How To Pleasure A Playboy(31)

The Baxter Games were finally over, and he'd just discovered that he was the one who'd lost.





Twenty-Two





Lacey pushed her fingers through the holes in the chain-link fence,  staring at the gaping hole where the Baxter used to be. It felt surreal  to have it gone. The debris had been removed, and all that was left was  an empty lot, bare and forlorn, surrounded by the fence that stopped her  getting any closer.

Her father's bookcase had been inside the building when it came down, so  that was gone too. And as though he had some physic link to the  demolished building, her father had spiraled downhill, especially in the  last few days. The last member of her family was slipping away. Then  Lacey would truly be alone.

The cold wind made her shiver, cutting through her overcoat like it was  made of paper. Still, she stood there for a long time, her head bowed,  mourning the end of her old life. Remembering the years, the good times  and bad, that she'd spent in the Baxter. How ironic that the best of  those times had been her last week in the building, with the man who'd  pulled it down.

Finally she lifted her head. Slipping her hand into her pocket, she  gripped her phone. Should she take a photo to post on her blog? No,  they'd moved onto other stories now. And it was time for her to move on,  too. If Crystal could put the Baxter behind her and be happy with her  new life, then so could Lacey.

"Not all change is bad," she said aloud. "It's time to look forward  instead of back. Time to find a way to be happy without the Baxter." And  without Bronson, that went without saying. Oh god, and without the  library. That would close in a few weeks too. Then where would she work?  Her crappy apartment?

Her phone rang and she tugged it out of her pocket. When she saw it was  her father's hospice calling, her breath caught and her stomach turned  over.

"It's Lacey," she said.

"Hi, Lacey. I'm calling from the reception desk at-"

"Is Dad okay?"

A moment's silence, then the woman said, "Yes, he's fine."

Lacey let out her breath in a rush. "Thank goodness. I thought you were calling because something had happened."

"Oh no. I'm sorry, I didn't even think of that. No, I'm calling to let you know a package arrived for you."

"A package? What is it?"

"A huge box. Heavy, too. We haven't opened it, because it's addressed to you."

Lacey frowned. "Okay, I'm on my way."

She'd been headed there anyway, to spend some time sitting by her  father's bedside. But now she spent the whole way there wondering who on  earth would send her something by way of her father's hospice?

The question still perplexed her when she opened the box to find her  father's books, the ones she'd sold over a year ago. She'd tried to get  them back after the blog had started doing well, and she knew for a fact  that the dealer had onsold them. So how could they possibly be here  now?

There was only one answer that made sense. Bronson. Somehow he was  behind this. Hadn't he asked her who she'd sold them to, that night they  were lying by the fire?

The memory of that night, of his question, was so intensely bittersweet, her own reaction to it took her by surprise.

"Are you okay?" asked the woman behind the reception counter.         

     



 

It took her a moment before she could reply. Her eyes were stinging, and  her throat was so raw she could barely swallow. "Sorry. Yes. I'm fine."  But it wasn't true, was it? She was a wreck. How was she supposed to  deal with her father dying, her home being destroyed, and her broken  heart? "Actually, no," she said abruptly, her tone unexpectedly angry.  "I'm not okay. It's too much all at once, and to be perfectly honest, I  don't think it's too much to ask if I fall apart a little. Do you?"

The receptionist took a step back. "Um." Her puzzled gaze flicked down  to the open box of books. "Of course. I mean, fall apart all you like.  Please, be my guest."

"Thank you." Lacey took a breath. "Sometimes I just want to run in  circles, screaming my lungs out and tearing my hair. Not that I'm going  to go that far," she added, after a look at the woman's face. "Not here  anyway."

"Okay," said the woman, taking another step back. "I have tissues if you need them."

Lacey gave her a nod, then picked up the heavy box and hefted it down  the hall to her father's room. She let herself in quietly, so as not to  disturb him, and put the box down beside his bed.

