O’Connor stumbles into our view, carrying a blood-soaked Eamon.
Beside me, Yasmine chokes on popcorn, coughing to clear her lungs and slapping at her chest. “Jesus Christ,” she wheezes. “I was joking when I said your life was all blood and drama.”
I leap to my feet, and the bowl of popcorn I’d been holding tumbles to the floor, kernels exploding everywhere, but my eyes aren’t on the mess. They’re on O’Connor. “What the hell?”
“That’s what I said,” Mara says, coming up behind them.
Yasmine sets her popcorn aside instead of throwing it everywhere and pushes to her feet. She’s already pulling up her sleeves and putting on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses as she strides across the room to the two men. “What happened? Knife wound? Gunshot?” She gestures imperiously to O’Connor to put Eamon on the empty dining room table. He complies, trying to hide a smile as I gather pillows from the floor.
“Why do you say that like it’s something nefarious?” Eamon grunts. “Maybe it was a cooking mishap.”
“You? Cook?” Mara says, lips twisted with disdain.
“If I weren’t bleedin’ like a stuck pig, I’d be offended,” Eamon says.
Yasmine gives them a cool look. “Do you want me to take a look at that, or would you rather snipe some more?”
“Don’t worry, love, it’s just a bit of craic.”
I put the pillows behind him to prop him up as Yasmine goes into doctor mode.
“Crack?”
“Banter,” Mara clarifies. Then spotting the makings for margaritas, she makes herself at home mixing a drink. “You want another?” she asks me.
I already have enough tequila swirling around my system; more would be a decidedly terrible decision considering the circumstances. “What happened?”
O’Connor situates himself behind me, and I pretend not to notice. “Nothing you need to worry yourself about, darlin’.”
Mara hands him his drink and says, “I wish you both would stop dragging me into these situations.”
“What situations?” I ask. My eyes are glued to Yasmine. She carefully unbuttons Eamon’s white shirt. He’s reclining against the pillows, lightly assaulting her with a grin, and I realize I don’t think I would ever want him to look at me like that. A shiver racks my body.
“What’s your name?” he asks her.
“Dr. Baptiste,” she answers coolly before leaving for the kitchen, followed by the sound of splashing water.
Oh no. Maybe bringing her here was a mistake. I should’ve tried harder to keep these two parts of my life separate. The last thing I want to do is pull her any further into the madness. It’s exactly why I haven’t looped Reggie into my investigations. Yasmine will have to keep secrets from him, and I know if he ever found out the truth about Dufresne, he’d never look at either of us the same again.
I open my mouth to object, but she returns, drying her hands and saying to Eamon, “If you keep looking at me like that, I am going to make this so much worse.”
Unfortunately for her, that was the absolute wrong tack to take with him. He opens his mouth to comment, but O’Connor silences him with a look, and Eamon frowns like a kid who just got told he couldn’t have another piece of birthday cake.
“It is a gunshot, through and through, to his shoulder. Should just need disinfecting and stitching, but we can handle this.” O’Connor’s gaze shifts to me, and I cross my arms over my chest even though I’m wearing a light cardigan to ward off the chill, because a shiver goes through me at his attention. “We were closer to here than anywhere else, and I wanted to get this treated with discretion—but we’ll leave if that’ll make you feel more comfortable.”
At this, Eamon protests, but it could’ve been because Yasmine stripped more of his shirt, and he’s playing for false modesty.
A dull feeling squeezes my chest. “What were you doing that caused you to get shot at?”
The words are out of my mouth before I think about them, drawing O’Connor’s gaze down to my lips.
“Does it matter?”
I can feel the three other people in the room watching us, riveted. I should be self-conscious, but all I can focus on is the dread knotting up inside my intestines. “Of course it matters. Weren’t you just pitching a fit because someone was shooting at me?”
“Pitching a fit?” Eamon cackles until it’s cut off with a groan as Yasmine inspects the wound. She hasn’t even touched him yet, and he’s being a giant baby. I’m starting to think the psychotic man I thought him to be is only one side of him, and Idon’t know if that’s reassuring or terrifying. “Were you pitching a fit?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Yasmine taking supplies from Mara, who had disappeared into the house. Where she got them from, I don’t know—must’ve been O’Connor’s office. I should be the one doing that, helping Yasmine, but I can’t seem to make myself move from where my feet are planted. Is this what my future is going to be like? Patching up wounded men in the dining room after God only knows what.
