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Donnacha
I’ve been in my corner office at the Quinn Capital building for approximately three seconds when I hear the pitter-patter of chubby feet coming down the hall.
Grinning, I crouch behind the glass door and shoot my arms out at just the right time to catch Gus. I drag him into my lap, tickling his pot belly and making him gurgle until I fear he’ll be sick.
“Don Don,” he chimes, throwing his pudgy arms around my neck.
“Hey, kiddo.” I pluck the handkerchief from my top pocket and wipe off the melted chocolate from his cheeks. While his older sister, Valentina, inherited her mom’s pale skin and red hair, Fergus looks exactly like a Quinn, and especially like his namesake, Donnacha’s father. Tanned skin, shock of black hair, and of course, those amber eyes, which are now darting around my face curiously. “Where’s your mama?” I ask, letting him swing on my neck like a monkey as we head down the hall to Poppy’s office.
She’s standing behind a pile of mail on her desk, brandishing a letter opener.
Immediately, her eyes drop to her son, and her face splits into a grin as cooing noises bubble from her mouth. When they land on me, however, she grips the letter opener a little tighter.
“Aw, come on, Pops,” I moan, catching Gus just before he attempts to leap from my chest like an Olympic diver. “You gonna stay mad at me forever?”
“I’m considering it,” she mutters, pretending the letter in her hands has all of her attention. “Although, I can’t say I’m not surprised.”
“About what, my darling sister-in-law?”
She steals a glance at me. “That you’re in such a good mood today. The last few times I’ve seen you, you’ve had a face like thunder.” Dropping a hip, she points the sharp tip of the letter opener in my direction. “What’s changed? What have you done?”
Gus plops his padded butt on the floor and scoots across the carpet like a dog wiping shit from its ass. Kids are weird.
“You really think the worst of me.”
“Wanna know what I think?”
“No, but when has that ever made you hold your tongue?”
Ignoring my snipe, she rounds the desk and makes a beeline for me, scooping her son up en route.
“I think your fake wife is getting under your skin.” Plucking her cell from her purse, she thrusts it under my nose. A photo of Romy and me gleams back up at me. It takes a moment but then I recognize where it’s from: The Blacks’ winter ball. As the storm blusters around us, I have her pulled tight to my tux, her silver hair billowing in the wind. Her hand is on my chest, the ring on her finger gleaming like a shooting star. I know she was just shielding herself from the camera, but the photographer has captured a split second in time when it looks like she’s laughing.
I take the phone from Poppy’s hands and zoom in with my thumb and forefinger.
We look happy in the way that smug-ass, loved-up couples do. Like the umbrella is not only shielding us from the rain but also the real world. And everything that happens underneath it belongs to us. Private jokes, secret promises. Memories that only the two of us share.
We look normal.
“I knew it,” Poppy hisses, snatching her phone from my hands and giving it absentmindedly to Gus, who proceeds to gnaw at its corners. “You’re in love.”
Love.
I let out a bitter laugh at the thought. Love? The word is so fucking foreign to me that it might as well be a different language.
I’ve never felt it. Never wanted it. Never needed it.
I’m in…fascination.
Yeah, I’m fascinated by her. By what she does to every fucking organ in my body. She makes my brain spin, my heart beat, and my cock pulsate. Every moment spent in Boston, either down in the Tunnels or up in the clouds at Quinn Capital is a moment I’m itching to peel down Highway One to get back to her.
I crave the taste of her sweet juices on my tongue. The burn of her nails as they rake across my shoulder blades. I’m addicted to her as much as I’m addicted to the sick games we play. Every time she breaks instead of bends, I become even more fascinated with her.
“Mrs. Quinn?”
We both look around at the sound of a voice by the door. A dowdy girl clutches a package with a stack of letters balancing on top. She looks like she’d rather catapult herself out the window than interrupt our conversation.
“Hi, sweetie. Just stick them in the corner, please.”
