Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“I’m cautious,” he corrects, the words brushing my skin like the edge of a blade.
“You’re jealous,” I repeat, this time with a smirk.
Before I can dodge, his arm snakes around my waist in a single, fluid motion, pulling me flush against him. My pulse kicks into a reckless cadence. “Careful, Accardi,” he warns, already hauling me up over his shoulder.
I laugh, pounding my fists lightly against his back. “Ronan—put me down!”
“Not a chance,” he says, slapping my butt, which makes me yelp. He moves to my bedroom with purposeful strides. “You started this, but now I’m going to finish it.”
He drops me onto the bed and I bounce gently on the mattress as he follows me down, bracing himself over me with that infuriating, devastating smirk. The next few minutes blur into heat and motion—clothes pulled away, his mouth finding mine, the sharp hitch of breath when his hands slide lower. It’s not slow, not entirely gentle, but it’s exactly what I want—what we both want.
When it’s over, we’re both breathing hard, my skin still humming from the contact. He rolls out of bed without a word and shrugs into his clothes.
“Text me where to meet you and Carlos,” he says, leaning down to kiss me. “I’ll be there.”
The door clicks behind him, and I lie there staring at the ceiling, my pulse still unsettled for entirely different reasons.
And not for the first time, I think to myself—I’m in trouble.
CHAPTER 19
Ronan
Michael Barnes’s office is all glass and cold light and the reception smells faintly of furniture polish and money. His assistant gives me the same tight smile she’s given me since I was twelve and wearing my school blazer, waiting on a ride home he forgot to arrange.
“Your father will see you now.”
Of course he will. I’m just another appointment in his agenda, required if I want to get a few words with him.
He’s at the window when I step in, phone to his ear, suit cut like it was measured with a scalpel. “Push the earn-outs, then we’ll talk equity.” He hangs up without a goodbye and finally turns. “Ronan. You look well.”
“That’s because I am,” I say, letting the door click shut behind me. “She’s worse.”
He stares at me. Not even a flinch. “Your mother has been ‘worse’ for twenty years.”
“She’s not eating. She’s drinking as soon as she wakes. The new nurse lasted four days.”
He exhales, a bored sound dressed up as concern, and rifles through folders on his desk. “Hire a better one. I’ll transfer funds.”
“She doesn’t need a better nurse. She needs a rehab she won’t walk out of.”
My father continues looking through papers and when I don’t say anything else, he finally looks up.
“You could ask how she’s actually doing.”
“I just did,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. “And you told me you’re handling it.”
The old anger lifts its head. It’s almost comforting, how familiar it feels—like a scar you can trace blind. “I’m handling your wife. Again.”
He fusses with cuff links that don’t need fussing. “Don’t be melodramatic. You’ve always had a flair for it. Besides, she’s your mother.”
“Right,” I say, because if I don’t laugh, I’ll put a fist through his ridiculous art. “How’s work?”
“Fine,” he says, as though the question were rhetorical. He glances at his watch. “In fact, I’ve got an important appointment I have to get ready for. If you need more money to… help her, just tell me how much and I’ll transfer it.”
Typical. He thinks that money can fix everything.
“Why don’t you divorce her?” I ask quietly.
It’s a question I’ve never asked and the flush of anger on his face tells me he never expected me to. “Don’t be ridiculous. She couldn’t survive the scandal.”
I tip my head back and let out a laugh that comes from deep in my belly.
“What’s so funny?” my father snaps.
I’m still chuckling, shaking my head. “It amuses me that you try to play this off as if you’re doing her a favor. You’re a big part of the reason she’s an addict.”
“How dare you?” My father gasps, drawing himself up straighter. “I’ve provided your mother with everything she ever needed.”
“Love,” I say.
He frowns at me. “What about it?”
“You never gave her love. Never gave it to me, for that matter. And now we’re both suffering for it.”
“You are being very disrespectful.” He slams his hands on the desk. “And I won’t tolerate it.”
“Oh, fuck off, you cranky old wanker,” I bark at him, and he blinks at me in shock. I move to his desk, lean my hands on it, and look him in the eye. “Here’s how it’s going to be. You’ll continue to pay for the best care. I’ll keep the staff steady, and I’ll keep the tabloids away. I’ll continue to do the things you should do and won’t. But don’t ever mistake my competence for agreement. And don’t ever suggest again that you’re working in her best interests. If you take credit for it again, I’ll use all my vast financial resources to make your life miserable.”