Page 19 of Sip
I pull my head out of my ass from Conor’s voice. He pushes over the contract for me to review one last time before he signs. I scan the legal language that really doesn’t matter since our lawyers or our guns can get us out of anything “Looks good to me.”
The property manager’s head bobs in satisfaction, and he hands my cousin a pen. The building is perfect for our southern operations, and Conor will have an office fit for the boss he’s become. I’m proud of him.
I tell him so once Mr. Doyle departs with his paperwork. We share a celebratory whiskey, and I take in the view from the top floor. Not my city although I still feel the connection from our complete ownership. We’ve restored our power as well as our pride, and no one will attempt to topple us again anytime soon after the decimation we’ve leveled. Even better? Conor can handle the revolt when the time comes.
My cell pings, and I want to ignore the indication. Yet the weak part of me checks in case it’s her. Although I know it won’t be. She’s given up on me, and I can’t say that I blame her.
Shane:We’ve got a problem. I need you to come home. I’m sending the plane for you in the morning.
All of my will power is taxed refraining from asking him if the problem is related to his wife. She’s not my business— she shouldn’t be my business. Of course, she damn well is even when I don’t want her to be. If I ask, he’ll be suspicious. Hell, he probably already is.
Nothing I can do to reduce his distrust except leave her alone. Which will be hard as fuck living in the same house as her again. Conor glances over from my heavy sigh. I need to get her out of my head and my mind back on the business. We’ve got a lot to accomplish before I take off.
Obviously, I don’t expect a huge party welcoming me home. Yet Shane standing in the doorway as I pull up in front of the mansion catches me by surprise. People come to him, not the other way around.
I’m disappointed too since the only person I want to see is nowhere around. Probably— no definitely— for the best. The longer I can delay interacting with her the better.
My brother nods to me in that smug way he has when I climb out of my vehicle.
“You look like hell.”
He’s not wrong. I haven’t slept since I received his message summoning me back. “So do you.”
The chuckle from my insult makes me even more disconcerted. Normally he would tell me to fuck off. Or more likely ignore me giving him shit. Now he laughs? What the fuck? He glances over his shoulder, a deep frown lining his face when returns to scanning mine.
“Come on. We need to talk.”
No shit. My feet remain rooted to the brick steps unwilling to follow him as he hurries. Fucking hurries. Which he never, ever does. He almost seems…nervous.
An incinerator ignites in me. If he’s done something to hurt her or make her leave, I will destroy him without a second thought. “Where’s Grace?”
“Taking a nap.”
I can’t have heard him right. It’s nine in the morning, and she’s not two. The lack of real information forces me to move. Jogging after him into the foyer and down the hall, I refrain from asking all the questions rapid firing in my head until we reach his office. The guards and housekeeping staff pretend not to listen, but I know they hear. I’ll never discuss her in front of them.
Shane heads straight to the bar and pours us both drinks. I shake my head when he offers me a glass. I don’t want booze. I want him to tell me what the fuck is going on. “Why is she sleeping?”
The rational side of me knows not to ask. Her health and care are not my business. He should kill me for interrogating him about his wife. Yet he doesn’t seem fazed by my intrusive questions.
“Doctor’s orders.”
My fingers ache to grab him by the throat and throttle him out of this weird haze he seems to be mired in. Clenching his whiskey yet not drinking. Sinking into his chair but not working. Staring in my direction, but not seeing me. “Shane?’
Fury seeps into my tone, enough to make him startle from his fog and come back to the conversation.
“It’s been almost a year and she’s still not pregnant. The doctor said nothing’s wrong with her fertility that he can find except that maybe she’s overdoing it with all of her classes and volunteer work and exercising. She’s quit everything and resting to make her body more hospitable for conception.”
Sounds like the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I’m no physician but I’m guessing he’s trying to appease Shane’s frustration and keep himself alive.
“But it’s not working either. She mopes around restless and depressed.”
Of course she’s depressed. He’s pinned down a butterfly. Making her too miserable to even bother texting me.
He scrubs his hands up and down his face. Yet the worry remains evident and deep. “What are the chances I’ve married sterile women twice?”
Unlikely. I don’t respond because we both know the answer, and I don’t want to talk about his sex life with either woman. Instead, I grab the scotch he made for me and swallow down the alcohol in one huge gulp.
“It’s probably me, but there’s no way to check.”
