Page 6 of Carnal Wagers

“Anything else?” Cillian asked after the mayor steered for the door.

“Now we start our lives as husband and wife.” Did I really need to explain this to him? He’d been married before. He knew the drill. “How about dinner? We can get to know each other. My family has reservations, but if you want something more intimate, there is this fantastic little place nearby that—”

“Count me out.”

Three little words had never made me feel as small and insignificant as I did right then, as he turned away from me like he hadn’t been crushing my hopes since he’d entered this room.

Slack-jawed, I grabbed his arm. Given Adrien’s aversion to touch, I should have known better, but I needed something to hold onto when everything I’d ever hoped for in a spouse was slipping through my fingers. Love? Go fish. Kisses or hand-holding? Nope, shards of glass were friendlier. A drop of affection? My blood was warmer. Someone I could count on? I might as well mix sulfur and sodium nitrate together to incinerate a hole through my chest. And I could keep wishing for friendship. He was never going to be my person. Ten minutes in his presence, and that fact couldn’t be any clearer.

“What did I say?” His glare pinned my hand where it rested on his arm.

“You’ll get used to me,” I said with the same courage I normally used to bulldoze my way through life.

“Don’t care to. If the heavens be good, we’ll never see each other again.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I’ve never been a believer.”

“Better start, sweetheart.”

He twisted out of my grip, then strode out of the room and out of my life, as if we weren’t bound together for better or worse until death do us part.

My cheeks flushed with embarrassment as the rest of the O’Learys followed suit, none looking particularly contrite, except for maybe the one with curly hair and a face covered in freckles. He gave me a what-can-you-do shrug and left too.

My eyes watered, but no tears fell. He wasn’t worth them, and in some twisted way, neither was I. Story of my life.

Chapter 3

“That was…”—My mother pressed her manicured hand flat against her chest—“ungracious.”

“As long as they come when called, it’s what we signed up for.” My father kissed the top of her head.

“Is it?” I swept my veil up. “How is this what I signed up for?”

“Might I remind you, you were more than accepting when I first proposed this?”

I nodded, nausea coating my mouth. I had, out of love for my family and responsibility for my twin’s behavior, which put us all on the verge of war with one of the strongest Italian American mafioso families in the world. Out of duty, I hadn’t even asked for many details because I’d believed that, no matter what, my father would arrange something to my benefit. So far, I was wrong on all counts today.

“So I guess this means he won’t be living with me.”

“No.”

“Alizé…” I couldn’t stand the pity in my mother’s voice. My cheeks started prickling, my inhales clogging my chest.

“And obviously, after…that”—I waved my hand at the door—“I’m not moving to Boston with him. Not that I’d do it anyway. But it never was an option, was it?”

“No.”

“Right.”

I bobbed my head, biting my lips together and closing my eyes. Already, I could feel the walls closing in. The room swayed. Everything was too tight. Too bright. Too empty. Too full. Spiraling out of control. Today was supposed to be easy, straightforward, even a little glamorous. He’d crashed through that and trudged over the shards of my expectations like they were worthless trash. Like I was worthless trash.

Not now, I begged. I couldn’t deal with a panic attack on top of everything else. I hadn’t brought the items I usually wore to contain these attacks.

I spun around and faced that same antique desk where I’d signed the contract. My parents couldn’t see me like this. They wouldn’t understand or show concern. They’d only accuse me of attention-seeking.

Snap out of it. I counted, then recited rhyming words. Neither worked. My eyes leaked. I looked at the murals. At the ceiling. At the windows. At the floor, searching for something to center me. My nails dug into my wrist over the old, scarred lines. Quickly, the pain registered, clear and unfiltered. It stung. It hurt, and that grounded me.

I took one deep inhale, then a second, and a third, and reminded myself of who I was. A boss bitch. The beautiful and sexy owner of a company I started from scratch, with more firing neurons in my frontal cortex than that Irish American bastard had in his entire brain. This happened. I had to accept it and move on.