Storm Shells (The Wishes Series #3) (30 page)

“Of course he was,” I confirmed. “You don’t learn wickedness. It’s generally inherited.”

He pointed at my belly. “We’ve so much to look forward to, haven’t we?”

“I’ll teach her everything I know,” I declared, putting my hand to my stomach.

“I’ve missed your evil ways,” he told me, slinging his arm around my shoulder as we walked. “It’s surprisingly good to have you back.”

“Thank you very much,” I replied, doing my best Elvis impression. “It’s good to be back.”

June 15

Adam

I wasn’t overly surprised that Ryan had changed his plan of getting in and out of the Cove in less than a week. Nothing in that town moves quickly, including Charli.

She’d agreed to the buyout, as I knew she would. It was up to him to work out the details, which he hadn’t got around to because he was caught up in extracurricular activities like buying cases of wine and cutting down trees with Alex.

I was totally jealous.

I had only spoken to him a couple of times since he’d left, and only asked about Charlotte once.

“She’s doing fine,” he promised me. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”

He’d given me nothing, but that was okay. Any mention of Charli was a double-edged sword. I wanted to know how she was, but feared hearing the answer. Either way, I was left feeling as if I’d been stabbed.

* * *

Considering my list of friends was down to extremely low single digits and my brother was out of town, my phone should’ve been quiet. But it wasn’t.

I’d been taking calls from Judge Lassiter’s office every other day. I was now on a first-name basis with Laura, the judge’s PA. She kept contacting me with an offer of starting my clerkship early – an offer that I politely declined over and over again.

Anyone would’ve thought I was an accomplished attorney in high demand rather than a recent graduate who hadn’t even sat the bar yet.

I knew my father was behind it. I didn’t want to confront him about it, so when I was summoned to my parent’s house for dinner that night, I left it him to mention it.

The queen spent the evening fussing over me. My father spent the night lecturing me, as I knew he would.

“A clerkship is an important first step in your career. I don’t understand why you’re delaying.”

“I’m not delaying,” I defended. “I start in mid-July. That’s always been the arrangement.”

“Procrastination is unbecoming,” he growled.

I kept eating, paving the way for my mom to jump to my defence. “He deserves a break, Jean-Luc. He’s worked his tail off up to this point.”

“The hard work hasn’t even begun yet,” he scoffed.

“I’m holding down the fort at the restaurants until Ryan gets home,” I muttered. “I’m not procrastinating.”

People who attain law degrees at twenty-three are not procrastinators. It was almost unheard of, but not spectacular enough to satisfy my father. My brother and I had been pushed into every accelerated program available, taken extra classes and maintained near-perfect grades since we were kids. Instead of folding under the pressure, we’d both worked incredibly hard. When Ryan opted out of a career in law, our dad nearly lost the plot. I was his last hope, and his desperation was beginning to show.

I moved to change the subject. I picked up my wine glass, holding it up to the light. “Mom, do you know why they cut patterns into crystal glassware?” I asked.

“I imagine it’s for decorative purposes,” she replied.

“Not originally.” I rolled the stem of the glass between my fingers. “It was a tradition started by a Scandinavian couple, Geirvé and Hersir.”

“Really?” The scepticism in her voice made me smile.

“Yes. They were madly in love. He was a prince and Geirvé was a pauper girl.”

“Oh,” crowed my mother putting her hand to her heart. “Like you and Charli.”

I rejected the absurd comparison. “Charlotte is not a pauper and I’m not a prince.”

“You’re my prince,” she beamed.

“Do you want to hear the story or not?”

My father chimed in. “No. Enough nonsense. We were discussing your future.”

“No,
you
were discussing my future, Dad,” I corrected. “Mom and I were discussing fairy-tales.”

“Let him speak, Jean-Luc,” insisted my mother, flicking her napkin at him.

He groaned but complied.

“Geirvé worked in the kitchen of the castle. She wasn’t allowed to speak to Hersir so they used to meet in secret,” I explained. “Whenever she wanted to arrange a meeting, she’d cut a mark in of the crystal glasses just before serving his meal, letting Hersir know that she would be waiting for him later that evening. Over time, all the glasses in the castle ended up looking like this.” I held up the glass. “The king thought they looked great. He had no idea they represented secret booty calls.”

My mother must have been taken with the tale. She overlooked my choice of word. “Oh, how romantic.”

“Absolute nonsense,” barked Dad.

I ignored him. So did my mother. “It didn’t end romantically,” I said gravely. “Geirvé found out he was seeing other women and vowed to get revenge for breaking her heart. She spent hours grinding one of the glasses into tiny shards and hid it in his food.”

My mother gasped. “What a wretched, wicked girl!”

I smiled down at the table. “He deserved it, Mom. He was an ass.”

“Did he forgive her?” she asked.

“No. He died,” I replied. “A slow painful death. That was his punishment for breaking her heart.”

“What a terrible story, Adam.”

“Not all fairy-tales have happy endings, Mom.”

I knew that better than anyone.

“It showcases his mindset,” scoffed my father. “Charli’s nonsense has damaged him.
Charli
has damaged him.”

Charli’s stories hadn’t damaged me. They’d captivated and enchanted me. The lack of ambition and bad attitude I’d recently acquired was entirely my own doing. It was my dose of crushed glass. It was
my
punishment for breaking her heart.

“Charlotte is a good girl,” defended my mother. “Eventually they’ll sort out their differences.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise.

“I’d prefer that our son just sort himself out,” he barked. “He should be focusing on his career.”

