Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Maybe she’s not Miss Perfect after all.
I pour her another glass.
“No, thanks. I actually don’t drink. I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“For what?” I whisper back.
“For spilling my glass.”
Great. So we’re pretending that’s what this is about.
“It was an accident. It’s fine,” I say, my voice tight.
The old men are deep in discussion now, throwing around routes and partnerships. Ports in Greece. Western harbors. Talk of linking the Belfast lanes.
Does she know she’s the bridge they’re using to build all of it?
While they negotiate their future, I slide a dish her way. I don’t give a fuck about the routes. I know my role and play it well.
“I’m sorry,” she says again.
“It’s fine,” I mutter. Why’s she still fuckin’ apologizing? “Have some bread.” I pass her the bread basket.
“Oh… thank you,” she says shakily.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her in a whisper so only she can hear. “You’ll learn the rhythm soon. Smile when they drink. Laugh when they boast.”
My fingers brush hers as I refill her water glass, and Christ, there it is again—that dark pull I've no business feeling.
She’s here because she has to be.
Just like me.
We work through salad and appetizers while they finalize the deal. Her coast will become my roots. Our lives signed, sealed, and sold before dessert arrives.
She hates me for it. Good. That’s easier. At least I know where I stand.
Her hand moves under the tablecloth. That counting thing. Tapping, always tapping.
I let her… for now.
Why does she do that? It makes me want to reach over, grab it, and squeeze until she stops. Until she’s still. Until she sees me.
She makes me feel like a fucking bear, like she expects me to bite her.
I have no plans to do that.
Not yet, anyway.
I stand up from the table. “Seamus. A word.”
All eyes snap to me. Good. Let me be the awkward one for once.
Seamus rises, dabs his mouth with his napkin, and folds it with military precision. Then he nods toward the exit door that leads to the hallway. We step outside together while my mother picks up the conversation.
“What is it?” Seamus asks, his voice low, calculating. He knows I wouldn’t interrupt dinner unless I had a damn good reason.
“I took Erin on a tour of the estate before dinner like Mam asked, and mentioned our betrothal, like you said. The one that she knows nothing about, Seamus.”
“I—” Seamus starts, then stops. His brow creases. “She didn’t know what the fuck you were talking about?”
I nod once, watching his eyes widen as he rakes a hand through his hair.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ…”
“I know.”
“Why does she think she’s here?” he mutters, more curious than concerned. “Some kind of formal dinner? A get-to-know-you thing, maybe? Friends?” He shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “Oh my god.”
“Don’t bring it up at dinner,” I say.
I don’t know why I say it. I just know that if he does, she’ll unravel, right here, in front of everyone.
“Okay,” Seamus says, nodding. “I can do that. Why?”
“Because I don’t think it’s fair to her, putting her on the spot like that…” I trail off. My jaw tics. “I wouldn’t want that done to me.”
He glances at me, slow and knowing. “A soft spot for your betrothed…”
“No,” I snap. Then quieter, “Yes. Whatever. I just… I don’t think it’s fair. I’d fucking kill you if you did that to me.”
One of his brows rises, and I rein in my tone. He’s the head of the family now. I don’t talk back to him. Not outright.
“I’d want to kill you,” I amend, which isn’t much better, and he actually snorts. “If you sprung a betrothal on me at a goddamn dinner party.”
“Aye, right. Alright then,” he says. “So… after dinner, I’ll take her father for a smoke. Bit of whiskey. We’ll chat. Then we bring it up.”
“Aye. Sounds good.”
“Back inside before her mother loses her goddamn mind.”
He noticed too, then.
I mutter under my breath, reentering the dining room.
Erin still looks like a deer caught in headlights—eyes wide, frozen—her knife buttering the same piece of bread for what has to be five minutes now.
“Erin,” my mother says, gentle. “What’d you do for work? Remind me.”
“I’m the bookkeeper for—” Erin starts, too fast. Her voice trips over the words, too eager to fill the silence.
Mam’s gaze warms. “Take your time.”
Erin nods too quickly. “Right. Yes. I-I manage the ledgers for the warehouses along the western coast. The imports, exports, the taxes, well, not the real taxes, obviously, but the collections, and the shipments. I track the whiskey barrels, and the—”
“Erin,” her mother cuts in, a warning in her tone.
But Erin keeps going, momentum carrying her past sense. “There’s a discrepancy in the Limerick accounts. I think someone’s double invoicing, but no one listens when I—”
Tink.
The sharp tap of metal against glass freezes her mid-sentence. Tara doesn’t raise her voice. Silence stretches, heavy and hot.