Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 634(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 634(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
“You always were a silly boy,” I mused, flipping another page of the contract I was holding nonchalantly. “I will strip you of all the things you’ve managed to achieve since I’ve last seen you. Take whatever is near and dear to you, and watch you pay. Oh, and Andrew?” I looked up, flashing him a smirk. “Let me assure you, I am still the same resilient bastard you left behind.”
He went back to his family. I felt his gaze on the back of my head the entire flight.
I needed a bride, and quick.
Someone media-friendly to balance out who I was.
What I represented.
I knew just the person.
Days dragged like a nail over a blackboard.
I was on edge. Jumpy, cranky, and incapable of taking deep, satisfying breaths.
Ever since I returned from Cillian’s office empty-handed, I couldn’t stomach anything—be it food, coffee, water, or the sight of myself in the mirror.
My mind constantly drifted to a mental video of Byrne and Kaminski throwing my lifeless body into the Charles River. About Cillian’s rejection. The unbearable sting of it.
I’d forgotten the words to all the songs during circle time in class, almost fed Reid, who was lactose intolerant, Dahlia’s mac and cheese, and mixed kinetic sand with the real one, making a huge mess I had to stay late to clean up afterward.
Gray clouds swollen with rain hovered over me as I headed home, jogging from my bike to my entryway, clutching my shoulder bag in a vise grip. I reminded myself I had both pepper spray and a Taser, and that there was zero percent chance Byrne and Kaminski would kill me at my doorstep.
Well, maybe a ten percent chance.
It was probably somewhere around twenty-five but definitely no more than that.
The minute I got into my building, I reached for the switch. To my surprise, the light was already on. A strong hand gripped my wrist, spinning me around to face the person it belonged to.
Fight or flight? my body asked me.
Fight, my brain answered. Always fight.
I threw my bag in the intruder’s face, a growl ripping out of my mouth. He dodged it effortlessly, dumping it to the floor and causing the contents of my bag to roll out. I reached up to claw his eyes. He snatched both my wrists in one palm, locking them in place between us before backing me against the entrance door so we were flush against each other.
“Let me go!” I screamed.
To my shock, the dark, mammoth figure did just that, stepping back and picking up the pepper spray that fell from my bag to examine it flippantly.
“Cillian?”
I resisted the urge to rub my eyes in disbelief. But there he was, wearing a designer trench coat, pointy Italian loafers, and his signature go-fuck-yourself scowl that made my heart loop around like a stripper on a pole.
“You’re here,” I said, more to myself than to him.
Why? How? When? So many questions floated in my foggy brain.
“I sincerely hope our children won’t inherit your tendency to point out the obvious. I find it extremely trivial.” He popped the safety off the pepper spray and screwed it back right, so the next time I tried to use it, it would be ready to go.
“Hmm, what?” I swatted away wisps of hair that flopped over my eyes like stubborn branches in a jungle. The five o’clock shadow veiling the thick column of his throat made me want to press my lips to his neck.
His imperfections made him intimately beautiful. I despised every second of being around him.
“Remember I told you I don’t hand out free favors?” He rolled the pepper spray between his fingers, his eyes on the small canister.
“Kind of hard to forget.”
“Well, it’s your lucky day.”
“Allow me to be skeptical.”
At this point, I wasn’t down on my luck. I was six feet under it. Somewhere between hapless and cursed.
“I figured out what I want from you.”
“You want something from little ole me?” I put my hand to my chest with a mocking gasp while I tried to regulate my racing heartbeat. I couldn’t help it. He never missed a chance to belittle me. “I’m speechless.”
“Don’t get my hopes up, Flower Girl,” he muttered.
My nickname didn’t escape me. The Flower Girl was traditionally the toddler at the wedding, designed to draw coos and positive attention. The naïve kid whose job was to walk a straight line.
He stepped toward me, invading my personal space. His scent of male, dry cedar, and leather seeped into my system, making me drunk.
“For this to work, you mustn’t develop any feelings for me,” he warned darkly.
There was no point in telling him I’d never gotten over him in the first place. Not really. Not in all the ways that mattered.
He removed a lock of damp hair from my temple without touching my skin. The way he stared at me unnerved me. With cold contempt, suggesting he was brought here at gunpoint and not of his own free will.