Page 18 of Dirty Legacy

Six weeks. I managed to ignore her for six weeks.

Until finally I broke.

I don’t even know what forced me out here. There’s the building we’re looking to buy—but that’s a weak excuse. I’m late to a meeting with Sinead. We’re going over wedding details, which she knows I don’t care about, but she insists on keeping me informed for whatever damn reason. I should be at the restaurant already, but instead, I was sitting in my car near Angie’s place like an addict, craving one tiny glimpse of her.

I’m more than sick.

I’m deeply broken.

She’s not good for me.

Worse, I’m not good for her.

That girl is a decent person. She’s living a normal life in the normal world, and if I keep this up, someone’s going to notice. That will be very bad for everyone.

Sinead’s my future. The Gallaghers are like a shining, beautiful door with the promised land spread out beyond it. All I have to do is marry her, walk through, and everything I’ve ever wanted will be presented at my feet.

Except I’m a fucking sicko scumbag stalking a junior accounting data entry girl for no goddamn reason.

Only I know the reason.

The three photos.

Bane of my existence.

Reason my dick’s sore and my palm’s callused.

Fuck, I have to get it together.

The drive to Luberto’s doesn’t take long. I park a block off and find Sinead at a good table toward the back, catalogs and folders spread in front of her. She’s sitting forward, her long blonde hair hanging over one shoulder, absently clicking a pen against her full lips. I pause, lingering in the dim light, watching my future wife, and again I’m struck at how beautiful she is. Delicate ears, straight nose, shining blue eyes that crinkle when she laughs. She’s in a modest outfit, black top and black jeans, and there’s already a glass of bourbon waiting for me at the setting opposite.

I don’t deserve her.

“Evening, darling,” she says when she spots me approaching. She doesn’t smile, exactly, but she does this thing with her nose where it scrunches and I know that means she’s not repulsed to see me. “You’re right on time.”

“You said eight. It’s eight thirty.”

“I always assume you’ll be late.” She stands and kisses my cheek. “I got your favorite.”

I sit and drink. Misery stabs me in the throat. I really don’t deserve her.

She leans back, eyebrow arched as I take in the materials. Everything’s neatly organized, color-coded, and collated. Even her handwriting is sharp and precise.

“Are you going to pass out? You look like you’re about to faint.”

“I’m fine. It’s been a long night.”

“Oh, yeah? Got something big going on at work?”

“Not exactly.”

She lets out a soft snort and clicks her pen again. “That’s what I like about you, Connor. No bullshit. No conversation. Straight to the point.”

“Most women hate it.”

“I’m not most women, and I’m not marrying you for your personality.” She nudges a folder toward me. “Pick a suit out.”

“I have suits.”