“Why, Killian?” I ask loudly. I never interrupt him.
“Why what?”
“Why would you do this for me?”
“Because I can.”
“Not because you care about me.” My voice is barely audible, but I have to press. He has to give me something.
His brow furrows. The muscles of his face tense visibly. “Of course I care about you.”
“I don’t understand where I stand with you,” I say, embarrassed to feel hot tears in my eyes. “I’ve turned twenty-five; I’m supposed to be sowing wild oats. I know this is just a fling. But…”
But what?
He edges closer and speaks, his voice almost a growl. “You don’t believe your Irish idiot? That I’m dangerous?”
My eyes widen. “No! Of course not. And he’s not my idiot.”
He takes a long look at me, scrutinizing my face. “Do you know what he meant?”
“I think he was talking shit.”
“He wasn’t.” His jaw hardens as he crosses his arms and towers above me. “You should take him seriously.”
“What do you mean?” I ask in a small voice, a trickle of fear running through me. Is Killian about to tell me Mrs. Dalton is locked away in the attic or something morbid?
He gazes at me for another long beat, debating whether to tell me something.
I watch his Adam’s apple bob thickly in his throat and stay silent.
“It’s my fault Harlow died,” he finally says in a husky voice. “She was shot in a botched robbery because I gave her an engagement ring worth a quarter of a million dollars. Something she didn’t even want.” His lips twist into an angry grimace. “She was killed because she had diamonds and no security. Both my fault. Both led to her death.”
“Oh, I didn’t… I didn’t know that.” Shit. That’s horrific. What the hell do I say? My mind goes blank as I try to come up with something comforting. Unease creeps up my scalp as I scramble for the right words, wishing I knew how to make him feel better.
I reach up to run my fingers through his hair, but he tenses up. “It’s not your fault, Killian. You can’t blame yourself,” I say, trying to reassure him, but it doesn’t do any good. He’s stuck in his own self-blame spiral.
He grunts in response like he’s had the conversation before.
I’m lost for words. After a long pause, I ask quietly, “Is that why you have so much security?”
It makes sense now.
“I had security back then, not a ton, but it would have been enough.” His throat bobs. “Harlow and I split up. She moved out, and her new place didn’t have security. I didn’t think she needed it.”
He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, a dark laugh slipping out. “I was wrong,” he says flatly. “Very fucking wrong. The only saving grace is that Teagan was at Mom’s.”
My heart breaks for him. I can’t imagine what it feels like, but if the haunted look in his eyes is any indication, I never want to experience it.
“But that doesn’t make you dangerous. It wasn’t your fault.” I shake my head in disgust. “I’m going to wring Liam’s neck for saying that to you.”
He gives a slight shrug. “A stupid rumor went around Queens. I went to her apartment that night and had a massive argument with a guy she was with. People saw us fighting and thought I had something to do with what happened next. It pops up every now and then, usually when someone’s trying to stir up trouble.”
I exhale heavily as the gravity of his situation sinks in.
“So now you know.” His lips tug into a weak smile, though it doesn’t quite hide the sadness in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Killian,” I say, burying my face into his neck. I wrap my arms around him, knowing it will take much more than a hug to get rid of his demons.
“You make me feel safer than anyone else in the world,” I whisper.
Clodagh
One week later
For the first time since I’ve moved into the townhouse, Killian is working from home. He never works from home.
I’m suspicious. Is he keeping tabs on me? But he’s got cameras for that. He promises he doesn’t, but I don’t know…
Occasionally, he surprises me over the speaker. Sometimes hearing his low, husky American drawl pumping through the speakers is pretty sexy. A nice distraction from bed making.
Sometimes it’s not.
Last week, I farted loudly, and two minutes later, Killian spoke to me over the loudspeaker. I’ve been agonizing over whether he heard me or not since then. I’m pretty confident Americans don’t fart as much as the Irish. My ex thought letting one rip in front of me was a rite of passage.
But since I moved in with Killian, I haven’t heard him release any.
My phone buzzes for the millionth time today.
Killian: Water refill.
Demanding git. I’ve been running around all day for him, bringing up cups of coffee and tea and lunch and smoothies. If he were a boyfriend, I’d tell him to refill his own fucking water. But he’s not. He’s my arrogant live-in boss who I’m having a casual fling with.
And I’m a weak woman because it’s turning me on.
He looks so grumpy every time I visit his office to fulfill his latest demand that he might as well have “do not disturb” tattooed across his forehead. He’s always on the phone yelling at some poor schmuck. I love my new American vocabulary.
I smirk to myself. Perhaps I need to liven his workday up a little.