Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“Would you like a drink, James?” she asks, dragging out my name like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
“I like to stay alert,” I tell her with a wink. “I don’t drink.”
“An Irishman who doesn’t drink?” Her eyes go wide. “Is that for real?”
“Of course it is. I used to like Guinness, used to get plastered. But I like to be in charge of all my senses, my reactions. That gives me the edge. Especially over someone who’s drunk or high.”
She raises a brow, teasing. “Are you telling me you’re drinking soda?” She points a slender finger at my glass, smirking.
“It’s a prop.” I smile. “How old are you again?”
She looks old enough to drink, barely, but I needle her just to see how she reacts.
She doesn’t disappoint.
She sits up straighter, squares her shoulders, and gives me this haughty little look, cheeks flushed pink. And I can already picture how I’d make her whole body flush like that, pink and breathless under me.
The tension between us spikes.
“Twenty,” she repeats. “You?”
“Too old for you,” I say with a sigh, as if it’s her goddamn age that makes her forbidden. “What’s your drink, lass?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she says with a shrug. “I like lots of things. Beer. Wine. Mixed drinks. You know.”
I do know. And I’m not sure I like her drinking.
“You do realize,” I murmur, “that every time you take a drink, you let your guard down, don’t you? You become a little more vulnerable.”
“Yes,” she says softly. “I do. But it also helps me relax… a little.” She exhales a shaky breath. “My family is… intense.”
“I bet they fucking are,” I mutter. “I know what that’s like.”
“Do you?” She cocks her head to the side with genuine interest.
“Aye. I’m the oldest,” I tell her. “The one with the most to carry. Now that my dad’s getting up there, he looks to me. He’s lost a bit of cognition in recent years, you know? Lived a hard life. It’s taken its toll.”
I run my finger down the side of my glass, gathering condensation. Why am I telling her this?
“I’m going to have to step up. No question about it.”
“And to get away from it?” she asks, tilting her head. “What do you do?”
“Work out. Go for walks. Read.” I look away. “Where I come from, it’s beautiful.”
I can picture the blue-green sea crashing against the rocks. Quaint shops. Flowers lining every path. God, I miss it.
“Where’d you go just now?” she asks gently.
How the fuck does this woman, who barely knows me, see right through me?
“Just imagining being home,” I admit, the nostalgia thick in my voice. “I want to be home.”
Fuck, I really do. But I promised my father I’d scope the Kopolovs.
I guess in some strange way I never planned… I’m doing what I said I would.
Chapter 3
ZOYA
We meet every single week.
James the Liar and little Zoya.
Every week.
For six months.
Six whole months, same time, same place. A little hidden world carved out just for us. I start planning everything around our Thursday night secret rendezvous.
It becomes the highlight of my existence. I live for my Thursday nights.
The only reason I get away with it without my brothers finding out or at least suspecting that something’s amiss is because they’re damn busy. Traveling, marriage, children, growing our small circle into something larger, more powerful. Sometimes I pretend I’m with one of my friends, but mostly I hide my tracker.
And maybe it has something to do with the fact that no one would ever expect Zoya Kopolova to be a sneak.
Every Thursday, I bring pastries and stories and questions.
And he listens.
He watches more than he speaks, his gaze heavy and thoughtful, like he’s memorizing me piece by piece. His piercing blue eyes don’t leave mine as he listens.
I’m fully aware of how hard I’m crushing on him. Just seeing him with those rolled-up sleeves, his tanned, muscular forearms as he leans forward and holds onto my every word… I can’t be immune to him, no matter how hard I try.
And I do try. A few months in, I gave up and fully owned my crush.
It’s just a crush… right? And somehow, I started building my life around those meetings. Around him.
My Mr. Thursday.
There’s something inside me that whispers warnings I don’t want to hear. That I should be wary. That I should be afraid. That I can’t have this man and shouldn’t allow myself to be vulnerable around someone like him. Someone so dark, so still. So dangerous.
But I can’t stop.
The more I try to pull away, the more I crave his presence. His voice. His steadiness. The way he calms the chaos in my mind. He has this way about him.
“Aye,” he’ll say, just listening, nodding. “Go on, little lass.”
Go on, little lass.
And I do go on. Go on talking. Go on trusting. Go on falling in love with a man I barely know.