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)
She looks at me then, and for just a second, the composed performance drops entirely. What's underneath it isn't anger but cold calculation, like she's already decided what happens if I say no, and she’s prepared to pull out whatever weapon she needs to.
I go still. “What?”
“Merrick,” she says. “He’s been asking for two years. And I’m not going to that man. So whatever you’re doing”—she gestures between me and the car—“don’t be so fucking sloppy, because I need this to happen.”
I take the jumper she holds out to me.
“I’m not here because I want to be. Neither are you. But what we’re doing matters, and we both know that.”
She turns and walks away, the sound of her heels clicking on the pavement, her back ramrod straight.
Christ’s sake.
I stand in the car park for a long while. The night is cold, and I can hear the function through the hotel walls. I stare at the jumper in my hands and barely refrain from bringing it to my face, knowing it would smell just like her.
I know enough about Merrick to understand what Valentina was saying underneath her words: I am as trapped as you are, and there is nobody else to ask. I fold the jumper and slide it onto the passenger seat. Jesus fucking Christ.
Valentina knows about Bridget.
I’ve been spending days researching doctors and sour sweets and hematologists, dreaming about a life I want and know I can’t have, telling myself this is temporary. Bridget will understand.
But I know things have to move. Things have to change. I’m just not sure how.
I pick up my phone and text Cavin.
Need a word. Tonight if you can
Then I sit there a moment longer, looking at nothing, slide my phone into my pocket, and go right back to being a loyal cousin to the McCarthy clan.
Chapter Twenty-Three
BRIDGET
Caitlin greets me at the door and gives me a big hug. “How are you feeling, love?” she says brightly. She has her watering pail in one hand, a trowel in the other, and pink floral gardening gloves. “Cavin was a bit worried.”
“I’m grand,” I say. “Cavin was just concerned because he thought I was relapsing, but I’m totally fine.”
I hate lying to Caitlin. She’s been so good to me, and she loves me like I’m one of her own daughters. For one crazy second, I almost open my mouth and blurt out the whole truth, but I don’t. It wouldn’t be fair to her or to Declan.
“If you need anything, anything at all, all you have to do is say the word, love.”
How about: Can you talk to someone so Declan and I can be married? Okay?
But I just give her a smile and nod. “Thank you, Caitlin. Really. It means the world to me.”
“Of course,” she says with a wink. “The girls are in the kitchen. Bronwyn made some excellent scones. Go have a few. I’ve just put the kettle on.”
She heads back to the garden.
It smells like tea and scones, and my stomach growls with hunger. Declan would scold me if he knew how little I’d eaten today, but I’m nauseous as fuck. When I go to the kitchen, my laptop pressed to my chest, it’s alive with the McCarthy women: Bianca at the table, laying out clotted cream, my sister sitting beside her, Kyla pouring out the tea, and Bronwyn taking the second batch of scones out of the oven.
“Bridget!” Bronwyn says brightly. “I was about to take out an extra mug.”
My heart lifts in spite of itself. “Hi, girls.” I smile.
“New recipe I found online,” Bronwyn says. “You’re my first test subjects.”
“I will happily be your test subject, and I will happily eat this entire pot of clotted cream,” Erin says, pulling it toward her. She plates two of the largest scones, cuts them in half, and smothers them both lavishly with clotted cream and jam. My mouth waters.
“Oh god above, that looks delicious.”
We all help ourselves.
Bronwyn squints at something on her phone screen. “Strange that Valentina posted a hundred times a day before she was engaged to Declan, and now nothing. Not a single post.”
“It is a bit strange,” I say with a nod.
“And it’s just a little… I don’t know how to say it. Well.” She leans in and whispers, “She seemed so much nicer online than she is in person, didn’t she? She was funny and witty and even a little nerdy, but the real Valentina’s… well. Not.”
Kyla rolls her eyes. “It’s called a curated online presence, Bronwyn. She probably had someone posting as her or something.”
“Who does that?”
Erin looks on with a frown. She hates socials. It doesn’t help that she was bullied online.
“Only everyone? Someone who wants the notoriety and fame,” Kyla says with an eye roll. “Stick to the baking, will you?” Kyla shakes her head. “No meddling, Bronwyn.”