Charles raised an eyebrow. “Strategic positioning for cherry cobbler?”
“It’s more complex than you’d think,” I said seriously, steering us toward the house before I could say something even more ridiculous. “I can’t wait to try that cobbler though.”
At least that wasn’t a lie. After the cosmic bollocking I’d just received, I needed all the comfort food I could get.
SEVEN
CHARLES
I couldn’t sleep.
I’d been lying in bed for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling and trying every trick I’d ever heard of to fall asleep. I’d counted the dirty spots on my ceiling—seventeen, in case anyone was wondering—then moved on to imaginary sheep jumping over a fence. After that failed spectacularly, I’d even tried visualizing my happy place, which was obviously my kitchen with its gleaming surfaces and perfectly organized supplies.
But nothing worked. The first exercise made my hands itch to grab a ladder and some cleaning supplies to scrub the stains I’d apparently been ignoring for months. The second frustrated me beyond belief because I kept losing count somewhere around sheep number forty-three and getting distracted by wondering what breed they were or if the fence was the right height for safe jumping.
And the third, which should’ve been the most relaxing, had somehow led to me grabbing the notepad from my nightstand and jotting down two new cupcake ideas—oneinvolving lavender-honey buttercream and another with a salted caramel center that might actually be brilliant.
But no sleep. Not even close.
My brain was running a marathon while my body desperately needed rest, and every time I closed my eyes, my mind kicked into overdrive all over again.
Zane had messaged me some pics from the wedding, including one where Carlo and Sophia were cutting my cake. They’d looked so happy, so normal. Like any other couple. Hard to imagine that Carlo would want to…
I didn’t even want to think about what he wanted to do to me. Kill me? Hurt me? Torture me?
Yeah, those thoughts really weren’t conducive to sleep.
Maybe he wouldn’t find out who warned the cop. Maybe he’d look elsewhere for that leak, like in his own organization. Though sooner or later, he would discover none of his own people had betrayed him. And then he’d remember the conversation he’d had with his right-hand man—Chan, according to Eamon—and determine someone had overheard them. Then it was a simple process of elimination until he…
I shot straight up in bed. Oh god. Steve. If Carlo did some research into who had been at the banquet hall, he’d inevitably come across Steve’s name. What if he wrongly concluded Steve had talked to the cops?
I whipped the covers back and jumped out of bed, not caring that I was only in my underwear. Eamon needed to know so the NYPD could send someone to protect Steve as well. The door creaked as I opened it, and I rushed to the guest bedroom…only to find it empty, the door ajar. Where was Eamon?
I checked my watch. Two in the morning. Why wasn’t Eamon in bed? Maybe he couldn’t sleep either? I paddeddown the stairs to the living room, coming to a full stop when I spotted him. He was on the couch, his back turned to me, mumbling softly as he swiped something on an iPad.
“Okay, so I’ve read the ethics code. What else does the eejit want from me?”
I frowned. He had a different accent, one with more rollingRs and an unfamiliar lilt. It didn’t sound American at all.
He swiped again and his screen went black, then reverted to the home screen. “Oh, for feck’s sake,” Eamon grumbled. “Can’t you get your fecking technology working at least? You’d think that after all this time, they’d have their fecking shite in order.”
I suppressed a laugh. Clearly, technology wasn’t Eamon’s strong point. He seemed only a few years older than me, but maybe it didn’t come natural to him?
“Can I help?” I asked.
Eamon jumped up, fumbling and nearly dropping the iPad. “Jesus fecking Christ on a bicycle! You gave me a real fright.”
Snorting, I said, “Are you practicing some accent or something? You sound strange.”
Something shifted in his expression, a brief flicker of panic followed by what I could only describe as resigned frustration. His green eyes darted upward toward the ceiling, his shoulders tense, and I swear I saw his lips move soundlessly for a heartbeat. It was the kind of look someone gets when they’re mentally cursing their luck or maybe asking the universe why it had it out for them specifically.
Then he cleared his throat. “Erm, yes, I’m…I’m going undercover after this. After protecting you, I mean, once you’re safe. And it’s…” He seemed to search for words. “It requires an accent.”
He sounded American again now.
“What accent is that?”
“Irish.”
