Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Christ. Maybe I will meet Lorcan at the chippy after. I finally settle on a pasta dish and muster up something approaching enthusiasm.
“Would you like a basket of bread?” our server says, smiling.
“Of course,” I say, at the same time Valentina says “No.”
Her brow rises. “You eat bread?”
“I think most civilizations eat bread.”
Bridget
I don't want to go to the doctor.
My chest thumps. I type back without thinking.
This isn't a request anymore, Bridget. For Christ's sake, you ought to know better. Fucking GO
Valentina purses her lips and looks at me. I can't shake the feeling that whenever she's with me, she's somewhere she'd rather not be.
That makes two of us.
“I hear some of your cousins fight,” she says. “Are you into that…”—she waves her hand and makes a small face—“bare-knuckle fighting? It sounds barbaric.”
“I was trained with all the lads at St. Albert's,” I say. “But I'm not as into it as my brothers and cousins.” Which is a diplomatic way of saying Ashland and Cavin can kick my arse at boxing. I can hold my own in other things.
“Do you exercise?” she asks.
What kind of conversation is this? Is she going to ask me if I floss my teeth and take my vitamins next?
“Yeah.” Does she need me to strip off my shirt and demonstrate? I'm a fucking McCarthy. We hold our own. “There's a gym in town.”
“I thought that was a warehouse,” Valentina says.
“They converted it,” I say. “Nice facility now.”
“Mm.” A small, polite sound. “I do Pilates and Bikram Yoga,” she says.
“Okay.” A long, awkward silence stretches between us.
“What about hobbies?” I ask haltingly, unable to shake this strange feeling that we’re two people who both speak English yet don’t speak the same language. “Other than… riding.”
“Cooking. Do you like cooking, Declan?”
Is it really cooking if there’s no meat?
I look at her. She's watching me with the particular patience of someone who already knows the answer and is waiting to see if I'll bother lying.
“No,” I say.
She nods, unsurprised. A beat passes. Then, “I don't know if you've caught onto this the way I have, but—we don't have to keep pretending, do we?”
No one has ever called me nice, but I can be civil. “I wasn't aware we were.”
“Weren't you.” It isn't a question. She folds her hands on the table, and something in her posture settles—not warmth, exactly, but the particular ease of a person who has stopped performing. “In my family, marriage is a requirement. My father wants to meet you. To make sure his investment is money well spent.” A pause. “That's what this is. You know that.”
“Of course.” My voice is tight, and my lips are pressed together. I may not be as heavy-handed as some of my cousins and brothers are, but goddamn, I won’t have a condescending wife.
She holds my gaze for a moment, then looks away. Neither of us fills the silence, and neither of us seems to mind.
My phone vibrates with another text, but I can't look now. The server brings over a basket of thickly sliced bread. I grab the biggest chunk and slather it liberally with butter, just out of fucking spite.
Valentina watches me with something like concern. She has the good sense not to come between a man and his buttered bread.
When our food comes, she eats precisely half her plate and instructs the server to wrap up the rest. Then she declines dessert for both of us before I've even had a chance to look at the menu, which is fine because I don’t really want this to last any longer than it needs to.
I am not a fan, by the way, of how readily she's already trying to tell me what to do.
“I'll head off,” she says, as if the decision had already been made before she opened her mouth. “This was lovely.”
It wasn't.
“Thank you.”
She reaches into her bag and produces her credit card, setting it on the table like a small declaration of war.
What does she think I am?
“I've got this, thank you.”
“It’s my father’s—”
“I've got this.” Sterner now.
I finally get to my car, slide into the seat, and drop my head to the dash. A moment later, my phone vibrates.
Bridget
I want ice cream. would she be okay with it knowing I went to get ice cream with you?
It’s not a date
Bridget
That doesn’t answer the question
I can’t get ice cream with a friend?
Bridget
Would Seamus agree?
Do you want ice cream or not?
Bridget
Of course I want ice cream, especially if you’re the one buying.
I frown at the phone and type back. I’m not above blackmail. I am a McCarthy, after all.
I will take you for ice cream, my treat, right this minute, if you promise that you will contact the doctor.
Three dots appear on the screen, disappear, appear again, disappear again, then appear again.
Bridget
deal
Screenshot the message you sent him in the patient portal right now. He checks them every night. I want him to get this before his morning rounds.