Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68033 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68033 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
The kiss he’d shared with Kerris had been an earthquake, splintering his most important friendship. Unfortunately, he’d felt the aftershocks in his relationship with Jo. They hadn’t spoken much since her visit to New York, and he knew she didn’t approve of his being here now for Kerris. The strained, frozen silence between them belied the years of warmth and laughter they’d shared in this very house.
Each summer he, Jo, and Cam had raced through the backyard, flown down to the river, and raised hell in the halls of this place his mother had made feel like home. Only one thing hurt almost as much as losing Kerris, and that was losing Cam and Jo.
As if the force of his thoughts had conjured them up, he heard their voices at the bottom of the stairs.
“You’re leaving?” Jo’s voice carried up the staircase. “But where? When?”
“I’m going to Paris.” Walsh heard the barely suppressed excitement in Cam’s voice. “My flight leaves at eight.”
“The Sorbonne? You told her?”
“Yeah, and I…Jo, I told her I want a divorce.”
Walsh leaned against the wall, afraid his weak knees wouldn’t support him. His heart battered his chest, straining against the wall of bone and muscle. Hot air panted over his dry lips, his breath shallowing at the thought of Kerris being free. Of having her. Then he recalled how she’d looked the last time he’d seen her, how he’d had to force himself to leave her there in that hospital bed, cheeks still wet from tears she’d shed over Amalie. He pushed away from the wall, rounding the stairs and storming down them until he stood in front of Cam. Walsh dropped his bags to the floor and gave Cam an unwavering glare.
“Going somewhere?”
“None of your business,” Cam shot back.
“You son of a bitch.” Walsh grabbed a fistful of Cam’s shirt and dragged him close enough to hit. “You’re leaving her? Now?”
Cam shoved, putting as much distance between him and Walsh as the death grip on his shirt would allow.
“I’m the son of a bitch?” The calm in Cam’s voice would have fooled some, but not Walsh. “I’m getting out ’cause I didn’t sign up for a ménage à trois. If you wanna blame anyone for this, blame yourself. I do.”
Walsh slowly released the fabric clutched in his hands, watching the smooth mask of Cam’s face.
“You’re going to Paris? You’re divorcing her?”
“Yeah. At least wait until I’m on the plane before you rush over there.”
“You left her alone? With all she has to go through?”
“I would never do that, but there’s no need for me to stay. Mama Jess moved in to take care of her.” Cam looked down at his shoes. “Thought you’d be happy.”
“It’s not the way I wanted…I’m sorry, Cam.”
Cam looked up, narrowing his eyes and lacing his words with sarcasm.
“Sorry? Jo, he’s sorry. You screw up my marriage, my only shot at a family of my own, and you’re sorry? Wow. Your mom would be so proud.”
“Shut the hell up.” Menace and anger tightened Walsh’s face. His fists balled at his side. “Don’t even say her name.”
“That’s how Ms. Kris raised you?” Cam dug around in Walsh’s wound, heedless of the growing violence Walsh felt in his chest and knew must be all over his face. “Just like your daddy. No respect for marriage vows.”
“Cam, I’m warning you.”
Walsh willed back the flame rising up his neck. He licked his top lip, finding it wet with the sweat of his anger and agitation.
“It’s okay.” A bitter smile marred Cam’s face. “You got the girl, like you get everything else. Just remember. That’s my leftovers. I broke her in for you.”
Bone slammed into bone when Walsh’s fist connected with Cam’s jaw. And then they were on the floor, writhing on the cold tiles of the foyer. Walsh sat on Cam’s chest, pounding his fist into his face, mindless in his rage. Cam managed to reach up, even from that awkward angle, landing several punches to Walsh’s eye and chin. They didn’t talk. There was nothing left to say. The only sounds in the foyer were the grunts, the punches—the sounds of a violent confrontation long overdue.
Surreal. It couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t Walsh’s best friend, his brother, whose nose gushed blood under the relentless anvil of his fist. Even the blood pouring from a gash above Walsh’s eye wasn’t real; it wasn’t enough to wrest him from the nightmare of friendship slaughtered in the very house where they had played.
“Daddy!” Jo screamed, running toward Uncle James’s study.
Unc rounded the corner, his glasses resting low on his nose, the document he’d been studying still in his hand.
“What the hell! Break it up!”
Uncle James plunged into the merciless battle between the two men. He pulled at Walsh’s shoulders, trying to dislodge him. He grabbed Walsh’s arm before his fist could connect again with Cam’s face.