Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92629 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
The whole thing was just wrong. She would have liked a small private event, not the circus the O’Malleys seemed determined to throw together. She understood the reasoning—the wedding had become a physical representation of their refusing to be cowed by their enemy—but the whole process was as pleasurable as walking over a bed of nails.
There were so many other things she needed to be doing. She hadn’t been down to Moira’s in nearly a week. It had been running just fine under the manager, Janey, before Callie graduated, and it would continue running just fine once she was forced to focus most of her energy on the other Sheridan assets, but she still liked the hands-on approach.
She’d been dropping balls left and right since that night at the club, and this wedding planning business threatened to be just another distraction. She didn’t care about the flowers or the venue or the guest list, and Aileen damn well knew it. So did Papa. But because she was the feminine half of this partnership, she was expected to pretty herself up and be delighted by the colossal waste of time.
If she had a normal life, she would have been enjoying every second of this, towing friends behind her to the various appointments, looking forward to the moment when the love of her life slipped a ring on her finger.
But she didn’t have a normal life—she was a goddamn Sheridan—and she hadn’t even been allowed to choose her groom. Thoughts of Teague brought a tired smile to her face. He was the sole high point, but thoughts of him too quickly turned to whom she’d been supposed to marry.
Brendan.
She rubbed a hand over her chest, the massive house suddenly feeling altogether too small. She needed to talk to Papa, to get this all out into the open once and for all. Maybe if she could tell someone about what she’d done, the awful weight on her chest would become bearable. She peeked into his office, and found him huddled down with John, talking strategy. He spoke with his hands, and though his expression was grim, he was more alive than she’d seen him in the months since the cops showed up to tell them her big brother had died.
I wish you were here, Ronan. Things would be so much simpler.
She’d had the thought more times than she could count, but it never brought him back. His loss was no longer an aching open wound in her chest, but it still smarted on days like this, when she was embroiled in the midst of things that never would have happened if she wasn’t the heir.
But she was.
So it was up to her to deal with it.
She moved past her father’s office and headed up to her room to change into running clothes. She had too much pent-up frustration after today. The feeling of being swept along with a current she couldn’t fight was stronger now than it had ever been, and what she needed more than anything was to regain some small bit of control. Running didn’t give her much—not in comparison—but it calmed her mind, and that was better than nothing.
The treadmill just wouldn’t do today, though. She felt like she’d been cooped up in this house for weeks on end, even though it’d been less than a week since everything went to hell in a handbasket. Micah looked up as she approached the front door. “Callie?”
“I’m going running.” She forced her voice calm. She was informing him of her intentions so he could best protect her—not asking permission. The whole respect thing wasn’t usually an issue with Micah, but he still answered to her father, and it was Papa who’d basically put her under house arrest. She didn’t like forcing him to choose between them, but the only alternative was losing her sanity by staying in this house for another minute.
“That’s a bad idea. Your father—”
“Micah, while I respect your opinion, I’m not asking for it.” She made a point of glancing at his Italian loafers. “I’d change your shoes if you’re coming along. It’s going to be a few miles at least.”
He sighed, looking like he still wanted to argue. She waited, letting him work through it. Papa might be angry, but Micah and she had spent enough time together that he had to know she’d go running with or without his permission. The only way he could stop her was by physically restraining her, and that was out of the question. She watched the thoughts flash across his face before settling into resignation. “Give me five minutes.”
“Happily.” She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and cued up her running playlist. By the time she’d warmed up a bit and stretched, Micah was back, now wearing a pair of basketball shorts and tennis shoes. He didn’t look any happier now than when he left, but he was here. She opened the door. “Let’s go.”