Physical attraction.
And here I am acting like a lovesick teenager.
Amelia knocks on the study door early in the afternoon. She brings me lunch, a sandwich made with thick, crusty slices of homemade bread, honey roast ham, and Orla’s red onion chutney. She sets the plate down on the desk and lingers, rubbing her arm as if she is cold.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asks.
There’s no double entendre. She’s simply asking in her capacity as housekeeper.
But it feels stilted, awkward, and I realize that it’s down to me. She knows that I’ve been avoiding her since I stole out of her room in the wee hours. I can see it in her eyes—she’s afraid that I’ve gotten what I wanted and am over it, despite my assurances that she means a whole lot more to me than that.
I stand up, circle the desk, and fold her into my arms.
When we’re apart, it’s easy for me to second-guess my intentions, remind myself that life will go on without her, that there is no future for us as a couple.
But when I hold her like this, I know that I’m lying to myself.
I want her. I want her in my life. I want her to know how happy she makes me feel.
“Sorry I left without waking you up. You looked so peaceful.”
She peers up at me with such …affection, admiration, desire… I know that I can never be responsible for her unhappiness.
“I get it.” She smiles. “I missed you this morning when I woke up and you weren’t there.”
My heart melts for her. This is what I want to hear for the rest of my life. Only I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such joy and pleasure.
“Believe me, I didn’t want to leave you.” I kiss her on the lips.
It isn’t hungry or demanding or insatiable. It isn’t the precursor to wild sex on my study floor. It’s the kiss that chooses my path for me.
“I want to spend every night with you, Amelia, for as long as you’ll have me.”
She blinks. This is the part where she tells me that it’s only sex on her part. That she’s sorry I read too much into it and perhaps it’s best if she finds employment elsewhere after all.
“I’d like that.” Her voice is thick with emotion. “Are we crazy?” She scrunches up her face. “We barely know each other. I haven’t met your sons yet. They might?—”
I stop her with a kiss. “Yes, we’re probably crazy, but I don’t care if you don’t care.”
She relaxes against me. “My room or yours later?”
“Mine.” The last marble rolls away, and I don’t even try to bring it back.
Amelia is the only woman who has been in my bed since my wife died. I prop myself up on one elbow in the middle of the night and watch her sleeping. Have I been bewitched by her youth and beauty and sexiness?
Perhaps.
But the truth is, she wants me as much as I want her, and I will never stop being grateful to the universe for bringing her into my life.
I drag myself out of bed, missing her warmth the instant I’m no longer beside her. I pull on my boxers and a robe, and head downstairs to my study. New York is five hours behind Ireland. Ruairi’s meeting with Caleb Murray should be over by now, and I don’t want to disturb Amelia when he calls.
I half-fill a glass with brandy and sit back in my seat.
No messages.
These alliances can’t be rushed. The feud between the Murrays and the Byrnes goes back generations. We would all benefit from putting the past behind us, but the Murrays might not be prepared to share New York with us as part of the deal. Still, if anyone can sell the partnership to them it will be Ruairi.
I wait.
