Chapter Seventeen

Walker

When Mason comes flying in from the back with his hair sticking straight up, wearing nothing but his boxers, I stop in my tracks.

“Walker, can I talk to you?’ It’s really important.”

He looks ridiculous—and sexy as hell. I have a sudden urge to jump him right here. Right now. Except that there’s a priest at the bar and a cook in the kitchen. And now, someone knocking insistently at the door of the pub.

“Hang on,” Mason says. “Let me just talk to you for a second before you open that…”

I wave him off. “Let me just get rid of whoever this is and then I’ll meet you upstairs…”

“No, wait…”

But I’m already unlocking the front door, where a lanky guy with a shock of red hair is standing.

“I’m sorry, we’re closed,” I say with as much civility as I can muster.

He offers a placid smile. “Are you…” He consults the screen of his phone and then looks back up at me. “Johnny Walker Black O’Halloran?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Johnny— May I call you Johnny?”

“No, you may not.”

There’s something wrong here. This guy is pinging every alarm bell, whistle, and red flag wired into my psyche. And not just because he’s using my full, legal name.

“Fine. Miss O’Halloran, then. May I come in to speak with you for a moment?”

“What do you want?” I ask, not budging an inch.

“I just wanted to ask you some questions,” he replies vaguely. “About Mason Stevens. Can you confirm that you’re his current girlfriend?”

“Who. Are. You?” I demand, sensing that something is very, very wrong here.

“Walker,” Mason says from close behind me. “Is everything okay?”

The second he’s in sight, redhead holds up the phone and a flash goes off.

“Hey!” I snap in irritation. But the guy isn’t the least bit intimidated by the three letters.

“Mason! Is this your new girlfriend? What do you think about the news that Cassandra is engaged to Marcel Letourneau?”

“Shut the door, Walker. Just shut the door in his face,” Mason tells me firmly.

But I’m having trouble processing what’s unfolding right now. Who is this jerk and what does he want? Why is he taking my picture?

“Does Cassandra know about—what did you call her? Walker? Does Cassandra know about Walker?” He’s craning his neck now, trying to get a look at Mason, who’s trying to pull me back inside by the elbow so he can slam the door on this guy’s face. And on the phone that he’s now using as a video camera.

“Oh, hell no,” I hiss, reaching behind the door and feeling around in the umbrella stand until my hand lands on the familiar curve of wood. I pluck the bat and push a very angry, very alarmed Mason aside.

“Walker—wait! Don’t—”

I don’t hear the rest of what he says. I’m too busy using the bat to force the intruder over the threshold that he’s somehow managed to breach since I opened the door for him. But before I can push him too far, strong hands are pulling me back so the looming figure of Donovan can take my place. He doesn’t need a baseball bat. At six-foot-five and three hundred pounds, the imposing Native American doesn’t need a bat to encourage our unwanted guest to leave.

“Dude, you familiar with Minnesota statute 609.065?” I can’t hear the man’s response, but I guess it’s a no because Don continues. “It allows someone to intentionally take a life if they believe they’re in grave danger or to prevent the commission of a felony in the person’s abode. Miss O’Halloran lives in this building, making it her abode. And you’re committing felony trespass. So, I’m thinking if you don’t get the hell out of here—like now—I’ll let her go right ahead and justifiably homicide your butt with her Louisville slugger.”

If Red has a response to that, I don’t hear it in his haste to scramble out the door and get himself back onto safe public property as quickly as possible. Clearly, he doesn’t realize that trespassing is a misdemeanor in this state—not a felony. Not that it matters. Anyone faced with the imposing wall of Donovan would be smart to back up and back off. And fast.

“Next time, you don’t get the courtesy of a warning. So there’d best not be a next time,” Don warns the guy just before he slams the door hard enough to jangle the windows. And what’s left of my nerves.

When he turns around again, his expression is murderous, and it’s not aimed at the reporter anymore. He’s looking squarely at Mason.

“I knew it. I knew I recognized you from somewhere,” he growls.

