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The smart response I expect never comes. The moment we enter the foyer, Nash’s attention catches on the photographs covering the walls.
They aren’t formal portraits. They’re birthdays, graduations, vacations and Christmas mornings. Ronan missing his two front teeth, Liam covered head to toe in mud, Finn asleep against Kieran’s chest. Conor stares solemnly at a birthday cake while his brothers crowd around him, and Declan is there too, woven through the years with the rest of them.
I’ve walked past these photographs more times than I can count. Nash takes his time with them, moving from one to the next while his hand stays in mine.
“There you are,” Alessia says as she steps into the foyer.
Chapter 22 Nash
Alessia’s voice pulls my attention away from the wall of family photographs. I expected a house like this to be filled with expensive artwork chosen by an interior designer who probably charges more for an hour than most people make in a month. Instead, the first thing I see when I walk in is decades of Murphy family chaos covering the walls. The house is huge, but it feels like people actually live here.
“Let’s head to the family room for cocktails before dinner.”
Duncan keeps my hand in his as we follow her, and I make absolutely no attempt to take it back. I’m still figuring out what the hell we’re doing, but apparently holding hands with my boss-slash-Daddy-slash-whatever-he-is has already made the list of things I’m willing to accept.
Kieran is waiting in the family room. He hands Duncan a glass of what looks like Scotch, and my stomach turns just watching him take it. I’ve never understood the appeal of drinking anything that tastes like it could remove paint.
Alessia catches my expression and laughs. “I can’t stand it either. I have no idea how they drink that stuff.”
Thank God. One normal person in this family.
Then Kieran reaches for a pitcher filled with dark red liquid, oranges and berries floating inside. Sangria. Much better. He pours a glass for Alessia and offers me another.
“Thank you.”
One sip confirms that whoever made it understands alcohol should taste like fruit and poor decisions. I could very easily forget how much is in this, which may become useful because Kieran hasn’t stopped watching me.
I take another sip before meeting his stare. Duncan believes I had nothing to do with those photographs, but Declan certainly didn’t last night, and I have no idea what Kieran or Alessia believes. If they brought me here to question me, I’d rather get it over with than spend dinner waiting for someone to start.
“Can we just do the interrogation now?”
Kieran’s eyebrows lift slightly.
“The pictures,” I clarify. “I didn’t set Duncan up, I didn’t know anyone was outside that limo, and I definitely didn’t arrange for some photographer to catch me leaving your brother tied up with his own belt.”
Duncan makes a sound beside me that could be a cough.
Kieran takes a slow sip of his Scotch. “We believe you.”
Well, fuck. I had an entire defense prepared. I look between the three of them. “Then what am I doing here?”
“We wanted to talk to you and get to know you better,” Alessia says.
“You wanted to get to know him,” Kieran mutters into his glass.
Alessia turns her head and looks at him. That’s all she does. The man who has been silently assessing me since I walked into the room suddenly becomes very interested in his Scotch, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Good to know who actually runs the Murphy family.
An older man in a chef’s coat appears in the doorway before I can ask why Alessia wants to know me better. “Dinner is served.”
I take another drink of sangria while my brain supplies the announcement again in the most obnoxiously posh British accent possible. Apparently, this is my life now. I got finger-fucked and denied an orgasm in a secret bedroom behind a billionaire’s office, and now I’m drinking sangria while his family’s private chef announces dinner. What the actual fuck happened to my day?
“Thank you, Franklin.”
Alessia slips her arm through mine and starts toward the dining room. I go with her, still holding my sangria and trying to figure out how I went from preparing for an interrogation to being escorted to dinner like we’re old friends.
Dinner is fucking incredible. The prime rib is cooked perfectly, the roasted potatoes are good enough that I go back for seconds, and Franklin has somehow made vegetables taste like something I voluntarily want to eat. Whatever sauce he put on them could probably convince me to eat cardboard.
The conversation stays light through most of the meal, with Alessia asking about where I grew up, how long I’ve lived in Philadelphia, and what I do when I’m not working. Dinner has serious meet-the-parents vibes, which would probably be less terrifying if Duncan and I had made it through an actual first date before he brought me home to his family. Somewhere between my second helping of potatoes and another glass of sangria, though, I stop waiting for the interrogation that never comes. Then Alessia asks if I have any siblings, and my fork slows halfway to my mouth.
