Fur Ball Fever

Chapter 37

Gracie's dining room with its jewel tones and eclectic collection of paintings reminded Nick of its owner—vibrant, original, and a little offbeat. Part of his brain registered the mouth-watering odors of garlic and fresh herbs, while another part took in the way candlelight caused her hair to gleam as it waved around her averted face. The largest part of his brain, however, the part that dealt with primal needs such as staking a claim, selecting a mate, and the like, noted how right she looked as she heaped linguini onto plates, and passed them along.

He wanted to hug Beth. She'd made a huge production of placing him beside Gracie, who continued to brood silently. She refused to acknowledge his presence, but concentrated on serving linguini as if it held the secrets of the universe. It didn't matter. He was there, and that's what counted.

Patrick made up for his daughter's neglect by glowering at him. Connor knocked back a beer. At the foot of the table, Beth snuggled closer to Milt, who placed a possessive arm around her shoulders and whispered something in her ear. Sam, resplendent in an embroidered and fringed cowboy shirt, sat next to Beth. He'd arrived at the last minute, presumably to give Nick enough time to deal with Gracie.

Too bad Sam's discretion was unnecessary, Nick thought uneasily. If he wanted to salvage their relationship, he had to cut Gracie off from the rest of the pack, coax her outside.

Nick leaned over to whisper. "Listen to me, darlin'. I figured everything out."

All conversation ceased. A pulsing silence filled the room. Sam gave an encouraging nod. Even Murphy and Miss Coco dropped the woolly thing they were tussling over and stared at him.

Patrick broke the uneasy silence first. "I should wring your neck, boy."

"Dad, don't." Gracie knocked back a hefty slug of wine.

"It's okay, Gracie," Nick said. "I deserve it."

"Go for it, dude. Groveling's good." Sam's stage whisper carried.

Milt stared at Nick. "You okay, Boss? You look terrible."

"I will be. Gracie, we need to talk. Outside. It's personal." Nick fixed his gaze on Gracie's face, willing her to look at him, willing her to sense his love. He should have saved his voice for all the good it did.

Gracie turned deliberately toward her father. "As head of the family, shouldn't you offer a toast to Auntie Beth?"

An enthusiastic buzz greeted her words.

"A fine idea, to be sure," Patrick said, lumbering to his feet and motioning everyone to stand. "Let's all offer up a toast to my favorite sister, Beth Donnelly." He hoisted his wine glass. "Seventy years young today. May she live to be a hundred, with one extra year to repent." He tossed back his wine.

Everyone followed suit and sat down. Nick noted that Gracie had drained her glass in three gulps, and motioned Connor for a top-up. He tried to visualize life without her, and shuddered. Forcing himself to remain optimistic, he made his voice decisive. "I need to talk to you in private."

Their gazes clashed. She shook her head. "I have nothing to say to you."

A trickle of perspiration ran down his neck and soaked into the collar of the fancy Italian shirt. He pulled back his lips and treated her to what he hoped was an easy, confident smile. "That's okay. I intend to do all the talking."

Gracie's breasts heaved with the force of her breathing. "No thanks. I've heard enough." She looked at Sam. "You've known him longer than I have. You understand, don't you?"

"Totally," Sam replied. "Nick's a jackass. He can't help it."

Patrick turned on his daughter. "Grace Caitlin Donnelly. I won't let you be rude to a guest," he skewered Nick with a glare, "no matter how sorely he deserves it."