Page 73 of Three Irish Kings
Isla turns, looking startled at my openness. “Your mother?”
“She passed.” I look down at the floor instead of into her hazel eyes. I don’t want to see pity in them.
“I’m so sorry.”
I shrug. “It’s what happens, isn’t it? Everyone loses their parents. Everyone loses their life at some point.”
“Sure, but that doesn’t mean you don’t feel grief.”
“I don’t feel anything.”
Or I didn’t until you came along. Now I have no idea what the hell is wrong with me.
I look back at her, willing myself to go numb again, to stop this wave inside me of whatever this is.
She hums, picking out a handful of books from the middle shelf, mostly mysteries, a couple of historical fiction novels.
I scoff. “No romance?”
“Haven't you heard? Romance is dead.” She smiles at me, showing her teeth, and I want to look away again, but I can’t seem to.
She walks out of the library, leaving me standing there staring at the open door.
Isla... she’s not the woman I thought she was, and not because she isn’t Maggie Sullivan. She’s witty, sharp as a tack, inquisitive.
But maybe that’s how she’s manipulating us. That and that tight little body of hers.
She’s disappeared into her room, and I lock her door for good measure.
I can’t be letting her seduce me like she did Dare, fucking me to sleep so she can escape.
Despite what Dare thinks, we can’t let her go. Not now. Da needs time to cool down, to forget what’s happening. It won’t take long, given the state of his mind.
Besides, I’m not ready to be without her just yet for some reason.
I sit down on the couch, making some phone calls and going through my emails, and working cheers me up a little. I love the corporate world—the number crunching, the tight, concise language, the board meetings. There’s so much order in it, order that I don’t experience outside of my office. Order that seems to have deserted me the moment a certain woman entered my life.
I feel stiff by the time I stand up, stretching and yawning, and I realize night has fallen.
Shit.
I’ve been here for hours, left Isla locked up. There’s a bathroom in the bedroom, but still...
I hurry to the door, unlocking it and pushing it open, and Isla stands at the full-length mirror wearing a big t-shirt. It looks like Cillian’s, maybe one from high school. She must have raided the other bedroom for clothes at some point.
While I’m glad she’s not wearing my mother’s nightie, jealousy washes over me, twisting my gut. The anger I felt earlier comes back tenfold, and I can’t stop the words that come out of my mouth.
“Take that off."
It’s not an ordered bark, but it’s no less demanding, and she freezes with a brush halfway through her silky curls.
“Wh-what?”
“You heard me. Take it off.”
She turns slowly, and I sit down in the recliner across from the bed, watching her with half-lidded eyes.
I didn’t come here for this, I came to check up on her, but I can’t seem to get a hold of myself.
