Page 43 of Ruthless Savior
“Iknow.” I run my hand through my hair. “Why do you think I’m doing spreadsheets?”
"So what's your plan? Lock yourself in your office and drink yourself to death? Pretend you don't want her until she goes home?"
“Myplan,” I bite out, “is to try to keep my distance and kill Rocco De Luca so that she can leave. That’s as good as I’ve got.”
The thought of her leaving, I realize, makes my chest ache. Annie visits often, but I hadn’t realized how lonely this mansion was until Leila was here. I’ve gotten used to having her there at dinner, to crossing paths with her during the day, enjoying her company. The inappropriate desire I have for her aside, I likeher being here. The thought of being alone again makes me feel hollow.
A thread of alarm ripples through me, but I’m too tired to give it the attention it deserves.
“Well, that’s something of a plan,” Annie concedes. “She needs to go home, Ronan. Sooner rather than later.”
“I know.” I run a hand over my face. “Trust me, I know.”
—
For the restof the day, I make a conscious effort to reestablish boundaries. I take lunch in my office. I try to focus on work. I don’t even give myself a chance to cross paths with Leila until dinnertime.
It's cowardly, and I know it. But I can't trust myself around her right now, can't trust that I won't cross more lines, or that any conversation about it will devolve into something I can’t handle. I need space, and maybe that will be good for her, too.
I’ve let myself get too close to her. Shared too much of myself and encouraged her to share about herself as well. There’s no need for us to be friends. No need for anything other than for me to keep up my end of our deal, and for her to do the same.
I spend the morning reviewing security reports and planning our next move against De Luca's operation. I talk to Finn. I focus on my job, my responsibilities, and not on things I can’t control and shouldn’t concern myself with.
But by evening, the isolation is killing me. I've managed to avoid her all day, conducting all my business from behind closed doors. But when seven o'clock comes around—the time we've been sharing dinner for the past week—I find myself staring at my office door like it's a prison cell.
This is ridiculous. I'm a grown man, perfectly capable of having a civil conversation with a houseguest without mauling her. I can maintain appropriate boundaries while still being polite.
I make it exactly five minutes into dinner before I realize that being around her after kissing her is nearly impossible.
She’s wearing a soft blue sweater that clings to her breasts—clothes that fit her perfectly now, since they’re hers, not my late wife’s or borrowed from my sister—and her hair is pulled back, exposing the long line of her neck. She’s trying to talk to me about a book she read today, but I can hear the confusion in her voice at my sharp, brief answers.
“I can’t believe you have a first-edition Hemingway,” she says, her voice a little too bright. “I could spend years working my way through that library.”
“My father and I have put a lot of work into it over the years.” I cut into my steak with more precision than necessary.
“Have you read all of the Hemingway that you have in there?”
“I have.”
She pauses. “Do you like him, particularly?”
“He’s fine.”
I hear her take a slow breath. “You know, I really enjoyed talking to Annie about finances. I’m really curious about?—”
"I don't like to discuss business at dinner."
The lie comes out smoothly, despite the fact that we've talked about everything from politics to literature to current events over our previous meals. Leila's fork pauses halfway to her mouth.
"Oh. Okay."
We eat in silence after that, the easy companionship of recent days replaced by an awkward tension that makes the food taste like ash in my mouth. I can feel her watching me, trying to figure out what's changed, and I force myself to maintain the coldpoliteness that used to be my default with everyone except my siblings. Especially my wife.
But I didn’t want to be closer to Siobhan. I didn’t feel anything for her at all, like what I do with Leila.
After dinner, instead of going up to the library, I make my excuses and disappear into my office. I hear her footsteps in the hallway outside, pausing by my door, but she doesn't knock.
Good.This is better. Safer.
