“She can scream it until she’s blue in the face that she’s a ‘modern’ woman, but she’s pretty traditional. Not that I want you to convince my best friend, who’s far too young for you, to marry you, but… I mean… if you’re going to marry her when she’s way too good for you, then at least do it right.”
He swallows when I pin him with a look.
The Irish haven’t trained him. That’s clear to see. He’s too easy to read. And as little as I like him, there’s no jealousy in his expression. Just concern.
For his friend.
I concede to his advice with a dip of my chin.
“Good night, Seamus.”
“Shay,” he corrects. "If you’re going to be hanging out around here, I’m just… Shay.”
I ignore him and make it to the landing. Peering around an opened door, I find his bedroom first, then check the others—a pool table?—until I’m left with the fourth and final one, which means they’re separated by two rooms. So she doesn’t hear him fuck if he brings someone home?Is she jealous?
Tapping on it now that I know it’s hers, I wait for her to grumble, “Come in.”
I pop my head around the door and grin when I find her pouting on a love seat. “I can always go back to the city if you don’t want my company.”
Giving me the side-eye, she holds out her hand. I walk past a lot of laundry on the floor—making note of the fact that we may need to increase our staff and that Seamus likely implemented the two-room containment zone—and crouch in front of her.
“You are well,kotik?”
“I’m better,” she admits, her voice softer. “Now.”
If I still had a heart, it would ache.
I rub my thumb over her knuckles. “Bad day?”
“Would you move to Montenegro with me?”
Because she’s scared, I hide my smile. “I would.”
“But you have to commutetoNew York. How would that work?”
“You’ve been stressing yourself out about this?”
She jerks upright, then paces from the window seat that overlooks the street, past me, and over toward the bed.Meanwhile, I take the opportunity to move onto the couch.
Enjoying this intimate glimpse into her room, I see a person who’snot as put-together as the world thinks. I see chaos and second thoughts and regrets. I see a woman who appreciates home comforts and prefers them to the clean lines of minimalism. I see a lover of unusual art as well as the mundane—a violin is propped up on a dresser. And I say “propped up” because it looks like it could fall off it at any minute.
My read on her reassures me—instinct told me that she’d like the farmhouse. This confirms it.
“I just don’t understand how you could move to Montenegro?”
“I’d have to change my name.”
She frowns. “What?”
“I couldn’t travel under Maxim Lyanov, and I couldn’t gain residency there through that name, either.”
“Because you’re wanted by Interpol?”
“Can you call yourself a crime boss if you’re not?”
She wafts a hand at me. “Now isn’t the time for posturing.”
“I would retire from the life of a criminal and I’d write a book.”
