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With one last glare at myself, I take a deep breath, striding out of the bedroom and taking the stairs slowly.
When I walk into the kitchen, Connor is seated at the small table, staring unseeing out the window, two mugs of coffee on the table in front of him. Wow. I don’t think anyone has ever made me coffee in the morning unless I’ve paid the cashier for it.
My heart thuds as I slide into the seat across from him. I pick up the coffee and offer him a small smile.
“Thanks.”
He glances at me, blinking in surprise like he didn’t notice I was there.
“For the coffee,” I clarify, holding the mug up. Connor nods, his fingers stroking the top of his cup thoughtfully as he watches me take a sip.
He looks out the window over the driveway along the side of the house, his eyes distant, and when he speaks, it’s almost absently.
“I was six the first time I saw someone die.”
Holy shit. My eyes flare wide, and I mechanically raise my mug to my mouth, taking a sip, not tasting the coffee. My mind is racing. Is he supposed to tell me this stuff? Is it to make sure I can keep my mouth shut. I’m not supposed to talk about what Connor does or says to anyone, not even Lauren. Is he testing me?
“He was an associate of my pa’s,” Connor continues, still stroking his mug, staring out the window at the neighbor’s trees. “But he must have done something wrong because my pa shot him.”
The air at my nostrils feels cold, and I force myself to keep lifting my mug to my mouth and taking sips. Poor little baby Connor. Poor grown-up Connor that he can talk so…matter-of-factly about watching a man die when he was tiny.
“I hid underneath my bed. That’s where my mammy found me.” Connor’s Irish burr is soft, barely present. Like his childhood accent is warring with his adult speech.
Sighing, Connor glances over at me, his eyes flickering over my face as he turns back to the window. His fingers leave the mug, and he hesitates before flipping my hand over where it lies on the table, his fingers stroking ever so gently over my palm.
“She told me to come out from underneath the bed. Told me there was nothing to be scared about. That my pa didn’t always do the right thing, but he’d always do the right thing by us.”
I’m half wondering what brought this on, why he’s telling me these things. Surely he shouldn’t be telling me these things? The other half of me is trying not to squirm because his lightly stroking fingers on my palm are driving me crazy.
“Does it still scare you to see someone die?” I whisper, my voice jarringly loud in the silent room.
Connor’s fingers stop stroking, his eyes snapping back to mine. Sighing, he withdraws his hand, picking up his mug as he shakes his head.
“No, lass. I don’t feel anything at all. Maybe that fact should scare me.”
Maybe that fact should scareme. Nodding, I finish my coffee and stand, moving to make Connor bacon and eggs for breakfast, the way he likes them.
CONNOR
I should not have told Andie any of that shite before breakfast. What the fuck was I thinking? Jesus fuck, I clearly wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have stroked her hand like that either.
She’s my housekeeper. I shouldn’t be thinking about her the way I do. I shouldn’t be thinking about how I want to tangle my fingers in her silky hair as I finally taste that sweet mouth. I shouldn’t think about how I want to fuck her up against the kitchen wall.
Instead of heading out to the back cottage after breakfast, as I usually do, I go back upstairs to work out my sexual frustrations on my punching bag.
When I woke up early this morning – no fucking idea why – and searched for Andie. She wasn’t anywhere in the house, and her sedan was still here.
Just when I was about to lose my shit and see if she was in the back cottage, where I fuckingtoldher not to go, she let herself in through the front door, looking gorgeous and sweaty and half-dressed.
It was simultaneously the best and worst morning of my life. Once my brain restarted – after frying momentarily when confronted with all that smooth, glorious flesh – I wanted to snap at her that she was to wear more clothing when she ran. But I stopped just in time because that’s none of my business.
She’s not my woman. I have no right to tell her what she should and shouldn’t be wearing. I also had to stop myself from fucking her senseless against the accent table in the entranceway, but it was a close thing.
Andie disappeared to her level to shower and thankfully came back downstairs in one of the baggy sweaters she loves so much.
It’s a crying shame to cover up such a glorious body, but it’s for the best. But Andie sat across from me, and I could smell the mango and honey scent that always seems to cling to her, and it was like my tongue had a mind of its own, blabbing shite I’ve never told anyone. Not even Seamus.
Slamming my fists repeatedly into the punching bag, I grunt and contemplate her reaction to my confessions. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t what I got. She didn’t run screaming for the hills. She didn’t even move her hand away when I started stroking it. I’m not sure why I did that, but fuck me, it felt nice.
