I freeze, barely breathing. His fingers brush against my spine as he frees the zipper and slides it down—not quickly, but with deliberate care.
I shiver.
The dress gapes open, revealing my back, the edge of my bra. His hand lingers at the base of my spine, his palm warm through the thin silk.
He leans closer. His breath is hot against my ear when he speaks. “I should go.”
But he doesn’t move. Neither do I. I can feel the heat of him behind me, the careful restraint in the way his hand rests against my spine. Part of me—a part I didn’t know existed until I met him—wants him to keep touching me. Wants him to slide that hand higher, or lower, or anywhere. Just...more.
He steps back. The loss of contact makes me want to lean backward into the space he occupied.
“I’ll be outside.”
The door clicks shut behind him. I release a shaky breath, my reflection showing flushed cheeks and bright eyes.
By the time we leave, we’re loaded down with shopping bags and an assurance that the rest of the items, those that are to be hand-tailored, will be delivered in the next day or two.
Instead of going straight back to the penthouse, Cillian takes me out into the city—not the tourist version, but his version. The first stop is O’Rourke’s, the pub his grandparents founded, which is currently closed this week for renovations. I see the corner where he had his first fistfight at twelve. The park where his mother used to bring him and his brothers as kids.
I learn about him through these places.
At a bookshop, he hands me a basket and orders me to, “Pick whatever you want, but I want to see that basket filled before we leave.”
I choose with care. Classics I’ve wanted toread. A cookbook. A few romance novels I tuck under the other books so he won’t see the covers. He notices anyway, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
I realize that I’ve had more fun today than I’ve had in years. Maybe more fun than I’ve ever had in my entire life.
Cillian is… an enigma.
And in less than a full day, he will be my husband.
Why do I find myself counting the hours?
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, examining my reflection. The bruise on my face has faded to nothing. It’s only been a few days, but already I seem to have gained a little weight—my cheeks look fuller, my collarbones less pronounced, and my hair shines.
I look healthy. Almost happy.
Today, the girl from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks—the girl who, a week ago, had no money, no prospects, and a dismal future—will become Mrs. Cillian O’Rourke.
I press my hand against my chest, feeling my heart race beneath my palm.
A knock on the door. “Nora? The car will be here in an hour.”
“I’ll be ready.”
I dress carefully in the silk wedding dress, slipping my feet into simple kitten heels. I’ve arranged my hair in soft waves this morning, and used the makeup the way the woman at the makeup counter showed me yesterday.
When I emerge from the bedroom, Cillian is waiting in the living room. He wears a dark suit that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. He looks devastatingly handsome.
His eyes widen when he sees me, and his expression softens.
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I smooth my hands down the silk. “You look nice too.”
We ride to City Hall in silence. Cillian holds my hand the entire way, his thumb stroking my knuckles in a gesture that’s becoming familiar—becomingours.
Inside, we’re led to a private room. Finn is there, a man he introduces me to as his business associate. Also present is a woman in a sharp suit who introduces herself as Patricia Keller.
