Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
I’m not sure what to make of the compliment. My cheeks warm up and I smile at him. “Thanks. You do too.”
“I meant to give you this earlier, but I got distracted.” He crouches down in front of me and takes out a small ring box. “As requested.”
I laugh, and didn’t really expect this, but I let him slip the simple diamond onto my ring finger. It’s slightly too big and will need to be resized, but I like the style. Simple and elegant.
“You did good, Brody Quinn.”
“You like it?”
“I really do.” I wiggle my fingers at him. “What do you think? How’s it feel to have your ring on my finger?”
He stands and gives me a long, inscrutable look. I honestly can’t tell if he’s happy or if he’s about to ask for it back. In the end, he only flexes his back and stretches his arms and turns to walk off.
I watch him go, my strange new husband, not sure what in the world he wants.
Chapter 11
Brody
The wedding was more like a party with a signing ceremony. We didn’t bother with a priest. It was just me, Elena, Simon, her parents, and my mother standing in Simon’s office while I wrote my name on a piece of paper and Elena did the same.
There was a moment in the dim light when most of the people were filtering out chatting and murmuring to each other, and I was a newlywed with a wife I barely knew, when she leaned up against me and looked up into my eyes, and my ring sparkled on her finger, and she looked fucking beautiful. Perfect, really, in a pale gray dress, not quite white, in a conservative cut that still managed to flatter her gorgeous body. I didn’t know what to think when I agreed to marry a stranger, and now I’m thankful that she’s ten times more attractive than I ever imagined was possible, but a little wary of it too.
She’s one more pressure on my back.
We sleep in separate houses that night. Elena stays at the oasis and I go back to my own place. I have a four-bedroom single-family spot in the same neighborhood as my mom, although it’s still mostly a bachelor pad. I spend more time in the family law firm than I do in my own bed.
But I pick up Elena early the next morning and take her for a drive.
“I’m going to admit something to you,” she says while looking out the window of my truck. It’s just the two of us and it feels like that’s the first time ever. Normally she’s got at least one or two guards lurking nearby. “I don’t know anything about your family business.”
“We’re lawyers,” I say even though that’s only one part of what the Quinn organization does. “We also commit crimes.”
She laughs and stretches her lean legs. She’s in a pair of linen shorts and a silky blouse. I’m tempted to put my hand on that lovely toned thigh and only barely resist. “Crimes, huh? I thought a lawyer would be smart enough not to confess.”
“You’re my wife. And you commit crimes too.”
She looks shocked, a hand on her chest. “Absolutely never. I’m a very good girl.”
That gets a smile. “Doubt it.”
She grins right back and starts grilling me about my family. Sometimes Elena can be exhausting—it’s like the girl’s never low energy and definitely never quiet—but this is probably for the best. I tell her about Seamus and how close we are, and about how Molly’s probably the best lawyer we have, and Declan and Nolan are both a couple of thugs that love to wear suits, and how Caitlin’s the baby of the family at twenty-seven. I don’t talk much about my mom because I don’t know how to say anything about her without mentioning the deep, dark melancholy that permeates everything she does.
We reach my house and I swear I talked more on the fifteen-minute car ride than I have all year. She seems happy though, and for some reason that makes me happy too. I take her inside and give her the tour of the place.
“I knew this was going to be a problem, but I didn’t know how bad.” She makes a face once we’re done and regrouping in the kitchen.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
She gestures at my living room. “This place looks like you keep it wrapped up in plastic most days. It’s like you murder people.”
“I don’t murder people. Not here, anyway.”
She rolls her eyes. “Seriously, look at your walls. They’re bare white. The coffee table’s falling apart and that couch looks like it’s fifty years old.”
“My place isn’t fancy. I know you’re not used to that.” I brush past her, feeling defensive, although I don’t know why. It’s not like I disagree with what she’s saying.