I take a deep, shaky breath. “He’s going to kill me. Or worse, he’s going to stay.”
CHAPTER 4
Liam
It’s unusual for me to be standing in a kitchen wearing nothing but my ruined trousers and a pink apron with butterflies on it, but life has a funny way of throwing things at you.
She had no men’s clothes. Not a stitch. Which tells me no boyfriend is lurking in the shadows. That works quite nicely in my favor.
My side is throbbing like a drum. Every movement feels like a hot poker catching me in the ribs, but I wasn’t about to spend the day being an idle guest. Not when the place looked like a bomb had hit a library and a greenhouse.
I spent the morning tidying. Organized her books by genre, though I had a chuckle at some of the titles. This girl’s mind is filthy, dark, and twisted.
Then I got to work on dinner. Nothing too fancy, given what she had in the fridge, but I’ve always been handy with a potato.
I made a quick Irish soda bread. The chocolate chips and oats I found in the pantry added a bit of sweetness to the second loaf. I boiled the spuds, mashed them with plenty of cheese and seasoning, and fried up potato pancakes with the rest. Even found some bacon to crisp.
I laid a tablecloth over the wee bistro table, lit candles, and poured the last of her red wine into two glasses.
The door clicks open.
I smell her first. Vanilla and lilies.
She stops dead in her tracks when she sees me. Dishrag in hand, apron round my waist, looking as domestic as a housecat despite the stitches in my side.
I smirk, pushing through the ache. “Welcome home, Darlin’. How was your day?”
Her mouth falls open. “What in the hell are you doing?”
I toss the rag over my shoulder, wincing as the motion pulls at my ribs. “I am no freeloader, Lexie. I will earn my keep, even while healing.”
“Ugh…” She rakes her hands through her hair. “Okay, okay, this is not the end of the world. A sexy Irishman who looks like a walking crime scene making you dinner is not the end of the world.”
“Go raibh maith agat,” I say, unsurprised when she blinks.
“What?”
“Thank you,” I translate, playing it low and smooth. “You are quite lovely yourself. But would you care to change for dinner?”
She takes in the room from the neat stacks to the polished surfaces. “What did you—? You organized my bookshelf?!”
“And tidied up a wee bit. Don’t worry. I was tender with Sweet Pea, Fernie, and the rest.” Adorable how she labeled her plants. “Your snow globes are safely tucked in the curio cabinet as well.”
She looks torn between crying and screaming. “Um…thanks.” Then her eyes widen. “Did you go into?—?”
She bolts for the bedroom.
I laugh softly as I hear drawers yanked open, followed by a squeal and the slam of a dresser.
A minute later, she marches back out, her face all shades of red—crimson, beet, and everything in between.
Heated amusement ripples through my chest at knowing what she’s found. Or rather, what shedidn’tfind.
Chest heaving, hands balled into adorable fists, she demands, “Where the hell are my things?”
“What things?” I ask, innocent as a babe.
“You know very well what things! The—the drawer!”
