Breakfast waits for us on the eat-in table, her favorites, of course. Frances is a known social media stalker and had no trouble perusing Catriona's profiles to find out what she likes most. The woman is a saint.
I prepare Catriona’s usual lavender-honey latte—like her preferred soap, Frances had informed me—as she freezes in the kitchen doorway. Her drink of choice makes something inside me clench tighter with the realization that she shouldn’t be anywhere near my life. It’s too hard, too dangerous. The latte is sweet and light, two words I’d never use to describe myself. I’ve long suspected she harbors a soft, sensitive side hidden underneath her prickly exterior. And like me, I imagine it’s hidden… way, way down deep. For her, it shows up in her preferences: pink clothes, floral scents, and ridiculous drinks.
For me… I’ve quickly realized that if I ever had soft spots, they were ruthlessly destroyed a long time ago.
I make a plate for her and place it at the table in front of giant bay windows that look out over the backyard. “Sit,” I tell her, gesturing to the food. I’m eager to get these negotiations in place. The itch beneath my skin from this morning’s wake-up call is nagging at me furiously.
She doesn’t move an inch, but her eyes are glued to the plate piled high with food and her steaming latte. While she wrestles with her conscience, I make a plate for myself and take the seat opposite hers. One thing about Catriona is that she’ll never turn down food. I made certain Frances stocked all her favorites, with backups of her holy grail snacks—pistachios and peanut butter with green apples.
After our night together, I’d done a little internet sleuthing myself and filed the details away like nuggets of gold I could use. For when, I wasn’t quite sure, but it kept me from completely spiraling out of control. Knowing what she liked to eat. The soap she buys religiously from one small business. Her expensive-as-hell perfume. The classes she’s taking (and the ones she’s failing). The average number of steps she takes in a day. She was lucky I didn’t hack the security cameras at her house.
She refused to tell me her name that night, but she never knew I recognized her the moment she walked in.
Finally, she takes a seat on the other side of the table, ignoring me in favor of her food. The spinach omelet, crispy turkey bacon, and fresh slices of watermelon dominate her focus. She waffles for a moment between the three and ignores all of them to inhale half of her lavender-honey latte. She moans in the back of her throat and cuts the sound off halfway through, her cheeks turning a pretty pink beneath the cream of her skin.
She contemplates me over the curve of her coffee cup. A little furrow draws between her brows, and the urge to press my lips there and soothe it away is so overpowering that I grip the chair beneath me. The words froth up against her lips, but she rolls them back as though to contain them. Silence presses down between us, but it’s not an uncomfortable one, at least not for me. I finish my plate before her and make a cup of black coffee for myself.
Once her breakfast is gone and her cup drained, she pushes the dishes away and crosses her arms over her chest as she studies me. I tilt my head and stare back, inwardly amused. I’ve faced far more intimidating men who couldn’t meet my eye, but this woman has never backed down from me, and I really shouldn’t be surprised. It’s why I couldn’t walk away from her that night, and why I had to walk away from her when her father proposed his ridiculous scheme.
“What negotiations are you talking about?” Catriona finally demands.
“Is that one of your questions?”
She hesitates, then nods, a determined glint in her eyes.
“How about I give you this one for free? As a show of my goodwill.” At that, she scoffs. “There are certain things I want going forward. I’m willing to give you some things you want in return for them.” At this, she sits up a little straighter, but I stop her before she can continue. “If your questions include anything about the marriage, money, etcetera, you can save them. I won’t count them against your three. Understood?”
Her mouth opens, then closes. I can’t take my eyes off it. “I don’t know how honest I can expect you to be, considering, but I’ll bite. What, exactly, are you involved with? What sort of organization?”
Is this why she’s occupied my thoughts since Halloween? Because of the intelligent gleam in her eye? The way she never ceases to surprise me? “I work for a man named Cian Lynch, head of Clan Lynch. He’s the leader of the Irish mob. I take care of collecting his debts, an enforcer, if you will. He’s married to my mother, Mary.” The words come out tasting like chalk, so I wet my mouth with a sip of coffee so I don’t choke.
“I don’t know why I’m surprised. Considering what I’ve seen, it makes sense. Did he have anything to do with my mother’s death? Did my father go to him?”
At this, she lifts her head, and I’m snared by the determination on her face. Her ferocity grips me like a magnet, hooking just behind my gut. “Your father never asked Cian anything about your mother. His only debt to us is from what he’s spent at the tables. He’s a shit gambler. You have my word on that.”
“Will he…” I refill her latte, and she bites her tongue to keep from showing any gratitude. Brat. She pauses, blows at the beverage before taking a sip, then sets it aside before licking foam from her lips. “Will Cian retaliate for what I’ve done? Is he a threat to me?”
“Cian doesn’t like when things act outside of his control. When that happens, he likes to throw his weight around to make sure all the players on the board know who is in charge. It remains to be seen what the consequences will be for what you’ve done, but they’re not your burden to bear. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, but… that didn’t answer my other question.”
The levity disappears from my voice. “You should always consider Cian a threat, Catriona. He’s not the head of the family because of his people skills.” I sip the too-hot coffee to wash the bad taste from my mouth. “Last question.”
Catriona nibbles on her lip, pulling it between her teeth and then releasing. “Why did you go through with it? You could have objected. Stopped the ceremony. Forced the issue, and you wouldn’t be in this situation. So why did you say yes when you realized it was me?”
“Because it was too late,” I say. And now she’s out of questions, which is grand since I’m done sharing.
Now we negotiate.
It brings a smirk to my lips as she steels herself. Straightens her spine. Clasps her hands together. Now that she’s rested,eaten, and caffeinated, her fire is back, blazing white hot all over me… and I bask in it like I’ve only ever lived in shadows.
She tips her head at me. “What do you want to negotiate, exactly?”
“We’re married now, pet. Best we get all those pesky expectations off the table.”
Catriona swallows hard, her fingers knotting together so tightly that the knuckles turn white. “I’d like this in writing.”
“Of course. I’ll have my lawyers draw up what we agree on, and you can look it over.”