Her father's eyes fluttered open. "That you?"

"It's me, Dad. And I've got some of your books."

He grunted, his eyes closing again.

At least his terrible anger had faded, though he was so weak now, Lacey  was afraid he wouldn't be able to hold a book if she gave him one.

It was time to start saying her goodbyes. To tell him the things she'd  never been able to say. Her awful regrets. Her gratitude for his years  of hard work that had paid her way through college. They had butted  heads, and fought, and there had been plenty of hard times. But there'd  been good times too. And love. Even when she was telling him she hated  him, under it all, she'd known how much he loved her.

Her father had given her everything, and now it was time to tell him so.  Lacey took his frail hand in both of hers, and managed a shaky smile.  "I love you, Dad," she murmured.

He opened his eyes again, though it took him a moment to focus on her.  "I love you too." His voice trembled, and she could tell that each word  was an effort.

"I'm sorry for arguing with you, all those times. Sorry for yelling and  for all the awful things I said. I didn't mean them. You know I didn't,  right?"

He gave his head a weak shake, but when he spoke again his voice seemed  to be gathering strength. "Don't be sorry. I'm the fucker who taught you  to fight. Don't take shit from anyone, least of all me. Proud of you,  honey."

Lacey let out a tear-filled laugh. He was right. Thanks to her father,  she was strong enough to stand up for what she believed. He'd taught her  not to settle for second best, or for a man who wouldn't put her first,  no matter how much she loved him.

"Thanks for teaching me to fight, Dad," she whispered. "I'm not going to apologize for anything. And neither should you."

Her father closed his eyes and gave a deep sigh. He was still for a long  moment, and Lacey thought he might have dropped off to sleep. But then  he muttered something that she had to lean forward to hear.

"No regrets," he murmured.

Lacey nodded, and gently kissed her father's forehead. "No regrets," she repeated softly. "I promise."





Twenty-Three





It was getting late, and Lacey was about to leave the library when her  phone rang. It was a number she didn't recognize, and she answered it  quietly, trying not to make too much of a disturbance.

"This is Lacey."

"Hi, Lacey, it's Carla, Bronson's assistant."

Lacey's heart leapt, though she didn't want it to. Was this Bronson's  way of reaching her because she wouldn't take his calls? He'd stopped  calling a couple of weeks ago, so she'd assumed he must have given up  for good. "Hi," she said, cautiously, wondering if she was about to put  Bronson on the line.

"Bronson's in Brazil," said Carla. "He doesn't know I'm calling you."

"In Brazil?"

"His brother turned up in Rio, of all places. Bronson went to see him and ended up staying."

Lacey blinked. "His brother turned up after three years? Bronson must have been happy to see him. Is Christof okay?"

"He's fine. Getting married."

"Oh," said Lacey. The person working on the opposite table was shooting  her dirty looks, so she stuffed her laptop into her backpack and headed  outside.         

     



 

"Listen, the reason I'm calling is because I had your bookcase delivered  to the apartment on Darling Street. The crew took it out of the Baxter  before they pulled it down, and I had to put it somewhere. I meant to  tell you, but I was kind of hoping Bronson would call you. Anyway, it's  still sitting there, so I figured I'd better let you know."

"My father's bookcase? Really?" Lacey's heart lifted. It was probably  silly to have been so sad it had been destroyed, but her father had made  that bookcase with his own hands. She'd mourned its loss as much as  she'd mourned the building that had housed it. "Thank you. I'd love to  have it back, but it won't fit in my apartment."

"You definitely don't want to move into the Darling Street place?"

"I wouldn't feel right about it." She found a bench outside the library to sit on.

"If it made you feel better, I could ask the building manager to charge  you rent. Bronson would probably object, but I know he wants to see you  in a nice place. It's a lovely apartment, and it seems a shame for it to  be sitting empty. If you want to take a look, get the key from the  manager. He lives on the ground floor."