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Chapter 3
Thatcher
Hazel and Jamison were like magnets, neither of them could be far from the other for long. It was clear how much they adored each other, and Jamison made no attempt to hide the fact that he worshipped her.
They’d had a big, beautiful wedding ceremony at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, which I still believe Jamison had to perform a hit for someone in order to get it on a month’s notice. That or he had a direct line to God, and they personally made a deal.
Their reception was at the Plaza and required all guests to attend in black tie. The whole event was full of glitz and glitter. The guest list was littered with New York’s elite.
It was incredible, but not my scene. I was pretty sure it wasn’t Jamison’s either, so it must’ve all been for Hazel. And yet, whenever I spotted her, unless she was looking at Jamison, her eyes lost some of their sparkle and she seemed almost uncomfortable in her own skin.
Justice had ducked out early; to go home and brood over Blair, no doubt. I had intended to do the same, but my house was full of people and incredibly lonely at the same time.
After saying goodbye to the bride and groom, I found myself taking the green line down to South Ferry. It was a warm evening, so I removed my tux jacket and folded it over my arm. Then I wandered along the park towards the bench where I stopped every day and watched Imogene.
To my surprise, there was someone already sitting there. I hesitated, preferring to be alone with my misery, but a niggling feeling kept my feet moving. My heart started pounding, beating faster the closer I got. When I was only a few feet away, the person lifted her head and warm, whiskey-colored eyes locked with mine. My breath stuck in my throat as I stood there like a deer caught in headlights.
It was the first time Imogene and I had ever come face to face. She was even more beautiful up close, and I continued to struggle to breathe. My body had gone on high alert, spreading goosebumps over my skin, and my dick sprung to attention.
My eyes finally broke from hers to take in the rest of Imogene. She was sitting cross-legged on the bench, a sketchbook in her lap and a pencil in her hand. She was wearing a baggy sweatshirt that came to her knees and dipped off one shoulder. Despite the shapelessness, it didn’t disguise her long, lithe body, particularly with her legs in legging type pants that hugged her like a second skin. They must have been a light brown or peach color because in the dark, with only the moon and street lamps illuminating the area, her legs looked bare.
I frowned and glared at the leggings. Any red-blooded man would take one look at those and picture them wrapped around his waist. Yeah. That shit wasn’t going to fly with me. Those were going right in the trash once I got her home. Their days were numbered.
“Pardon?” Her voice was low and husky, washing over me, leaving my nerve endings tingling. When I lifted my eyes to her face, she was watching me expectantly. It took me a beat, but then I realized I must have said that last thought out loud.
“Nothing, beautiful,” I told her with a small shake of my head.
She cocked her head to the side, and her shoulder-length, light brown curls bounced. “Um, okay.” Her face was scrubbed free of makeup, and pink lips were flanked by dimples that I itched to explore with my tongue. She looked so young and innocent. I’d even wondered that maybe I was dooming myself to my brother’s shoes. Not that it would have altered my course of action. Just delayed things a bit. But once I had her name, I quickly discovered that she was nineteen; to my cock’s utter relief. The last two months had been sheer hell. I had no idea how my brother had held out for two years. Maybe it should have given me pause that I was fifteen years older than her, but I didn’t give a fuck. She was mine.
There wasn’t much more information on her. No address or phone number. She had no social media presence, and the only mention I found of her name was the obituary of an Imogene Delaney from Queens who’d died a few months ago. I’d hired a private investigator, but since there wasn’t anything he could tell me that would change my mind about Imogene, I let him go after he gave me the basics about her.
I took a step closer, and she shut her sketch pad, holding it close to her chest. “May I sit?” I asked softly. I didn’t want to spook her and send her running—not now that I finally had her attention.
