threw a rock at you?”
“I looked down and saw the blood running down your face. I wanted to buckle, just go to my knees, drag you down with me. I didn’t know how bad it was. Scalp wounds bleed like a sonofabitch. I know that. But when I saw you bleeding, it was the worst thing. And I’ve seen some terrible shit, Katie.”
She hugs me then, hard, just throws both her arms around me and squeezes me as tight as she can. I capture her in a bear hug and kiss the top of her head. Then I take her to my place.
14
KATE
Everything’s happening like I’m watching a video at double speed. One minute I’m wrestling with my inappropriate attraction to my much-older boss. The next minute it seems like I’m having my morning coffee up on his roof deck, watching the bright trails of the kite surfers out on Pleasure Bay.
I always loved Boston, even the noise and the bars and the shouting matches that turned into fistfights out on the sidewalk about half the time. But here, still in Southie but a little removed from the fray, it’s pure luxury. The wind and the water and the fact that Mickey’s place is a whole detached house with plenty of windows and smooth pale wood floors, sleek countertops and everything is open and bright.
“This isn’t what I expected,” I told him the first time I saw it.
“What? You think I was gonna move to fuckin’ Beacon Hill?”
“I can’t imagine you leaving Southie behind, no. I just meant I thought it would be some huge mansion with dark colored walls and tons of woodwork. Imposing and manly and really old-fashioned.”
“My dad’s house was like that. I sold it after he passed away. It was always like being suffocated. It was stale in there, full of stuff but it never felt like a home where you could relax, know what I mean?”
“Did Fiona the nanny not make it warm and fun?”
“Eh, she tried, but she went home to her own house and her own kids every night. I spent a lot of time in the kitchen growing up. The cook we had for a while was this guy named Jackson. He came from New Orleans, and he liked to talk. I’d hang out down there, help out when he’d teach me what to do, and just have somebody to talk to.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have a cook now,” I say.
“I eat out a lot. Or I cook for myself. I don’t mind it. When I think about it, the people who were kind to me when I was a kid, were people who worked for my dad. I don’t want to surround myself with people that are here just for a paycheck. I’d rather be on my own.”
“Well, I work for you, so I’m not sure if I belong here or not,” I say. Then I just lean my head against his arm because I actually know how good it feels to be here. I wouldn’t mind hearing him say that he wants me here all the time, that I look like I belong here or he wishes I didn’t work for him anymore. Anything, something to let me know that he feels it too. That this grew out of being a fling and became something a lot deeper. The truth is I’m not sure it ever was a fling.