Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
I try to look lofty. I think I fail. “Why does Mr. McCarthy have anything to do with me?”
“He owns this establishment. He's also about to be your brother-in-law, which makes you his concern.” A pause. “And therefore mine.”
“That's not how family works.”
“It is in this family.”
“Excuse me?”
I toss my hair. Even for a sick girl, I have exceptional hair. Erin says I look like Ariel from The Little Mermaid, which I choose to take as the highest of compliments.
He blinks. Then something shifts in his expression, really shifts, and he smiles at me.
And I know right then that this is a man who gets whatever he wants.
I swallow hard and stand up straighter, which does absolutely nothing. I'm still a full head shorter than him, and the hair toss has only made his eyes drag slowly down and back up in a way that feels distinctly like a caress.
“You’ve no right to tell me what to do,” I say, because someone has to say something, and apparently it's going to be me. “I'm not yours. You have no claim over me.”
I'm not entirely sure whether I'm pushing back out of genuine principle or because I am so exhausted—bone-deep and years-long exhausted. Tired of being told what to do, where to go, and what my body is and isn't capable of.
He leans in.
His mouth is very close to my ear. The warmth of him makes me shiver in a way I am absolutely not going to examine.
“You're right,” he says, very deliberate. “You're not mine.” He pulls back just slightly to look at me. “And it's very lucky for you that you're not.” He pauses. “Because if you were mine, Bridget, I'd have dragged you by that gorgeous hair into a back room already, bent you over a spanking bench, and shown you exactly how it's used.” Another pause. “And that would only be the beginning of your punishment for coming in here tonight, unaccompanied and unwelcome.”
I cannot speak.
I finally get my breath back. “But you… you can’t do that, and you’re not available,” I blurt out. “The gold band…” I try to toss my head again to distract him from my flaming cheeks.
He smirks. God above, he has a dimple.
“The gold has nothing to do with my relationship status, but my rank here.”
Behind him, someone calls his name, and he turns around. Thank god because I don’t realize until it’s far too late that my mouth is hanging wide open.
I am suddenly very aware that the people around us have given us an extremely wide berth, and I'm not sure I like what that means.
What’s his rank?
“Declan.”
“I’m busy.”
No, no, no.
Declan. His name is Declan.
Cavin’s cousin Declan? Declan McCarthy?
Oh no.
Declan McCarthy has a reputation in Ballyhock that reaches all the way to the craggy cliffs overlooking the churning waves of the Irish Sea.
He turns back to me, and the smile is back—easy, warm, and completely at odds with everything he just said.
“I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.” He tilts his head. “Why don't you walk with me? It would be wise for you. It would certainly be easier for me. And then we can both do what Mr. McCarthy has asked without either of us having a terrible evening.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Where's Erin?”
“Having a conversation with her future husband. She's fine. Cavin wouldn't hurt her.”
“But he would if she weren't about to be his wife?”
He exhales through his nose, something between impatience and resignation crossing his face.
“Follow me,” he says. “Stop stalling, or I swear to Christ I'm going to put you over my shoulder and carry you, and you won’t enjoy it.”
Is he so sure about that?
I came here to get fucked, goddamn it, and I'm not leaving until I've been properly handled. I have a good reason.
I'm dying, and no one wants to admit it. My illness has taken center stage my whole damn life, and I'm over it. I'm desperate to feel something normal. I try to be optimistic, to be cheerful, so I don't have to watch the light dim in my sister's eyes one more time, but inside? Inside, I'm neither. I feel like every hour of every day, another grain of sand falls to the bottom of the hourglass of my life.
But I want to see my sister.
So I lift my chin, school my expression into something approaching indifference, and follow him. I have to walk quickly to keep up.
He stops short outside a closed door in a darkened hallway, and I nearly slam into his back. On the other side of the door, I can hear two voices: One is Erin's, and the other is a man's, low and controlled in a way that doesn't ask to be obeyed so much as assumes it. Must be Cavin, my future brother-in-law.