Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(31)

“Then I’ll keep it a secret.”

“Good luck with that. Especially since she talks to Tillie Osborn every other day. How long you think she’ll keep your happy news to herself?”

“She promised.”

“Oh! And Fancy Rexford has never, ever broken a promise,” said Hillary, sarcasm so thick, he could almost smell it.

“I’m not breakin’ it off with Laire. I like her. This is my summer, and I want to spend it with her.”

“Laire? What kind of name is that?”

“Scottish.”

Hillary blew out a long breath, looking at him with worry in her eyes. “I’ll do what I can to run interference.”

He chucked her under the chin with a relieved grin. “Thanks, sis.”

“But, Erik, you know you can’t get serious with her, right?” His sister gulped softly. “One more year at Duke. Three at Chapel Hill. Another settin’ up your law practice. State senate. Congress. Governor. Daddy’s just warmin’ the seat for you on his way up.” She paused for a moment, her voice soft and sorry when she continued. “A fisherman’s daughter can’t be a part of that plan. You can’t—”

“Fuck! I don’t . . .” He huffed, banging his fist on the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

They sat in silence for a while until Hillary turned to him. “Sorry, Erik.”

He sighed, turning to face her. “Remember last week? When you asked me if I ever wished that things were different?”

She nodded.

“I do. Sometimes I wish things were different.”

“Like what? What things?”

“Like, I’m not interested in politics!” he blurted out. And man, it felt good to finally say it.

“You say that like it’s an option,” she muttered.

“And I don’t want to date Van, let alone marry her!”

“Somethin’ that should be made clear to her at some point,” Hillary said.

“I just . . . God! I like this girl.”

“Laire, the local fisherman’s daughter who delivers seafood?”

“She’s also a waitress.”

“Christ.”

He sneered at her. “Why is that bad? Why are we such fuckin’ snobs?”

“We’re not. I don’t care if your new girlfriend is a waitress or a seafood delivery girl. I’m sure she’s a nice person, but Fancy—”

“She’s a lot more than a nice person, Hills. She’s interestin’and fun, and she’s different, really different, than anyone we know. And she’s smokin’ hot and—”

“I get it,” said Hillary. “You genuinely like her.”

“A lot.”

Hillary reached for his arm. “Then keep her a secret. Ironclad. Don’t take any chances. Because if Fancy finds out? It’s over.”

He took a deep breath and nodded at his sister. “Will do. Thanks, Hills.”

She gave him a small smile, reaching for the door handle.

“Hey,” he said, reaching for her arm before she could leave. “Fuck Pete. Forget about him. Find someone else. If he doesn’t see how awesome you are, Hills, he doesn’t deserve you.”

She gave him a sad smile. “I wish I could. I wish I could forget about him and move on.”

“But you can’t.”

She sighed. “Not a chance.”

“Then you’re going to have to do somethin’ at some point. You know that, right? Pete’s about as thick as they come. I mean, awesome and fun and loyal, but he’s not goin’ to see you if you don’t speak up.”

“Van casts a long shadow,” said Hillary. “I know.”

Erik grinned at her. “Thanks for the talk.”

She left the car and closed the door, keeping her hands on the frame before looking down at him, a curious expression in her eyes.

“Exactly how long have you known that you didn’t want to go into politics? And when exactly are you plannin’ to share that delicious nugget of news with Fancy and Daddy? I want to be sure I don’t miss the fireworks.”

“Forever,” said Erik on a long sigh. “I have no fuckin’ interest in it.”

“What about the law?” she asked.

“I don’t mind it,” said Erik. “But all things equal, I’d just as soon go into entertainment law and work with a professional sports team.”

“A sports team. Oh, Lord!” said Hillary, giving him one last look as she left the garage, muttering under her breath. “This is shapin’ up to be quite a summer.”





Chapter 8


“Hey!” called Erik, waving at her from the top of the gangplank, a beaming smile making her heart—and most of her worries—take flight.

Laire had checked out all the boats in the marina when she got there, relieved to see none that she recognized, but she was still wary of being seen, so she’d chosen to wear a floppy beach hat and sunglasses for their date. Both had been her mother’s, once upon a time, which gave her a little extra courage as she walked toward her beau . . . in the middle of the day . . . in public.

Her daddy’s Stingray didn’t have a forward cabin where she could change, so she’d gotten ready in the ladies’ room at the Pamlico House, brushing out her hair and swiping on a little makeup. By cutting off some old jeans, she’d made herself a pair of cute and trendy denim shorts. She paired them with a hot-pink polo-style shirt, made from leftover material she’d used to make a maternity dress for Issy.