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)
“Yeah…” I nod.
But he’s told a lie.
Now it’s my turn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Owen
I pull on my boots and wrap myself in my winter gear, but the dread’s already coiling in my stomach.
I don’t like leaving her there. I don’t like knowing what she’s in danger of finding out. It’s true: Her husband worked for the mafia.
It’s also true he owes them 2.7 million dollars, and they’re going to come collect. But here, in my neighborhood, if she were in my cabin, she would be safe.
No one gets to her here. No one. I’ve got surveillance on the whole property. Still, she won’t be able to leave without me knowing.
So I head back up the hill, through the half-melted snow, trudging through the muddy path between the small cabin and mine.
But when I get there, the house feels empty. It’s too quiet without her.
My neighbor Patrick’s been keeping an eye on the dogs. He meets me outside.
“You got snowed in, son?” he asks, concerned, his leathery, weather-worn face drawn in worry.
“Aye, but all’s well. Thanks for taking care of things here,” I tell him.
“Course. Anytime,” he says, tipping his hat.
Inside, my two dogs are curled up by the hearth, fat and content. Their tails wag in greeting, and they whine with excitement to see me.
But their greetings don’t warm me the way they normally do because she’s not here.
I check the video feed of the little cabin that I put in place before she got here. I expect to see her curled up with a book. Or pacing. Or staring into the fire with that faraway look.
But she’s not in the cabin. She’s not anywhere.
“Emma?”
I walk around like some fucking lost puppy, waiting for Emma to show. Hoping. Pacing.
Did I take it too far?
No. Fuck no.
I wouldn’t undo a single thing.
I love Emma, and she’s mine. She just doesn’t get it yet. She’s still clinging to fairy tales like they’ll save her from what’s coming.
I glance at the security feed again. Relief hits me straight in the solar plexus when I see she’s back on the couch again, sitting cross-legged—laptop in her lap and legs tucked beneath her.
She types a few words, pauses, scowls. Types again. Stops. Backspaces. Then she slams the laptop shut and buries her face in her hands.
I groan. Poor girl. She can’t write a damn book when her heart’s in ruins.
I know that, but I— My phone rings obnoxiously. I know the ringtone and answer immediately.
Colm McCarthy.
“Yeah?”
We’re friends. Roommates once. He knows me better than most, knows when I’m hiding something.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?” he demands. The Undertaker’s losing his feckin’ mind not hearin’ from you.”
“Personal business,” I mutter. I drag a hand through my hair. “Got snowed in. No cell service.”
Not really a lie. “What’s going on?”
“The boss has a job for you. It’s time sensitive.”
He starts rattling off details, names, locations. But I’m only half listening. I’ve lost focus.
All I can think about is the girl with a sparkle in her eyes and a dimple in her cheek—curled up on the couch, broken. Trying to write when her world is crumbling.
“When do you need me to go?” I ask, finally. “Next weekend?”
He shakes his head. “It needs doing now. Seamus says he owes you for stepping in last minute. Anything else you need… it’s yours.”
“Fine,” I grunt. “I’ll let you know. I’m in need of a favor.”
He nods. “Consider it done.”
I have to go back to Ireland.
And Emma… Christ. I can’t leave her. Not now. Not when I know what he’s capable of. But how the fuck do I convince her to come with me?
I glance back at the screen. She’s gone.
Where the fuck is she now?
I only wired the main room. Didn’t touch the bedroom or bathroom. I wanted to give her some kind of privacy.
I can’t just barge in after promising to give her space.
Then—there, she reappears, coming around the corner. She moves to the kitchen and makes herself a cup of tea. Dammit, I have to get a grip already.
Good girl.
A proper cup of tea can fix most things. Almost.
But time’s up. I need to take her with me.
But the question is, how the fuck do I convince her?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Emma
I stare at my screen. Same chair. Same blank page. Same fucking position I was in before Owen came.
My fingers hover. Useless. I’ve forgotten how to type. Forgotten how to dream.
For a while, I knew exactly what I wanted to write, and the words came fast and furious. I smiled to myself as the story began to unfold, but now…
I don’t know how to finish this book, but maybe that’s because I don’t know how the story ends. That’s the part that kills me.
Not the silence. Not the pressure.
It’s the not knowing.
How am I supposed to write about real, binding, unbreakable love when I can’t see the ending?