Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Then she laughs and leaves.
And I’m reeling. I knew some of my cousins would be here, the ones I know and the ones I don’t. I knew my uncles and aunts and all the power players in my father’s family, like Darragh and his mates, would be here too. So why did it not occur to me that the people from St. Albert’s were going to be here? My tormentors. The people I hated. Of course they are. It was a finishing school for families just like us.
And then I hear a warm voice behind me. “You do look gorgeous, love.”
I turn to see Cavin and breathe out a sigh of relief. I reach for his arm to steady me and swallow hard. “Thank you,” I say with a little bow.
Cameras flash. A photographer, a tall, lanky lad of about twenty, stands blinking. There's something familiar about his profile when he turns, like I've seen him somewhere before. But half of Ballyhock probably looks familiar at this point.
“Put that away,” Cavin snarls.
“Your mother told me—”
“And I told you to put it away,” he says. “Do not take pictures of my fiancée without permission.”
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” The nervous photographer nods quickly.
Before he can say anything else, one of the cousins I remember from our first dinner approaches. He claps Cavin on the shoulder, firm enough that it's not entirely friendly and smiles. Ah, yes. I remember that smile. Ashland and Lorcan’s older brother, Donovan.
“Ah, ease up there, cuz,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Lad's just doing his job, yeah? Your ma hired him special for tonight.”
“Fuck off, Donovan.” Cavin's jaw tics, but he doesn't shake off Donovan's hand.
Donovan only chuckles.
The photographer shifts his weight, looking between them nervously. Then he glances at me, manages a shaky smile. “May I take your picture, miss?” he asks. Polite. Deferential. “Just yourself, like. For the family album?”
I look at Cavin, who's still glaring at the man like he's considering breaking his camera. Or his face. Maybe both.
He nods to me, terse. “It's up to you, Erin.”
I can't remember the last time someone said that something was actually up to me.
“Um, sure,” I say. “Okay.”
“You too, sir?” the photographer asks cautiously.
“Fine,” Cavin growls.
Donovan steps back, still watching, something unreadable in his expression. “There ye go. Everyone's happy, yeah?” He shoots Cavin a reproachful look, as if Cavin's being unreasonable. “No need to terrorize the help on your engagement night.” He winks at me. He’s as charming as his brother Ashland’s terrifying.
I giggle and shake my head. Cavin looks at me for an explanation, as if I could possibly explain that I’m wondering why a professional photographer asking to do his literal job has him this wound up.
“You alright?” I ask quietly.
“Grand,” he mutters.
He comes up next to me, taller than I am, even with my heels on. Broad. And he smells so good as he casually wraps his arm around my shoulder, takes my hand in his, and we pose… like a couple in love. And it feels almost natural.
“Smile, Erin,” he whispers in my ear.
I smile. I wonder if it looks fake.
“Why did I say yes? And how many times do we have to do this?” I whisper to him.
“Oh, about a thousand,” he says, and then he chuckles.
And I remember the way his voice felt in my ear. I remember the way it felt being pressed up against the wall. I remember… all of it.
“Come, let’s get you a drink,” he says, then winks at me. My stomach flips again. But this time, this time it feels nice.
“I know, I know. Soda water or whatever for you.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“Are you hungry? Have you eaten today?” He asks me two questions at the same time. Why do people do that?
“I can’t remember if I’ve eaten… I was all nervous, but I don’t feel hungry.”
“We need to get something in you,” he says protectively. “Come on, let’s go this way.”
And somehow, miraculously, he escorts me through the throng of people into a little quiet area, right outside on the balcony, without an interruption.
I let out a breath again.
“Bet you’d give anything for some yoga pants and a jumper right now,” he says. “And I’m sorry, this isn’t a vegetable samosa, but my mother did order some good food.”
I smile. “Is there anything you don’t like to eat?” I ask him because I feel like if we’re going to be married and we’re going to be sharing space, I need to start knowing things about him.
“I’ll eat literally anything,” he says. “But the past few years, I’ve been busy traveling. You know, lots of restaurants and takeout and the like. And prison food will make you yearn for something good. I miss homemade food.” He pauses when I stare. “But we can get a chef or something, I don’t need—”