The Bourbon Kings

Edward closed his eyes. And for a brief moment, that pilot light of his flickered on again. “That shouldn’t have been you. I should have done that.”

“It was fine. I didn’t …” Lane took a deep breath. “I don’t seem to be having any reaction to it at all. I’m sure you heard about yesterday.”

Edward looked over at his brother. “What about yesterday?”

Lane laughed in a hard burst. “Sometimes not having cable television is a good thing, no? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t.”

They sat in silence for the longest time, and later, Edward would realize it was because he was waiting for some kind of an emotional reaction of his own. Sorrow. Hell, maybe joy.

There was nothing. Just a resonate numbness.

“I’ve got to find Max,” Lane said. “Law enforcement is going to keep a lid on this until we’re ready to make a statement, but that respite won’t last forever.”

“I don’t know where he is,” Edward murmured.

“I’ll keep trying the number I had from two years ago. I sent him an e-mail, too, at his last known. I think he might be really far off the grid.”

More quiet.

“Is Gin all right?” Edward asked.

Lane shook his head. Then swung his eyes over. “Are any of us?”

Sadly, Edward thought … the answer to that is no.

FORTY-EIGHT

The next morning, as Lizzie went up the back stairs with a bouquet in her hands, she gave herself a pep talk.

It was all well and good to hide in the greenhouses, but come on. She had thirteen days left of employment at Easterly and she was not going out on a shirker note. She always did the flowers for the bedrooms. She had her schedule, and she was going to goddamn well do her job.

Up on the second floor, she squared her shoulders and went down to the best guest room. Mr. Harris had told her they had an unexpected houseguest—and also that there was no need to refresh flowers in Chantal’s room anymore.

Good to know, Mr. Harris. Thanks so much.

At least that was one person off her Don’t Need To Run Into list.

Too bad the number-one spot was still under Easterly’s roof.

“Thirteen days,” she said under her breath. “Just thirteen days.”

At the broad door, she knocked and waited. After a moment, a male voice said, “Come in.”

Pushing the panels wide, she saw a man sitting at Lane’s grandfather’s desk across the way, his back bent into a comma as he scrummed down over a laptop. Next to him, a printer was spitting out pages marked with columns, and at his feet, wadded-up balls of yellow legal paper dotted the floor.

He didn’t look up.

“I’m just here with some flowers,” she said.

“Uh-huh.”

Beside him, on the window shelf, was a tray of empty breakfast dishes. As she put the vase down on an antique bureau, she offered, “May I take that down for you?”

“What?” he muttered while still focused on the screen.

“The tray?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

He had to be here to look at those files, she thought. The ones Rosalinda left behind.

Not her business, she reminded herself.

Going around the desk, she saw two expensive suitcases, one of which was open and rifled through—and yet she had the impression the man hadn’t changed since whenever he’d arrived. His white shirt was wrinkled everywhere, and so were his pants.

Also not her business.

Picking up the tray, she—

“Oh my God.”

As he spoke up, she almost didn’t glance over at him, figuring he’d found something in whatever he was going through. But then she realized he was staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re Lizzie. Right?”

Recoiling, she glanced around. But come on, like there was someone standing behind her?

“Ah, yes.”

“Lane’s Lizzie. The horticulturist.”

“No,” she said. “No, not his.”

The man stretched his arms over his head, and as all kinds of cracking happened, she noticed that he was very good-looking, with dark hair and dark eyes that might have been brown, might have been blue.

The accent was very definitely New York.

“Wow,” he murmured. “I thought you were made-up.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.”

“And now I understand why he didn’t go after anyone else for two years.”

Don’t ask, Lizzie told herself. Don’t—

“I’m sorry?” she heard herself say.

Crap.

“For two years, nada. I mean, look, we went to college together, so I saw firsthand how he earned his reputation. But for the last two years, he didn’t go near a woman. I thought he was gay. I even asked if he was gay.” The man put his palms out to her. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

Wasn’t that a line from Seinfeld? she thought.

“I, ah …”

“So at least now I get it.” The man smiled in a totally non-creepy way. “But he says you’re leaving? It’s none of my business, but why? He’s a good man. Not perfect, but good. Wouldn’t suggest you play poker against the guy, though. Not unless you have money to lose.”

Lizzie frowned. “I, ah …”

“I didn’t even know he was married, by the way. He never talked about her, I certainly never met her—and now, come to find out, it was about you all along. Well, anyway, back to work.”