Dropping her bag on the chair, she shrugged out of her jacket, tossing that as well before pulling the band from her hair, running her fingers through it. It had been a long day, and that was even before she got to the pub.
She had contemplated everything she had overheard, what little there was, and the cryptic things Liam had mentioned after he had dropped her off. Rourke had mentioned a problem, and if she was right, that problem would be presenting itself soon enough. She had no doubt.
But currently, her only problem was a 6’4 Russian who she knew nothing about, but cared for like she had known him her entire life.
God, had it only been a couple of weeks that they spent together all those years ago?
And of that time, she had spent most of those days in his bed, but in that short period, he had consumed her, taking every last bit of her that he wanted until there was nothing left. Reagan knew better, had even warned herself that she didn’t need to get attached to someone like him, but at some point, the rational side of her brain had clicked off, replaced with someone that was too intrigued to walk away.
But he had walked away from her. No note. No promises of calling her. Had she not gone by his motel room days after the last time she had seen him, she would have never known that he was gone in the first place.
That was why she couldn’t—and wouldn’t—believe that he was suddenly back in the Kitchen for her.
And yet, that still begged the question as to why he was back.
She knew for a fact that he wasn’t from around these parts, not even from the north at all. If she recalled correctly, he’d said he was from Florida. Maybe he was a traveling salesman, and came up here for business of some kind.
And he just happened to find her in a city this big?
That thought made her edgy. It wasn’t like the pair of them exchanged last names or anything, and she doubted she was the only Reagan in the state. So that begged the question, how had he found her? He didn’t sound surprised as he called to her. In fact, his entire demeanor spoke as though he had tracked her down.
Would you believe me if I told you I came for you?
At first, no. But now? She was strongly considering it.
Before, she might have been happy by that possibility.
Now, the only thing she wanted to know was who the hell he was…
* * *
The next morning, after a hot shower, painstakingly straightening her hair again—she rarely left it in its natural state nowadays—and getting dressed, Reagan headed for her parent’s place. Thankfully, the rain had let up, but storm clouds still lingered in the sky as though ready to open up at any time.
Her parents’ building was not much better than hers, but the familiarity of it made it special. Along the sidewalk, when the city had been redoing the concrete there, Jimmy had snuck down when her parents weren’t around and stuck his hands on it, forever embedding his child-sized prints in the sidewalk. To this day, the sight of them still made her smile.
Opening the front gate, she headed up the breezeway, punching in the code to let herself into the building, then up to the apartment. Despite having moved out, she still had a key, her mother wanting her to keep it in case of emergencies. Thankfully, it had been a while since there was one.
Even as she stuck the key in the lock, giving it a slight jiggle and twist before disengaging and unlocked the door and pushed it open, she knocked on the heavy wood, announcing her presence.
“Ma?”
“In the kitchen!”
She closed the door behind her, locking it once more as she went in search of her mother, looking around the space as she went. Not much had changed, just the slight shift of the furniture, more pictures adorning the fireplace mantel, but there was one thing that was drastically different.
Her father wasn’t perched in the lounger with a bottle of whiskey clutched in his fist.
Reagan didn’t know whether to be thrilled or nervous about this.
When she rounded the corner, she finally caught sight of her mother, Isabelle, standing at the stove with an apron around her waist and a wooden spoon in her hand as she mixed what smelled like stew in the giant pot.
Isabelle was five-five, a few inches shorter than Reagan’s five-eight—Isabelle had always said she got Conor’s height even if he was six feet—and was just as round in her hips as she was in her middle. Her unruly muddy-brown hair was swept up into a bun, curling strands escaping it to frame her face. She had laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, ones she had always had since Reagan could remember.
If there was one thing to be said, she was her mother’s daughter.
“Hey Ma, how are you?” Reagan greeted warmly, wrapping her arms around her mother and giving a squeeze. Moments like these, when it was just the pair of them, Reagan missed her terribly, wondering why she didn’t come around more often.
“All’s well. How’s my favorite girl? And the pub?”
“I’m fine, and the pub is too.”