The Schemer (Harbor City 3)

“With the mystery babe?” Frankie asked, ever the optimist.

“Sort of.”

Frankie lifted one ginger eyebrow in a nonverbal order to continue.

And this was the problem with being friends with someone for as long as they’d been friends—you couldn’t lie. It fucking sucked.

“We’re going down to stay with Alberto on his private island.”

“‘We’re,’ huh?” He let out a low whistle. “So it’s just a work thing with this chick?”

How to answer that? By not answering it. “Not exactly.”

“Devil’s in the details, my man.”

“No,” Tyler said, pointing a finger at his friend. “The devil’s in a six-foot-six redhead who won’t leave my office so I can get to work.”

“Touchy today, aren’t you?” Frankie asked with a laugh. “Trust me, get your panties out of a twist, spend some more time with your secret hottie, and you’ll be right as rain.”

“She doesn’t want to.” Fuck. Since hitting the rewind button on life wasn’t an option, Tyler just braced for the good-natured shit about to rain down on him.

“Ouch.” Frankie slapped his hand over his cold black heart in mock horror as he stood up. “I’d give you some advice on how to deal with the one who got away, but the ladies always want to spend time with me.”

“Your day will come.” Now he was sounding like the touchy-feely one, which just went to show how much Everly had fucked him in the head.

Frankie shrugged. “And I’ll probably lose my hair someday, too, but I’m not worrying about it now.”

“This explains why you run into burning buildings for a living.”

“Pure awesomeness?”

“No.” Tyler shook his head because it was an argument they’d been having since almost the first day they’d met. “A lack of planning.”

“I leave the schemes up to you.” Frankie headed for the door. “See you at poker night next week?”

Guilt stuck a knife right in his spleen with a sharp jab that made him flinch. “I don’t know.”

“You’ve skipped out on the last three. Don’t make me come back into the city just to haul your ass home to Waterbury.”

And there it was, the fact he could never get away from. Waterbury wasn’t home, hadn’t been for years, and yet that was all anyone saw when they looked at him. For Frankie and the rest of the Hartigans, it wasn’t a bad thing. For a lot of his current and potential clients, it was a reason for hesitation. After all, what could a scrapper from the wrong side of the tracks know about big business? The degrees, the experience, the reputation, none of it seemed to matter as much as his working-class roots. And that’s why he’d stayed away. Judging by the tension in Frankie’s shoulders as if he was bracing himself for another brush-off, Tyler had said no too often. He should say it again, but he didn’t want to. Being around Everly had reminded him of how much of a relief it was to not worry about what everyone else was thinking and just be—and that wasn’t good.

“I’ll be there.”

“Good.” Frankie grinned. “It’s Fallon’s turn to bring the beer, so keep your delicate beer-snob tendencies on the rich side of the harbor.”

Tyler flipped off his best friend as the other man walked out of the office, laughing at his own insult, and for the first time since he’d watched Everly strut away from him last night, Tyler felt like the whole world wasn’t a total shit pit. Settling down behind his desk, he opened up the proposal template he’d started for Alberto’s hotel expansion into the United States.

Tyler knew what the other consultants would be offering: safety, snobbery, and a massive budget. That wasn’t what would be going into his proposal. There was a huge opening for quirky and unique properties at the high end of the boutique hotel market. That’s where Alberto and his board needed to focus for their American expansion. Let the Ritz be the Ritz, but let the Ferranti Hotels be themselves—that was the road to success. All he had to do was secure an appointment to present his vision to Alberto and the board, which he would find a way to do in Key West—no matter how tempting it was to focus on his pain-in-the-ass upstairs neighbor who’d left him sated and slack-jawed with surprise. Definitely not something most people could accomplish.

…

Everly was in pink again and walking through the clinical-smelling hallways of the Lakeland Community Center’s dementia wing. There were cries of help coming from Mrs. Gover’s room, but when Everly peeked in she saw the older woman staring at the bare wall opposite her bed as her daughter, Shelby, wrung her hands nearby and tried not to cry. Everly’s heart twisted inside her chest, but she kept walking. She’d been in Shelby’s place before and other than giving the woman a hug when her visit was over, there wasn’t anything she could do. Some days, this was the reality.

Dementia was a horrible disease, robbing once thriving people of their own selves and locking them behind an impenetrable door in a place and time where no one could reach them. And—for better or worse—sometimes the door cracked open just enough for the person to realize momentarily where and when they were before it smacked shut again. Was that heaven or hell? It was both at the same time, for everyone.

Pausing outside the door labeled Patrice Ribinski, Everly took a deep breath. There was no knowing which Nunni she’d find on the other side. Smoothing her hair, she took a deep breath, raised her chin, pasted on a smile she hoped passed for authentic, and then she opened the door and walked inside.

The Nunni of her childhood had been small but bold as bar brass with a quick comment and an iron will. Now, the unbreakable woman from Everly’s memories just looked fragile. Her ebony hair had turned to the color of steel. Her skin had become soft and papery. Her smile—always a little wicked—had gone hazy around the edges. The sound of the opening door had caught her attention, though, and she looked over and smiled.