She clears her throat and pauses for a long beat. ‘Your mom called into the office this morning. I think she was checking you actually are out of the country.’
As I suspected. ‘How is the blushing bride?’ Sarcasm drips from my lips.
‘Excited, nervous, full of hope that this really is it, this time.’ Belle’s been with me for years. She knows the drill.
‘Have our legal team double check the prenup and make sure it’s airtight.’ I sigh.
‘Yes, sir.’
I end the call, setting the phone face down beside my laptop. While I can’t control how my mother honours my father’s memory, the Dublin project is my tribute to him. I can already see it in my mind’s eye—dark marble floors, gold accents, crystal chandeliers—an opulent temple of risk and reward.
I stare at the figures in front of me—the casino’s projected annual revenue in euros, hotel occupancy rates, tax incentives, scrolling through profit forecasts and zoning reports. They should be the only things occupying my thoughts.
But my mind keeps wandering back to last night.
To her.
Irish.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her stunning face, her full round breasts, and the expression of sheer ecstasy each time she came on my cock.
The taste of her skin lingers on my lips.
The sound of her infectious laughter replays through my head like a song stuck on repeat.
Last night was the first night for a long while that I didn’t think about business, my mother’s impending nuptials, or the mockery she’s making of my father’s memory.
Marriage isn’t part of my plans, but if I ever did take a wife, it would only be once. I’m not particularly religious, but I do believe in honour. In loyalty. In seeing things through.
If I give my word, I keep it. If I make a promise, I don’t break it.
And if I claim something—or someone—I don’t fucking let go.
I must have inherited that trait from my father, because I sure as hell didn’t get it from my mother.
I drag a hand over my scalp and glance out at the horizon. Sunlight flashes invitingly off the waves. The memory of yesterday’s sea swim crashes back into my mind—of Irish, again. It’s only been forty-eight hours, but she’s somehow managed to crawl beneath my skin. I deliberately didn’t arrange to have dinner with her today. I didn’t want her to form an attachment to me. That’s not what this thing between us is about.
Yet, apparently it’s me who’s forming some sort of fucked-up attachment, because I find myself slamming my laptop shut, draining my espresso, and heading in the direction of the beach. If yesterday is anything to go on, she’s probably stretched out on a sun-lounger, or sipping a cocktail at the pool bar while the bionic bodyguard patrols the perimeter.
I dump my laptop in the suite, grab my sunglasses, and head towards the beach. The afternoon sun beats down on my back as I stroll through the resort’s lush, carefully tended landscape. I pass the line of luxurious daybeds, scanning face after face. Every glimpse of a brunette kicks my pulse up a notch.
But they’re not her.
She isn’t here.
Disappointment dances in my chest.
I head towards the pool bar.
Maybe she’s already in the water.
But no, a quick scan assures me she isn’t.
Where the fuck is she?
And why do I care so much?
I kick off my shoes, pull off my t-shirt, toss it onto a free daybed and slip into the pool. I swim twenty lengths, then swim up to the pool bar, where I first saw her a couple of days ago.