“Jesus!” I spit. Then remembering there’s a priest in the room add, “Mary and Joseph! Will someone please tell me what that was all about?”

“Walker…” he begins, “I meant to tell you. I tried to tell you…but you kept stopping me…”

“Tell. Me. What?” I demand, biting off each word as it comes out of my mouth. “Does this have something to do with your family?”

He nods then shakes his head then nods again. “Yes… No… Sort of…”

“Your buddy here is Lydia Larkin’s son,” Donovan supplies.

“What, the actress? That Lydia Larkin?”

“Exactly,” Father Romance says, joining our little circle of hell. “And a very prominent one at that. A few Academy Awards, Tonys and the like if I’m not mistaken. She lives up in Brussels. Has done for several years now. She’s quite the local celebrity.”

Then it all clicks into place. I can vaguely recall an image of a statuesque woman with blond hair and bright blue eyes. She was in several of the movies I used to go see with friends. Back when I went to the movies. Back when I had friends. And Mason Stevens…

“You’re her son?”

“I am,” he admits softly. “But that’s not what this was about. This is because my ex is an actress, too. And she’s marrying some hockey guy—”

“Marcel LeTourneau?” Donovan pipes up with a snort. “You calling Marcel LeTourneau ‘some hockey guy’? Man, he’s only the best player in the world right now!”

Mason shoots Don an unappreciative glance.

“Not helpful,” he mutters.

Don shrugs.

“Not my problem…”

“All right, all right,” Father Romance jumps in. “Let’s all just take a moment, shall we? Donovan, perhaps you could put on a fresh pot of coffee?”

The big man grumbles and allows himself to be led away, stopping occasionally to shoot Mason a menacing look. Once we’re alone, Mason takes a step closer to me. I take a step back in response. He holds up his hands to let me know that he gets it. He’s not coming any closer. And good thing for him.

“I was going to tell you today. I swear it, Walker. I swear,” he says, his voice low and full of regret. “I’m really sorry you had to find out this way.”

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us. See, because now it looks like you were deliberately hiding something from me. Or…maybe you were deliberately hiding me from your parents? Big deal Hollywood types might not approve of their son dating a lowly bar wench…”

“Stop it! That is not true. And it’s not fair. You know how I feel about you…”

“Do I? Because, right now, I’m not sure I know you at all. Right now, I’m wondering just who the hell it was that I slept with last night!”

I don’t realize my volume has been climbing until the last words are out, echoing through the empty pub. Well, not quite empty, because my priest and my friend/employee are here to experience this declaration. But I just don’t care. I’m too angry. And too hurt.

He takes a deep breath and rubs his temples for a long moment before trying again.

“Please, Walker, please, you have to listen to me. I really care for you. The last couple of weeks have been amazing. You are amazing! I would never have, you know… I wouldn’t have stayed with you last night if I didn’t care about you. But you have to understand that people sometimes use me to get close to my mother. So I have to be extra careful about who I date…” As soon as he says it, he realizes how it sounds and tries to backpedal. “Not that I worried about that with you…”

It’s too late.

“You pursued me,” I hiss as I take a step toward him once again. “You asked me for a ride home after you got stuck here. Then you pestered me with your phone messages and your texts.”

“Could we maybe go somewhere and talk about this?”

I shake my head. “Nope. Nothing to talk about.”

“Walker—”

I hold up a hand to stop him.

“Look, Mason, it’s better this happened now, before things got any more…intense. Just go upstairs and get dressed. I’m going out for some air, and I’d really appreciate it if you weren’t here when I get back.” He opens his mouth to say something. “Please,” I add firmly.

He nods, his shoulders and head both dropping in defeat.

Well, too bad for him. He’s the one who screwed this all up. If he’d been honest with me from the beginning, we wouldn’t be standing here right now. I just wish this had happened yesterday. Before we spent the night together. Before I started to fall for him. Just a little bit. Because that makes it ten times as hard to slam shut the door to my heart again. And ten times more likely that I’ll never open it again.