“Did you say goodbye to Mary before I could tell her good morning?” Frances hands Eamon a towel, which he takes and sends her an exaggerated wink, which she ignores. “That’s an arsehole move. Just because she likes me better doesn’t mean you should interfere in our relationship.”
“The only way you’d have a relationship with my mother is in that supremely fucked-up head of yours.”
Eamon ties the towel around his waist and leans against the counter. Finn, who has always been 90 percent terrified of Eamon, shies away, but tries to pretend he’s not. I don’t blame him. Finn is often the one who has to clean up after Eamon when he goes rogue. I imagine the poor man has seen enough to make him rightfully wary.
“You can keep telling that story if that makes you feel better. Mary loves me. Is there any of that coffee left, lad, or did you drink it all?”
Sighing, I pour him a cup. “Let me reiterate, you have your own place.”
“But yours is so much more interesting. Especially since your new bride moved in. Tell me, how was the wedding night?”
I don’t dignify that with an answer.
Eamon grimaces and nudges Finn’s shoulder. “That bad, huh? Don’t worry, I can give you some pointers if you’re a bit rusty. I know it’s been pretty spare since last… what, fall?”
“I’m good, thanks,” I say dryly.
“Prickly,” Eamon mutters to Finn, who shakes like a leaf. “That must mean she hasn’t let you tickle her fancy, so to speak. Why not?”
“I need to change my security code,” I mutter.
“I bet she makes you sleep on the other side of the bed.” At my hardened expression, he chuckles. “If you’re even in the same room… no, lad. Don’t tell me she won’t even sleep in the same room? That’s an absolute disgrace.” He pauses, considering, and I go still. A thoughtful Eamon is a dangerous one.
Before I can stop him, he’s bounding up the stairs.
“May as well see what wifey is hiding while she’s not home,” he calls back. “I bet she has mountains of lingerie. That’ll cheer you up, won’t it?”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath as I follow him, taking the steps two at a time. How is the bastard so fast? “Stay out of her bedroom, you gobshite. Eamon!”
By the time I catch up, he’s already in Catriona’s room. His lanky form travels slowly around the perimeter at first, studying her mussed bed, clothes strewn all over the floor, and books piled on the desk crammed under a window.
“If you don’t stop breaking into my house, I’m going to have you neutered.”
“You’ll thank me later when you’re not worrying over your ma anymore.”
I’ve kept myself so busy this week with preparations for the reception, dodging questions from Cian, and managing the Emerald, all with one sole purpose: forget the woman staying in the room next to mine. It’s been hard, considering I can hear her at all hours of the day and night. From her late-night pacing as she presumably studies from her giant textbooks, to her four-thirty wake-up alarms and showers. These walls may be well constructed, but my ears seem to be specially attuned to her presence and able to catch the slightest sound.
“Does a woman really need this much pink?” Eamon asks, coming out of Catriona’s closet with a froth of pink scarves around his shoulders. “She has as much of it in her closet as you do black.”
But I’m too busy taking in all the sights around me to admonish him. How has she managed to make the room smell like her… feel like her in less than a week? I’ve been living here for damn near a year, and the entire rest of the house still seems like it belongs to someone else.
In addition to the clothes and books littering every surface—including the floor, furniture, and desks—jewelry glitters in strands and clusters on her nightstand, dresser, and even over the doorknobs. But more than anything, it’s her scent. The one I’ve realized comes from her lavender-honey lattes and lavender bath soap. The smell that clings to her skin and haunts me.
“Fuck yeah. I found her phone,” Eamon says, closing one of her desk drawers and striding to me. “Want to see what your pretty wife has been up to?”
He passes it to me, and I tap the screen to wake it, but it doesn’t turn on. “This couldn’t be her phone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without it attached to her hand.”
“Burner?”
“Why would Catriona need a burner?” I say, like it’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. “It’s probably an old one. Let’s get out of here. I need to go to work before the reception.”
“If it’s an old phone, why did she bring it here with her?”
Curiosity lingers, but I shove it away, like I have other thoughts of Catriona since she moved in. “C’mon. We have to pick up your suit from Mara unless you want to find yourself in her ropes.”
Eamon replaces the phone where he found it. “Fuck that. The last time she tied me up for fun, she wouldn’t let me go for two days.”
“Best two days of my life,” I say, and close the door to Catriona’s room behind us.
