Damnit. I shove the door open. Two faces immediately swing in my direction: one hopeful and tear-streaked, the other closed off. The first words out of my mouth are “I’m so sorry.” And while I may have overreacted about the cake, I’m really apologizing for causing the death of our parents so many years ago. I’m apologizing again for that. I do that so often, I wonder if Carys realizes how often I do it anymore.
“No, I am. I just wanted to make you smile.” Carys tries to do that, but her lips wobble.
I step forward and open my arms. She pulls out of David’s arms and rushes into mine before bursting into tears again. I close my eyes against the burning sensation, knowing half of these tears aren’t because of a damn cake or me being an ass. They’re because of what we lost and will never get back.
No matter what we try to celebrate in life, certain moments are never going to be forgotten. It takes nothing but a word or a touch to ignite the feelings all over again. That’s how embedded they are in your brain.
I kiss the crown of Carys’s head before I tell my brother-in-law, “I apologize.”
He nods. “I appreciate it.” He gives his wife a once-over. Realizing Carys and I are in a good place, he announces, “I think I’m going to go get Ben early.”
“Then how about I treat everyone to dinner.” Carys’s head snaps up from my chest at the offer. I hold up a hand. “Not as a birthday celebration. I…can’t. Okay?”
“Okay, Ward. I’m sorry too. I just thought they’d…” Her voice trails off when I lay my finger across her lips.
“You don’t need to apologize,” I tell her firmly.
But I’m the one with one left, and I know it’s going to be a whopper. Especially because if what I suspect about her is true, the man she’s involved with is going to tear into me for hurting her.
And since he’s a client, this could be very, very bad.
Shit.
Three
Angela
Last night, “Winsome Ward” Burke was spotted escorting a woman around Manhattan. The petite blonde wasn’t able to be identified, but one can only assume he used his charming smile to suggest dessert in other ways. We’d certainly say yes to dessert with one of the world’s most eligible bachelors.
— Sexy&Social, All the Scandal You Can Handle
I growl slightly, even as I pick up the colorful article to read it closer. “‘Winsome Ward,’ my ass. The man is as cold and unfeeling as the wind blowing outside. And for the record, it was his damn sister.” Finishing, I fling the garbage news rag aside before pushing my cart away from the rack of magazines where I was searching for the latest edition of the knitting magazine my grandmother used to buy me for my birthday. Instead of finding something comforting, I’m now thinking not so very nice things about the brother of my friend and boss, Carys Burke.
Ward Burke is the complete polar opposite of his sister in every way possible. Tall and dark where she’s dainty and blonde, the similarities don’t just stop with their looks. In just a few short years, she left the media conglomerate Wildcard Entertainment to build a ferocious reputation as an entertainment lawyer to be reckoned with. And more than that, she’s become a trusted friend.
On the other hand, Ward has been with the firm for two years, and I’m still trying to determine if he’s doing his best to live up or down to what the gossip rags say about him. Carys claims he’s been “Invaluable. You have no idea how much he’s taken off my shoulders.”
Maybe it’s because the man is likely blinded by the flashbulbs of the paparazzi than he does in the office that I can’t quite figure it or him out. What I don’t appreciate is the way he makes me feel when we’re together—ignored, yet with a dangerous rush of emotions I haven’t experienced in far too long. Both feelings leave me on edge and generally have me plotting ways to make his life unpleasant for the few hours a day he does spend gracing the office with his presence. Then I mentally kick myself. Ward’s a good attorney. I’m being unfair, which is unlike me. I know he meets with most of our clients on the West Coast to alleviate the late hours Carys and David used to work. “I just don’t understand why he antagonizes me.”
Disgusted with everything, I wheel the cart around the store, grabbing the staples I’m low on in addition to sparingly adding fresh produce. I’m hefting a bag of Idaho potatoes into my wagon when a hand clutches my shoulder. I whirl around in panic before recognizing the face and relaxing. “Hi, Mr. Graham.”
His gnarled hand drops back to his cane. “Hello, Angela. How are you doing today? Everything quiet up at your house?”
“Wonderfully so.”
When he smiles, his face creases into a million wrinkles. “If you have any problems, you call. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
“I’ll do just that,” I promise.
With a nod, he hobbles away. And I use the few moments before I approach the crowds gathered at the checkout to regain my composure. After making small talk, I burst through the store doors and inhale the air that is uniquely fall, a combination of dampness and smoky air as families everywhere burn fuel to keep their loved ones warm.
I yank up the hood on my vest as I push a cart full of groceries out toward my car. The early November wind doesn’t just whip a few lingering leaves in my face, but it also brings along a cold so harsh it makes me tip my head back with a frown. The frozen gray sky is a perfect reflection of my mood, but it doesn’t look like a snowstorm is going to roll in.
“I guess that’s a small gift,” I murmur aloud.
“Did you say something, Angela?” Another one of my grandmother’s oldest friends makes her way by using a scooter I’ve had run over my toes on more than one occasion. She pauses right next to me, and I manage to scoot back just in time to avoid the tires trampling over my poor toes.
Again.
“Just commenting on the weather, Mrs. Burnette.” At her frown, I explain, “It’s a gift.”
“Child, you were living with your grandmother for far too long if you think this weather’s a gift.”
I can’t prevent the slight curve of my lips at her cantankerous mention of my beloved grandmother. “Grandma would have said any day there wasn’t snow on the ground that she didn’t have to have shoveled was a good day, Mrs. Burnette.”
She barks out a laugh that sounds like an old furnace wheezing before it finally pushes out heat. An answering giggle bubbles up. I lift my gloved hands up to tamp it down, which is likely why I don’t see Mrs. Burnette slap hers down onto the control panel of her scooter, before flying forward into a display of chrysanthemums.
“Ahh!” she shrieks.
It’s a good thing it’s so cold out because by the time I get her sorted out and explain what happened to the store clerk who came rushing outside, anything frozen I had in my cart would likely have melted. But as cold as I normally am inside, it warmed me for a moment when Mrs. Burnette cupped my cheek and said, “You’re a good girl, Angela. Keep that smile on your face,” before she finally made it into the store for her weekly shopping.