Page 49 of Ruthless Claim

It’s the other thing she’s asking for that’s harder. Looking at her like I like her. Like she’s someone I’d have chosen.

Like weeks of arguing about coffee and cabinet reorganization and whose fault it is when the schedule shifts—like all of that has made me something other than a man stuck in a marriage with an infuriating woman who is right about too many things.

The problem is I’m not sure that’s still true. And I don’t know when it stopped being true.

“That might be harder than you think,” I tell her truthfully.

Something registers in her face. It’s not hurt but she’s not exactly…pleased with my response. “That’s honest,” she says evenly.

“I’m working on it,” I say, a bit defensively, my heart still racing.

She looks at me for a moment, her face impassive. “Work faster,” she replies. She finishes her wine, puts the glass in the sink, and goes to the bedroom.

I stay where I am.

She called it like.

The physical part she already knows about.

She’d have to be an idiot not to, and she’s not an idiot.

It’s the like she’s asking about.

The person-to-person version.

And the honest answer is that I don’t know yet, and I’m not sure I’m ready to find out.

Finding out has consequences I haven’t fully looked at.

I look down at the salad I was making and push it away. I’m suddenly not hungry anymore.

She comes out of the bedroom the next evening in a Valentino dress and it makes my heart stop when I see her in it.

It’s midnight blue, fitted shoulder to knee, with long sleeves and a neckline that is technically modest and somehow the opposite. I know I’m staring and I can’t stop myself.

She flashes me a smirk. “Why thank you,” she says casually, heading for the mirror to check her earrings.

“I didn’t say anything,” I respond, following her.

“You didn’t need to,” she responds breezily. “It’s written all over your face.”

My ears are turning red. “I was going to say you look⁠—”

“I don’t need you to tell me anything. I know I look amazing.” She adjusts the back of her hair without turning around, using the mirror. “Stop looking at me like that and get your jacket.”

“Like what?” I ask, still unable to take my eyes off her.

She meets my gaze in the mirror again and she looks at me challengingly. “Like that.” She goes back to admiring herself.

The Brennan house sits on the Upper East Side, a four-story brownstone that Connor bought the year he took over from his father.

Teresa has spent nearly thirty years making the home into something that communicates, without saying it directly, exactly what the Brennan family is.

The ironwork on the front steps is original.

The door is lacquered black and heavy and has brass fittings that are polished by someone every week.

The whole thing says we have been here a long time and we will be here after you.