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“Just need some air.”
I nod. “Do you want some company?”
But she shakes her head quickly. “I don't. Just need…a minute.”
Well, fuck. I don’t want to let her go. Not only because I just really don’t want to be without her, as strange as that sounds, but now I’m concerned about her. “Do you need water or anything?”
She takes a breath, shakes her head slowly, and even gives me a smile. “No, I'm okay.”
I don’t believe her. At all. But I step back. She doesn’t want me to go with her so, okay, I’ll give her some space. It’s her sister’s wedding. I’ll see her again. “Well, I’ll be here. Come find me when you come back in.”
“Thanks for the dances.” She glances over toward the table where her sister and a woman I assume is their mother, are sitting. “And thank you for the rescue.”
“Those of us with opinionated sisters need to stick together.” I give her a smile as our gazes meet again and I feel that connection.
Then she says, “Okay. Um, bye,” before spinning and heading toward the kitchen.
Okay. Well, maybe she needs water but wants some space too. Or she needs another piece of cake but doesn’t want anyone to comment on that. Or maybe her grandpa has some moonshine stashed in the kitchen.
I’ll see her when she comes back in and will make sure she’s okay.
I hold my breath until she stops in the kitchen doorway and glances over her shoulder.
Then I relax. Yeah, I’ll see her again in a few minutes.
I already can’t wait.
And I’m pretty sure I’m going to kiss Abigail Landry tonight.
Things are definitely looking up.
Chapter 3
Torin
My office door opens, pulling me back to the present.
I spin, ready to tell Jonah, my best friend and bodyguard, or Samuel, my butler and personal assistant, to fuck off and just give me a damned minute.
I get out, “Can you just fu—” before I realize it’s not either of them.
Linnea Olsen closes the door quietly and then crosses the room to stand in front of my desk.
The sound of the two-inch heels on her black pumps against the stone floor is muffled by the sixty-year-old woven rug. It’s one of the newer things in the room.
This was my father’s office. Most of the first floor of a modest-sized home in Louisiana could fit inside this one room. The ceiling is thirty feet above me, and the grand chandelier hanging in the center is as old as the castle walls themselves.
The wall behind me is made up of floor-to-ceiling bookcases with more books on the balcony level above, accessible by the spiral staircase in the corner. Most of the books in here are older than I am. Many are older than the rug.
To my right is a huge stone fireplace, above which hangs a painting of my great-great-great-grandfather, Tadhg O’Grady, the Irish sailor who saved the life of Frederik the Seventh, then King of Denmark when pirates attacked their ship. That King of Denmark was the one who gave the island to Tadhg as a thank-you. Tadhg named it Cara, the Irish word for friend.
And thus began the O’Grady family’s rule of the tiny island nation that almost no one even knows exists.
I spent a lot of time in this room growing up. I loved the history, the books, the maps, the sense of being a part of something important that could be traced back so far and so directly.
Now, I feel restless in here.
I’m doing nothing inside this room. I have ideas. I come up with concepts. I think about the future. But I’m not doing anything now. I’m not conducting meetings. I’m not getting reports. I’m not negotiating, or brainstorming solutions, or watching anything actually come to fruition.
