Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“Oh my god,” she says, her pretty cheeks flushing a delicate pink.
Jesus, she’s even more stunning in person than I remember. She’s grown into a full woman now.
Her eyebrows are arched delicately. Cheekbones are sharper now. Her hair is longer and thicker, the waves cascading like silk down her back.
Her body… god, her body’s curvier. A little softer, though she looks like she’s lost weight since her good-for-nothing asshole of a husband fucked her over.
My god, she’s a fuckin’ sight, and my heart doesn’t know what the hell to do with her.
First, I want to go find that deadbeat son-of-an-asshole husband she married. Put him in the goddamn ground.
Then I want to haul her to a chapel and make her mine.
My wife.
My name.
My everything.
But I can’t.
No. This is Emma. And she doesn’t know me, not the real me, anymore. If she did… she’d run.
“I was so dumb,” she says softly. “You drove me home while I sobbed about the boy who kissed me and then hooked up with somebody else. Remember that?”
I nod slowly. “I do. I remember beating the shit out of that boy too.”
Her eyes widen. “You didn’t, Owen,” she says, but her lips are curling up into a smile. “Did you?”
“Of course I fuckin’ did,” I reply. “The loser made you cry,” I add, shaking my head. “As if there was any other option for me. Easy enough to track him down, slap him around, tell him to leave you the fuck alone.”
The guy nearly pissed his fuckin’ pants. I don’t tell her I was already running contracts for the McCarthy clan. That I made sure the bastard knew what real fear felt like.
Back then, I had dreams I’d earn a spot with them.
Never thought I’d climb the ranks the way I did.
Back then, I was the group heavy.
The McCarthys in Ireland had connections in America, and I was the one who enforced for them.
It helped having someone young, unassuming, and completely off their books.
So it was easy to track the bastard down, and I knew just how to scare him.
“You held my hand the whole way,” she murmurs. “You told me he didn’t deserve me. You remember that?”
I blink, surprised. “Of course I do.”
She looks down, her voice quiet. “I remember everything.”
Does she remember that almost kiss on Christmas? Does she remember the way she wrote about me in her journal, and how her mother lost her fuckin’ mind over it?
How my dad knocked me around, blaming me, like I was some kind of damn predator, like I had anything to do with it?
I wonder if she remembers any of that.
“You’re the only safe place I have,” she whispers to herself. “You always have been. I’ve never forgotten that.”
“Aye,” I start, a smile tugging at my lips. “I remember that night well.”
Outside, the sun beats down on the snow-covered branches of the tree she decorated. It’s pretty and whimsical, like her.
“Me too,” she admits softly. “I’ve replayed it in my mind so many times.”
“Have you?” I ask, curious.
She nods. “Yes.”
“Do you remember the first book you wrote?” I ask with a wry smile.
“Oh my god.” She groans, burying her face in her hands. “Don’t remind me. So embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing?” I shake my head. “’Twas fuckin’ brilliant.”
“You were the only one who thought so… but thank you,” she says, laughing.
We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, like the years between us never happened.
“Are you hungry?” I finally ask her. “I stocked the fridge earlier. Food’s not easy to get around here.”
“I am,” she says. “I knew that handwriting was familiar.”
She recognized my handwriting. My chest fucking aches.
She starts to rise from the couch, but I wave her down. “No, you stay there. I’ve got this.”
I head to the fridge, glancing over my shoulder.
“How close have you been watching me?” she asks softly.
“Close enough,” I say, not giving anything away.
I grab the sourdough, thick-sliced, and toast it just right—crisp on the outside, warm and chewy in the center. I layer on roasted turkey breast, sharp cheddar, a swipe of grainy mustard, and just a touch of aioli. Then I cut it in half and open a bag of kettle-cooked chips.
We share it on the couch, plates balanced between us.
“This is delicious,” she says with a smile.
“Glad you like it.”
Then I ask, “So you do you remember that night?”
“Of course. Do you remember what you told me?”
She gives me a look, playful but layered. “I may or may not.”
“Do you or do you not?” I quirk a brow at her.
“I seem to remember saying something about not wanting another man to control me,” she says, giving a sheepish grin. “I remember saying something about not being a broken girl who needed to be rescued.”
“Mmm.” I smile. “That’s exactly what you said.”
We fall into a long, silent stretch again.
She eats her sandwich quietly, thoughtfully, and I do the same.