Page 53 of Shelter
I’m such an asshole.
Elise stepped to the right, moving out of sight, and whatever chains had held me back snapped.
“E-excuse me, Ed,” I muttered, cutting him off mid-sentence before shouldering past other partners, judges and their spouses, paralegals and their dates. I pushed my way into the living room just in time to see Elise standing at the far end of the dining room near the kitchen.
Still holding the tray, she glanced to her right, and I caught her frowning in profile. But she wasn’t looking back at me. She was facing the door that led from the dining room back into the front hall. I wanted to reach her before she slipped into the kitchen, but she was too quick.
Even though I ached to, I wouldn’t follow. Flora would be our audience, and Elise would kill me for that. So I waited. I pressed my back to the wall right outside the kitchen entrance, straining to listen above the hum of conversation and the hired pianist who was playing Nat King Cole from the den on the other side of the house.
My home teemed with people. I doubted anyone would notice me standing sentinel outside the kitchen, but I pulled out my phone on the pretense of checking messages just in case.
Across from me, through the hall, the door to the bathroom under the stairs was closed, but light spilled under its sill. Two women approached the door and one tried the knob, but it didn’t open. She turned and found me watching.
“You’re Garrett’s son, right?” she asked, crossing the hall and striding toward me.
I straightened up from the wall, hoping Elise hadn’t heard her. “Yes… Can I help you?” I asked, moving to her.
She glanced over her shoulder to her friend and the closed door behind them. “Could you show us to another bathroom? That one’s been taken for a while.”
“Sure,” I said with a nod. “Follow me.” I led them back into the hall, behind the stairs, and into the den where guests were gathered in clusters around the grand piano, some singing along and others standing by our second Christmas tree.
Because who only has one Christmas tree?
I rolled my eyes at the Frasier fir, pointed them to the bathroom around the corner, and hurried back toward the kitchen in time to see Elise emerge with a new tray. She was staring straight ahead of her, a small frown creasing her brow.
“Elise…” I spoke her name, intent on talking to her, but I had no idea what I wanted to say. I wanted to apologize. Not for the kissing. Not even for the confessing. But for the look of disappointment she’d worn when I’d told her I needed to leave her alone.
She spared me the briefest of glances, that frown still stamped on her forehead, before she returned her gaze to the space in front of her.
“Elise, I-I’m sorry I upset you this morning.”
She said nothing. I’d watched Elise Cormier ignore me for three years, but I didn’t recognize this tactic. She’d never just stared ahead. Instead, she’d give me her back and act like I wasn’t in the room.
I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Please, just look at me.”
But she didn’t. With her tray in front of her, Elise took three slow steps straight ahead, almost up to the hallway door of the dining room.
I followed. “Elise, pl—”
“I think your parents are in there,” she whispered.
“What?”
Elise tilted her chin to the hallway bathroom where the door was still closed. “I saw them go in there.” Her eyes flashed to mine. “It’s been a while.”
A chill of dread knifed up my spine. Hoping she was wrong, I scanned the crowd surrounding us. Neither of my parents were in the dining room, the part of the living room I could see, or our side of the front hall.
Our eyes met for an instant, and we moved as one to the door. I gave a firm knock. The answer came as a short, feminine cry, quickly choked off. My pores opened.
I took a lungful of breath, bracing myself to throw a shoulder into the door when Elise gripped my wrist. Her wide eyes met mine, and she shook her head. Holding my gaze, she let go of my wrist and brought her fingers to the upswept perfection of her hair. She withdrew a bobby pin from its center, looked over her shoulder as though checking to make sure the coast was clear, and then inserted the closed end into the bathroom’s doorknob.
I’d never noticed her hands before that moment. The way her fingers were both lovely and capable. Her nails were short but smooth and polished with a clear gloss. They were hands that knew work. That created. That got results. And they were beautiful.
As she worked the pin, her thumb and index finger fought and strained, and I felt a little in awe of her. How had she learned this trick? And before I had time to ask, I heard the click of the lock giving.
Before she could turn the knob, I pushed Elise out of the way. Shoving the door open, I lunged inside and slammed it behind me.
“Jesus!”
