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)
“Are you?” I ask instead, deflecting.
Because the answer is no, I’m not happy. I’m sad and bereft, and I don’t know what my place is in this world. I’m lonely in a way I can’t explain without sounding ungrateful. My parents are gone, and my sister has Cavin, a baby on the way, and a whole life and family I’m welcome in but don’t quite belong to. I’m somewhere in the middle of it all. Loved, yes, but… peripheral. Not quite… anyone’s.
If there’s anyone I could tell this to, he’s sitting right in front of me. He doesn't answer. He picks up his drink, then sets it back down without drinking from it.
That's answer enough.
We sit with that for a moment. Two people who are not happy, in a room full of people who are, and neither of us is willing to say it out loud. It should feel awful. It doesn't. Instead, it feels like the most honest conversation I've had in months.
He looks over at me. “How many drinks have you had?” My heart thumps.
“Five, I think,” I whisper. No alcohol, but I love Declan, the dominant, the protector, and I’m curious how he’ll react. I like when he brings out his dominant, protective side.
“Five,” he repeats. “You'll wake up tomorrow with a headache. Might not remember what I'm about to say.”
I don't tell him I've been drinking nothing but Coke all night. Not a drop of anything alcoholic. I didn’t lie, but… My heart is pounding too fast, and I have to swallow three times. He's too close, his eyes tracking the perimeter of the room to make sure no one's listening.
“Things change sometimes, in our family. One night, you’re hanging out with your best friend, shootin’ the craic with her, and the next you’re shipped off to an undercover role for your family.”
Wait. Her? Best friend?
Did he just call me his best friend?
He swallows and blows out a breath, jerking his head toward Ashland. “Look at Ashland. We used to call him the Priest, you know. Fuckin’ celibate for years. For her.” He takes another sip of his water as he nods toward Bianca.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “One night you’re stressing about the grade your teacher gave you, and the next, you’re bleeding uncontrollably when you cut yourself and end up in the hospital.” I swallow hard. “I get it.”
He leans forward. His hand covers mine. “I know you do. Probably better than anyone in this room.”
He’s touching me. Declan’s hand is on mine, and it feels right and good, and I never want him to stop. I don’t even breathe, afraid that if I move the wrong way, he’ll think I’m uncomfortable and take his hand away.
“And I guess when you know things are going to change, it makes you think, you know?” His thumb brushes over the top of my hand. Once. Slow. Like he has all the time in the world and knows it. He’s touching my hand, and I’m turned on.
Oh god.
I press my lips together and say absolutely nothing, hoping to god he can't feel my pulse because it’s giving me away.
“I’ve thought about that kiss I gave you that night, Bridget. Over and over and over again. When I was in Boston and I missed my family, missed my home, and wanted to come back. When things got rough and I was afraid they'd find out who I was, what I was doing, that my cover was blown, I thought about that kiss.”
Cover was blown? Oh god… do I want to know?
No. I absolutely do not.
“Did you?” I whisper. And then I do something diabolical that I wonder if I'll ever regret.
I lean in. Does he smell the perfume? I lay my hand on top of his. “What kiss exactly?” I say.
Then he smiles that smile. The dimple pops in his cheek, and his eyes flash at me. I didn’t fool him at all. “You know where we are, don't you?”
I shrug.
“I—”
“And how easy it would be for me to take you to one of those rooms and teach you a lesson for being a little brat?”
“You're all talk,” I say, teasing. Hoping. “Anyway, if you took me to one of those rooms, someone would see you.”
“We could go for a little drive, though, couldn't we? Just the two of us?”
What is he doing? What am I doing?
“We could,” I whisper.
“Gettin’ a bit stuffy in here,” he says.
I shrug. “Anyway, I think Ashland and Cavin need a little time to themselves and all.”
He leans in, as if he's reaching for a chip, but he holds it between his thumb and forefinger and doesn't move. “I want you to walk to the back door—third door on the left, the one with the purple handle. It's what we use to get to the back, where no one can see us leave. Private exit, no one else will follow because that's my old territory.” He says it low and even, like it costs him nothing, and I feel it at the base of my spine.