“What are you thinking about?” Cillian’s voice comes from the doorway.
I turn to face him. “That I agreed to marry you.”
He moves into the room, his presence filling the space between us. “Are you having regrets already?”
The question demands honesty.
“No. I don’t regret it.”
Something eases in his expression. “Good. We’re going shopping today.”
“Shopping? For what?”
“You need clothes. And a wedding dress.” His tone leaves no room for negotiation.
“I don’t need anything fancy?—”
“Nora.” He takes my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in that gesture I’m starting to love. “As my wife, you’ll be expected to dress a certain way.”
My wife.The possessiveness in those two words sends heat through my veins. I look at our joined hands—his scarred and powerful, mine small and pale against his.
“Okay.”
Two hours later, we pull up to a boutique with a name I can’t pronounce. The windows display clothing I’d never dare try on, with prices that would normally leave me gasping.
Cillian speaks into his phone as the car idles. “We’re here.”
He pockets his phone and announces, “They’re ready for us.”
“Ready for us?” I ask. “What does that mean?”
He tucks his phone away. “I had them close the store for our appointment.”
“The entire store?” I stare at him. “You can’t do that.”
“I already did.” He opens my door, offering his hand. “Come on.”
Inside, a woman with sleek dark hair greets Cillian warmly. “Mr. O’Rourke, welcome.”
“Marie. Thank you for accommodating us.”
Marie turns her professional smile to me, her assessment quick and thorough. “This must be your fiancée.”
Fiancée.Holy hell.
“Yes. Nora needs a complete wardrobe. And a wedding dress.”
Marie nods as though this is perfectly ordinary. “Of course. If you’ll follow me...”
She leads us to a sitting area with plush chairs and a platform surrounded by mirrors. Cillian settles into one of the chairs, completely at ease in this world of wealth I’m still trying to understand.
“What styles do you prefer, Ms...?” Marie trailsoff.
“Just Nora.” I don’t want to give her my last name. It won’t be mine much longer anyway.
“What styles do you typically wear?”
I glance down at my ragged jeans and sweater—purchases from a thrift store bargain bin. “I don’t know what I like. I’ve never...”
