Page 51 of Dirty Eoin

I snort. “I’d give consideration to digging up Lebedev and marrying his corpse before I’d ever consider Eoin.”

There’s another elongated silence. He’s trying to read me. He never will. No one ever will. Unless I want them to, that is. He picks up his phone.

“Come through. Bring our Aidan with you.”

* * *

I watchas Mr. GQ model himself strides in like he owns the place. Let’s face it, one day, he will. He’s dressed down today in dark blue denim jeans and a pale blue denim shirt. Even double denim suits him.

Asshole.

He’s wearing stubble and his black hair is curling over the top of his shirt collar. Some might say it’s too long, but he suits it. Maybe someone should tell him it adds a human element to the tin man with no heart. The man who always has to appear immaculate and pristine.

Maybe someone should also tell him that it’s okay to be imperfect every once in a while. That it’s okay to remove the poker from your ass every once in a while too. That life’s too short to continually strive just to keep up appearances.

When, in the end, none of it fucking matters.

Eoin looks like Irish. His nose may be longer, his arrogant jaw more squared, and unlike Irish who has a full pout going on, Eoin’s bottom lip is way fuller than the top. But there’s no mistaking they’re siblings.

It’s then I realize I’m staring at the damn thing. His bottom lip. His mouth. My focus shifts to his eyes. Aquamarine. Neither green nor blue. He must hate the fact that his sublime self dared be indecisive about something. They’re laughing at me. No doubt because he interprets my staring as me blatantly admiring him.

He wishes.

Right now, I just want to kill the fucker. This situation is all his fault.

I glare at him, then switch my attention to Aidan. He’s not as tall as Eoin, maybe six-three to Eoin’s six-five, but he’s just as lean. It’s obvious he works out a lot. The white t-shirt he’s wearing looks to be a size too small.

There’s a reason for that.

It’s so it can hug his torso like a second skin to best display his hard-earned efforts. Unlike the rest of the O’Connells, Aidan’s hair is blonde, the top styled messily. That’s also done deliberately. It’s to make you itch to reach up and tidy it with your fingers. He wants you in his personal space. Then he can make his move by drawing you in with all the charm in the world.

Aidan’s handsome. Too handsome. All the O’Connell men are. The Almighty gave these boys an unfair helping of good looks when he was serving them up.

His eyes meet mine. Green on green. He reminds me of Irish with his cocky stance and smart mouth.

A player.

“Take a seat, boys.”

Fergal interrupts our silent appraisal of each other. He misses nothing. Good. Hopefully, he saw the sheer loathing in my eyes when I looked at Eoin.

They each collect a spare tub chair from the corners of the room. Aidan places his between mine and Eoin’s.

“Da, what the fuck is going on?”

“Allow me.” I turn to look at each of them in turn. “Fergal here wants me to marry either you.” I nod my head in Aidan’s direction. “Or you.” I look at Eoin.

CHAPTERNINETEEN

EOIN

The O’Connell Home, Darling, New York

I frown at her,and she returns it with a look of distaste. Good. I’m pleased the suggestion of our getting wed is as unattractive to her as it is to me.

I’ve confronted my unwanted reality.

I want to fuck her. It’s nothing more. That doesn’t mean I wish to marry her.

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