While Dad might dabble in black market weapons dealing, he’s still a good person at heart. He’s a respectable businessman.
Men like Seamus Callahan and his sons are not. They’re uncouth Irish gangsters who break kneecaps for a living and drink themselves blind. Their idea of fun is underground fistfights and fucking prostitutes.
Not husband material at all.
I check the time on my phone and realize I’m late for lunch with Heath. I drain the last of my matcha and toss the cup in the trash.
“I have to go,” I say, grabbing my purse.
Chantal calls after me as I head for the door. “Think about running away! Remember, I’ll give you the key to the family vacation home in Cali! Your dad won’t know… at least for a few weeks!”
I wave over my shoulder without turning around.
Running away.
The idea sounds tempting. But I know better.
There’s nowhere I could go that Dad—and now the Callahans—wouldn’t find me.
I arrive at Café Boulud in the Upper East Sideminutes before noon.
The restaurant is elegant and polished, unmistakably French with its crisp decor and white tablecloths draping every table.
The dining room is a sea of tailored-suit professionals and bored heiresses out for their daily lunch appearance.
Heath is already seated at our table near the window, one of the many Wall Streeters in pale blue button-up shirts and navy slacks. His gray eyes light up behind his round, wireframe glasses and he stands up to meet me.
I’ve barely stepped toward the table before he’s leaning in to press a kiss to my cheek and pulling out my chair.
“I took an extra-long lunch to meet you,” he says, settling back into his seat. “You’re never available for lunch on a weekday.”
He has no clue about the engagement; he doesn’t suspect a thing.
Guilt pools in my stomach. I reach for the glass of complimentary water on the table and take a quick sip to wash down the sudden dryness in my throat.
But before I can even get to the point, a young woman in a black-and-white uniform floats over.
“Oh… I’m not that hungry,” I say.
“Come on, you have to eat something,” Heath insists, his tone gentle but persistent, like he’s trying to coax a child into finishing their vegetables. “You love the beet salad here, don’t you? Order that.”
I reluctantly concede, ordering the roasted beet and burrata salad just to make him stop nagging. Heath has a tendency to do that until he gets his way, however gently he goes about it.
The server nods politely and walks off, weaving between tables in conversation about business.
Heath launches into a ramble about how he’s snagged us tickets to seeLittle Shop of Horrors. His face lights up the way it always does when he thinks he’s done something thoughtful.
But really, it’s somethinghewants more than anything. The show I’ve been interested in seeing is Moulin Rouge, but Heath insists on seeing the campier shows he wants.
“I know, I know—campy off Broadway shows aren’t your thing. But I think you’ll really like this one. It’s different from the others I’ve taken you to. It’s campy but it’sfun?—”
“I can’t,” I interrupt.
He pauses mid-sentence, his brow furrowing. “Oh. As in can’t make that night? That’s okay, I can probably get the same good seats for a different date.”
I reach across the table and grab his hand, stopping him. His fingers are warm and moisturized, unlike what the hands of Ronan Callahan felt like.
It was only a brief moment… but he hadgrabbedme.
