The soft groan pulls me from my filthy fantasies, and I realize her hips are pressing back against me. My fist tightens against her stomach before I remember myself and relax in increments. Her breath comes faster, her hand coming to clasp over mine. For a second, I think she’s going to arch back into me and make herself come from this alone.
But a second later and with a soft curse under her breath, she carefully extracts herself from my grasp and leaves me in the bed.
Alone.
CHAPTER 18
CATRIONA
“I’m not gonna lie, I’d marry a mafia boss, too, in order to have access to this pool again. I’ve missed it.”
A laugh bubbles out before I can stop it. “Yasmine!”
She doesn’t even lift her head from the float. “I said what I said. It’s a heated pool. After days on my feet, this is my definition of heaven. I don’t even care if my hair gets wet, and I have to spend forever on it afterward. This is worth it.”
“I still have all your products with me. You can use our shower after if you want.”
Yasmine perks up. “Really? Your parents’, right? They had a double shower-head. I didn’t understand what a slut I was for good plumbing until now. Living with my family is great, but sharing one shower between three generations is getting old.”
“What’s mine is yours,” I say, and let my eyes slip closed again. This is the first time in what feels like a century I’ve relaxed. As long as I don’t think about waking up next to O’Connor, I keep a tenuous hold on this rare sense of peace.
Needless to say, Yasmine had guessed the broad strokes of what O’Connor is involved in. According to her, “I’ve read enough smut to know the basics. Mob right?”
“So how does this work? Being a mafia wife. Is it all blood and drama? If something wild is going to happen, I don’t have rounds, and I can crash here.” When I pause, she cracks an eye open. “If yesterday was anything like what goes on, then you may need a doctor around.”
“Fuck. Don’t call me that. But yeah, basically it’s been all drama so far.” I hesitate, then say, “But are you really sure you’re comfortable being here? I’d really understand if you weren’t.”
“After the things I’ve seen in the ER, it’ll take a lot more than him to shock me. As long as I’m not roped into any illicit activities, I’m fine with it. Nothing, not even the mob, can keep me away from you.”
Chuckling, I close my eyes and relax into the bone-melting warmth of the pool. “Your parents don’t know anything about this, do they?”
Yasmine snorts. “Of course not. They’d flip. Could you imagine? Reggie is already laying eggs about it. You’re lucky he didn’t decide to tag along with me. It makes sense now why he was keeping tabs on you after the wedding.”
“He was? No, scratch that. Of course he was. You two love being in the center of trouble. I swear, there was a time when my life wasn’t so exciting.”
“When was that again?”
I splash water at her, and she shrieks and kicks her feet until she’s out of my attack radius. “Truce, truce.”
Part of me feels guilty about taking a moment to enjoy this. There are so many things I should be doing: finding another clerkship, figuring out who shot Mr. Broussard, smoothing over the media for Dad’s campaigns, and studying. But I can’t seem to force myself to do any of them. I’m tired of being a crusader—of fighting for the truth when no one else does, of facilitating familial relationships when all I get from them is pain or no reciprocal effort.
Unbidden, the memory of O’Connor showing up at the hospital floats to the forefront of my thoughts. I squash it down and blame the momentary lapse on too many margaritas. The margaritas, of course, were requested by Yasmine to fulfill my lifelong debt from the night of the masquerade. It seems the repercussions from that monumental mistake will follow me forever.
Finally, I’m able to lure Yasmine out of the pool with promises of watching whichever movies she wants. I used O’Connor’s bank account to pay for the snacks and went a little overboard: popcorn with every possible topping, little boxes of candy like we’re at the movies, and a variety of sodas and mixers. If I’m feeling any guilt, it’s hidden behind the satisfaction of bending a small part of O’Connor to my will.
Yasmine makes us more drinks, and then we settle on the sofa. I pass her a giant bowl of popcorn topped with a ton of butter and give her a box of Raisinets. She flips through the TV and picks a movie—one that I haven’t seen before. As it starts to play, I sip at my margarita and open a package of peanut M&Ms. A strange feeling radiates through my chest, and it takes far too long for me to realize that it’s happiness. God, I didn’t know how much I needed this—a minute to breathe, to relax with my best friend, and do something that doesn’t require 1,000% of my focus.
“We should do this more often,” Yasmine says around a mouthful of popcorn.
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
“Twins!” She lifts her drink for me to cheers. God, I love her so much.
This continues through several movies and many more drinks. Scents waft out of the kitchen, where Frances is making dinner. I tried to tell O’Connor it wasn’t necessary and that he didn’t need to invite his friends, but naturally, he didn’t listen to a word I said.
I snort out a laugh at the thought, because even though this marriage is fake, that particular trait fits every definition of a husband I’ve ever seen. It’s not really a problem. Frances’s food is the best I’ve ever had.
We are knee-deep in our second movie when the front door finally opens, and a godawful cacophony fills the air. Yasmine and I both jerk from our lazy positions on the couch to sitting upright.
