When the credits roll, I glance over to see her sound asleep.
“I love you,” I tell her. I carry her to the bedroom and tuck her in. She doesn’t hear me, but I’ll show her. I’ll show her.
I’ve effectively cut off my mother. My brothers think I’m distracted. The business is in transition. And my wife is still not fully convinced she deserves to be here.
Fix it, Ronan told me.
I’m trying, but I certainly have my work cut out for me.
Chapter 16
Nora
I press my hands against the passenger window. “Cillian, this is?—”
“You like it?” He kills the engine and turns to me. “I wanted it to be perfect. You deserve perfect.”
The house sits at the end of a long gravel drive, surrounded by trees that block out the rest of the world. Glass walls overlook Lake Michigan, and the water stretches out like a sheet of hammered silver under the afternoon sun.
He comes around to open my door, takes my hand, and leads me inside.
The interior is all clean lines and open space. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the lake view. The kitchen gleams with stainless steel and white marble. A massive bedroom overlooks the water, the bed covered in soft white linens.
“It’s us alone,” he says, setting our bags down. “No staff, no interruptions.”
“I love it.” I turn to him. “Thank you.”
He pulls me close and kisses my forehead. “You don’t have to thank me for wanting to be alone with my wife.”
We make dinner together. Cillian insists on helping, though his knife skills are terrible and he nearly burns the garlic.
I laugh—actually laugh. “You’re supposed to sauté it, not cremate it.”
“I’m better at other things.” He grins, and the expression transforms his face.
“Oh, really?”
He backs me against the counter, cages me in with his arms. “Really.”
Heat floods through me. I grip the edge of the marble behind me. “Prove it.”
His eyes darken. “Later. First, I want to feed you.”
We eat on the deck as the sun sets, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The air smells like pine and water. This is paradise.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” Cillian says.
I blink. “Like what?”
“Anything. Your favorite color, your first memory, what you wanted to be when you grew up.”
Warmth spreads through me. “My first memory is my mother singing. She had a pretty voice.”
His expression softens. “What did she sing?”
“Lullabies, mostly. Irish ones. I don’t remember the words. I don’t remember much about her. I can’t even picture her face anymore. Even that’s gone from my memory bank.”
I share more with Cillian than I’ve ever shared with anyone before, and he listens. Really listens. Asks questions, remembers details, makes me feel like every word matters.