Décaries have a long history of overachieving. When you’re born into money, you tend to spend the rest of your life trying to prove that you deserve it. Both Ryan and my father would’ve been independently wealthy without their inheritances. Following in their footsteps had always been the plan – only now, the plan sucked. I’d lost things along the way that no amount of money or success could replace. And I got the distinct feeling that it was all downhill from here.

“I’m going to organise a social get-together with Judge Lassiter,” said my father, brainstorming. “Perhaps dinner.”

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” I muttered, toying with my food again.

He slammed his hand on the table. It was his version of a cease and desist order. “You will be there too,” he declared. “I’d like to prove that you’re not a complete ingrate.”

I wasn’t conforming when I agreed to attend. I just couldn’t be bothered arguing. I left straight after dinner, making no excuse for my early departure. I was close to saying something I would regret, and as much as my father deserved it, my mother did not.

* * *

The last thing I was expecting was to find Trieste on my doorstep when I got home. As I got out of the elevator, she jumped to her feet.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. I expected to hear something terrible. She’d never shown up at my apartment before.

“Where have you been?” she asked. “I’ve been waiting here for over an hour.”

I twisted the key in the lock. “Dinner at my parents’ house.” The door opened and I ushered her in ahead of me.

“I was worried about you,” she said, flustered. “I thought you’d be home. You’re always home. You have no life.”

I couldn’t deny it. It was true.

“Why are you really here, Trieste?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something.” I pointed her in the direction of the couch. Conversations with Trieste were notoriously long. I was probably going to need to be seated to hear it.

She sat, picked up a cushion and gripped it to her chest. “It’s about Felix.”

I groaned, flopping on the couch opposite her. “What about him?”

“I’m having trouble talking to him,” she revealed. “We don’t seem to have a whole lot in common.”

“Don’t you have a girl friend you can discuss this with?” I asked, desperate for an out.

“Not really. Besides, a boy’s point of view might be more relevant in a situation like this.”

As far as I knew, there was no situation. Felix wasn’t into Trieste, which was fine by me because he was a douchebag of epic proportions. I just didn’t want to be the one to tell her.

“Look,” I began. “If he’s not interested, he’s not interesting. Let it go.”

“I like him.”

I swiped both hands down my face, groaning. “Trieste, you’re impossible.”

“Adam, you’re a terrible friend,” she shot back. “You’re supposed to be encouraging and supportive.”

Did she know me at all?

“What about hobbies? Find some common ground,” I suggested.

“Do you think it’ll work?”

No. I didn’t think it would work. Even if Felix did see the light, it would be a recipe for disaster. Two people with nothing in common had absolutely no hope of holding it together. I’d been there.

“Sure.” I lied like I meant it.

She tossed the cushion aside and leaned back, thinking hard. “He likes liqueurs – the fancy ones. He talks about that a lot.”

“And you like liqueurs?” I quizzed sceptically. “That’s your common interest?”

She straightened up the ears on her beanie. “No. I don’t know anything about them,” she admitted. “I did try some champagne at my cousin’s wedding once, though.”

I smiled at her naivety. “Great. What else have you got to work with?” A relationship based on a mutual love of alcohol didn’t seem exactly spellbinding.

“Nothing. Let’s stick with the liqueur angle. I’m a quick learner.” She sat forward in the seat. “You could teach me all about them. That way, I’ll have something to talk to him about.”

I was shaking my head in protest before she’d even finished laying out her plan. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

She widened her eyes. “Truly?”

I stared at her for a long moment. “No,” I conceded, “but close.”

* * *

I had no idea why Trieste always seemed to get the better of me. I gave in to her stupid suggestion and raided Ryan’s liquor cabinet.

I drew the line at letting her taste test the whole collection. I picked four of his best bottles and told her to make do. I lined up some shot glasses on the coffee table and poured a miniscule amount of cognac into one of the glasses. Trieste was hard to cope with sober. I didn’t want to see her smashed.

“What is it?” she asked, holding up the glass. “I like the colour. It looks like caramel.”

“Grand Opus Cognac,” I replied, double-checking the label.

She brought the glass to her lips and took a small sip.

“It’s strong,” she choked.

“They’re all strong,” I told her. “That’s the point.”

After half an hour and a dozen or so sips, she’d picked her favourite – Revolution Brandy, because she liked the colour. The taste seemed to be wasted on her. She described it as being warm.

It was then that I realised Trieste was a lightweight. The girl who usually talked a mile a minute was now three sheets to the wind, slurring her words and constantly pulling at the ears on her beanie. Despite her protests, I insisted she stay the night and sleep it off.

It was a momentous occasion. Trieste Kincaid became the first woman in history to actually sleep in Ryan’s bed.

* * *

She was gone the next morning. I found a note sitting on the pile of sheets she’d stripped from Ryan’s bed.

Unbelievably, the girl jabbered as much in print as she did in speech.

These are top quality sheets. If you wash them using an extra rinse cycle, you’ll remove all of the detergent residue. See you at Billet-doux this afternoon. Don’t be late.

Love,

Trieste Kincaid.

Trieste was special. That’s the only word to describe a girl who leaves a note like that and signs her full name.

I hadn’t had any intention of going to Billet-doux that day but followed her orders and turned up anyway – on time, which impressed her no end.

“You came,” she beamed, rushing me at the door.

“Didn’t you think I would?”

“I wasn’t sure. I read somewhere that alcohol can act as a depressant. I was worried that you would wake up even grumpier than usual. I left the number for the suicide hotline on your fridge just in case.”