Chapter 20
The Red Velvet Bar at the Bellagio is one of the most opulent rooms in Vegas—velvet banquettes, gold-leaf ceilings, and a chandelier so big, if it ever falls, the entire continent would shake. I don’t own the place, and I like drinking here for that exact reason. Sometimes even a man like me needs a room he can walk into without being treated like a deity.
‘Hartmann,’ Marcus Rhodes, my childhood best friend, calls from a corner booth, lifting two fingers at the bartender like he owns the joint. He doesn’t. He’s a lawyer—one of the best in the country, but god does he know it. If he wasn’t so funny, so loyal, so damn good at what he does, he’d be a pain in my ass—mostly because he has no problem calling me out on my bullshit. Most people walk on eggshells around me. Not Marcus. Not when we’ve known each other our entire lives.
He stands to greet me, clapping a hand to my shoulder. ‘You look like shit p>
‘Thanks.’ Who needs enemies, with friends like him?
His brows furrow as he takes me in. ‘Seriously, man, sometimes I worry about you p>
‘I’m fine. I just haven’t been sleeping well lately p>
‘That happens.’ He shakes his head, but there’s a hint of admiration behind his designer glasses. ‘When you start a war with a family almost as powerful as your own p>
‘Almost being the key word in that sentence.’ Although it dawns on me then, they have something I’ll never have—they have each other—a real family.
The Becketts aren’t trying to uphold the legacy of their deceased father. By all accounts Alexander Beckett is alive and well. The Becketts aren’t being hauled up in rehab.
The only family member left fighting for my family is me.
What a sad and depressing thought.
I push it away before it can take hold. ‘Is it done?’ I slide into the booth opposite him. He motions the server to bring over two bourbons. Marcus pulls a folder from his briefcase and slides it across the table.
‘Barcelona,’ he says with the same self-satisfied smirk he’s worn since we were sixteen and got arrested for street racing our parents’ Porsches. ‘Paperwork’s through. Fully executed. You officially own the waterfront site p>
Satisfaction rolls through me.
‘Good p>
‘Good?’ He snorts. ‘More like savage. Ruthless even. You weren’t even interested in Spain until you found out the Becketts wanted it p>
A pretty waitress appears with our drinks, placing them on the table. I lift my glass and drink deeply. The bourbon burns the way I need it to. ‘They brought war to my door p>
‘And you retaliated by stealing a project out from under all their noses. James Beckett reportedly wanted Barcelona for a new distillery. Caelon wanted the hotel. Rian wanted the bar. You basically fucked the entire family in the ass at once p>
‘Good,’ I repeat, leaning back. ‘Now they’ll know how it feels p>
‘Revenge really is your love language.’ He shakes his head again.
‘All is fair in love and war.’ I shrug.
He studies me for a moment—longer than I like. Marcus is perceptive as hell. ‘I told Letitia you’d say something like that p>
Letitia is Marcus’s long-suffering wife.
‘I swear, there’s more to life than work, man. Marriage is like having a best friend you get to fuck whenever you like. You should find someone. Settle down. No wonder you look tired. All you do is work p>
‘I went on holiday this year.’ I remind him.
‘A working holiday to escape your family. It doesn’t count p>
‘What if I told you I met a woman there, and I didn’t open my laptop once after she let me into her bed p>
Marcus’s eyes double in size. ‘Bullshit p>
I hold his gaze, unwaveringly.
‘Well, who is she?’ he marvels, scratching his sandy coloured hair.
‘That’s the problem,’ I admit. ‘I don’t know p>
‘What p>
I fill him in over two more bourbons, leaving out the part where I personally called the resort and demanded the name of the woman staying in the Coral Reef Suite mid-January—with no success. When the receptionist finally did crack, the name she gave was Minnie Mouse. Clearly, Irish is some sort of celebrity. So how come she’s not on my radar?
‘Shit, that’s wild.’ Marcus whistles lowly. ‘What was she like? Hot? Flexible? Did she call you Daddy? Come on, man. Give me something p>
I contemplate throwing the glass at his head, but it would be a shame to waste good whiskey.
He watches me, his smirk fading. ‘Oh, fuck.’ He stares at me again for a long beat. His tone shifts. ‘I knew it would happen one day. It did, didn’t it?’ He thrusts his pointer finger in my face
‘What?’ I snap, swatting his hand away roughly.
‘A woman finally got into your head.’ He sounds positively fucking gleeful. Oldest friend or not, I’m not above punching him in the face.
I stare at the chandelier, watching the light fracture into a thousand pieces. I say nothing, because what can I say? There are no words. He’s right. She got into my head. My heart, and so far beneath my skin, it’s unbearably tight with an itch I have no idea how to scratch.
So much so that I can’t even look at another woman, let alone contemplate fucking one.
Marcus leans forward. ‘How’d you feel when you left her p>
I don’t answer.
He exhales softly, nodding. ‘That bad, huh p>
‘It’s not—’ I stop, jaw locking. ‘It’s complicated p>
‘Is she married p>
‘No p>
‘Engaged p>
‘No p>
‘Crazy p>
‘Not that I know of, but aren’t all women a tad crazy?’ I quirk a brow.
‘It’s the hormones.’ Marcus swirls his bourbon in his glass. ‘That’s what Letitia tells me after she launches something at my head for saying the wrong thing p>
‘If you greet her the same way you just greeted me, I don’t blame her. “You look like shit p>
He grins. ‘Don’t be stupid, I don’t have a death wish p>
I stare into my empty glass as if the answer might be lurking at the bottom. ‘Truth is, I didn’t get her name, and she left before sunrise. Didn’t give me any way to reach her. And I can’t get her out of my fucking mind p>
Marcus leans back, a low chuckle sounding from his lips. ‘Ah. Now we’re getting to the crux of it. Is it because she ran out on you? Or because you finally met your match p>
‘I don’t have a match p>
‘Everyone has a match p>
A beat of silence stretches between us.
Finally, I ask the question that’s been bubbling up inside of me for months now. ‘How did you know Letitia was the one p>
Marcus’s expression softens, and his gaze shifts as he stares wistfully into space. ‘She made everything feel easy. Even the hard shit. She made me want to do better. To be better. For the first time in my life p>
My finger thrums on my glass.
Marcus kicks my foot under the table. ‘You’re a resourceful man. You could find your girl again p>
‘She doesn’t want to be found p>
‘So?’ He shrugs. ‘You’re Cole fucking Hartmann. Since when has that stopped you p>
I let out a breath that almost qualifies as a laugh.
He’s fucking right.
For the first time since I left Punta Cana, I let the truth surface, and fully embrace the fact I need to find Irish again. Doesn’t mean I want to marry her. Doesn’t even mean I’m in the market for anything more than closure.
I’ll be in Ireland soon—finalising Hartmann Hotel Dublin, overseeing the interior of the new casino wing, meeting with the minister.
And when I get there?
I’m going to find her.
Hunt her down.
Because this obsession with her hasn’t faded.
If anything, it’s multiplying with every passing day.