Especially when his touch is so fresh on my body.
She leans in to murmur in my ear. ‘If you change your mind, you know Killian will find him for you.’
‘If Killian finds him, he’ll likely kill him violently for violating his “little sister”.’ I make air quotes with my fingers.
‘They’ll have to accept you’re a grown woman sometime.’ She winks conspiratorially.
‘Hell will probably freeze over first.’ I tut.
‘You all thought that about Killian settling down too, and now look at him.’ There’s no missing the affection in her tone at the mention of her fiancée.
‘True,’ I concede.
‘Stranger things have happened,’ Layla says, her irises flaring.
Not to me, they haven’t.
Chapter Eighteen
COLE
Two weeks home and I still can’t shake her. No matter how many times I push her out of my head, the memory of her face pops back every time I close my eyes.
Irish.
Her infectious laugh.
Her plump, hot lips.
Her soft Dublin lilt.
She’s the only woman ever to crawl beneath my skin, and I have no idea how to tear her out from under it. She’s the only woman to make me feel seen as a person, instead of a prize to lock down. And she’s the only woman who ever ran out on me, vanishing before sunrise, leaving me wondering if she was actually real.
It doesn’t matter. I’m back to being Cole Hartmann—the man women throw themselves at morning, noon and night. So, I don’t care. I shouldn’t care.
But unfortunately, I do—way more than I imagined possible.
And I hate it.
The casino floor roars beneath me. Chips clatter. Slotmachines shriek. The sound of excited tourists drunk on neon and dopamine—but it’s just white noise. I’m restless. All I can think about is her. About commandeering the jet, flying to Dublin, and hunting her down until she’s in my bed again. In my arms again. But it’s madness. Reckless. And utterly out of character.
Yet, I haven’t entirely ruled it out.
That innate gut instinct that’s got me this far in life is screaming at me we aren’t done.
I move through the VIP level of my Vegas casino, flanked by security. Hundreds of eyes home in on us as we pass. Women want me. Men want to be me. That’s not arrogance. It’s simply a fact—and it has fuck all to do with anything other than my bank balance, power and status.
That was what I loved about Irish. Liked, I mean.
She had no idea about any of it, and she wanted me regardless.
Mind you, she wielded her own brand of wealth and power—along with that playful, seductive sassiness.
No wonder I can’t get her out of my damned mind.
Belle keeps pace at my side, tablet in hand, her expression sharp enough to cut glass. She doesn’t waste her breath on small talk or pleasantries—we’re way past that. In the years she’s been my PA, she’s mastered the art of saying only what matters.
‘The Dublin construction report,’ she says, handing me a sleek folder without breaking stride. ‘Ahead of schedule. The Becketts are still trying to block licensing on the casino wing.’
