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I turned my attention back to him when he spoke, noting tension now coiling in his shoulders. He didn’t look at me when he spoke, either, just stalked to the en suite bathroom and began to undress. I followed distractedly. When he tossed his undershirt in a hamper, I took it back out and swapped it for the dress shirt I’d been wearing.
He stilled, watching my every movement.
“Is this okay? I’m not sure where any of my stuff is, and I’m too tired to go digging around tonight.”
“No, I don’t mind.” A spark of hunger from before returned to his eyes. “I believe your intimates are in here.” He pointed out a column of drawers in the closet.
Locating a pair of pink panties, I slid them on, then went to the vanity to pull the pins from my hair. It took longer than necessary because my eyes were constantly drawn to the sight of his naked chest and powerful legs. It was the first time I’d seen him in his underwear. Boxer briefs that pulled snug around his strong thighs.
Once he’d put on joggers and a T-shirt, he stood in the doorway waiting for me to finish. “You hungry?”
“Yeah. Guess I am.” The ceremony had started at two, the reception at three thirty. We’d had cake and champagne but never got around to dinner.
Conner led us back through the house to the kitchen. Walking behind him, I realized that I liked the way he moved. Confident and powerful without unnecessary pretense. He reminded me of a racehorse—the underdog sort who ran swift and true despite a lack of breeding. His fortitude wasn’t taught or manufactured; he was born with it, as natural as the slight cleft in his chin.
“Your place is nice,” I said, feeling a need to fill the silence.
“Our place.”
“Right … our place,” I murmured. “That’s going to take some time to get used to.”
“Have a seat at the bar. You like risotto?”
My eyebrows hit my hairline. I wasn’t sure if I was more surprised he was offering to cook or that he was making Italian.
He smirked over his shoulder. “Don’t tell anyone, but Ma loves Italian. She loves to cook in general, and since I was an only child, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with her.” He moved with natural ease in the modern space, pulling out high-end cooking pans and ingredients from scratch. I considered asking about his connection to the Genoveses but decided against it. We were tiptoeing into some semblance of normalcy, and I didn’t want to rock the boat.
“Well, I wish I could tell you I know loads of Irish recipes, but that would be a lie. Idoknow how to cook, but mostly Italian.” Rather than sit like he suggested, I took out the butter and parmesan from the fridge.
“You have a favorite?” he asked, starting to chop an onion on a cutting board.
I leaned against the counter near him, realizing I’d begun to feel almost comfortable. Probably best not to think about it too much, or I’d draw out some worry to throw me off kilter. “I guess my favorite would be this enchilada casserole Mom taught me.”
“I hate to break it to you, but that’s not Italian.”
“I said I cookmostlyItalian with a few other dishes thrown in to keep things fresh.” I watched him cutting, feeling a tinge of sting in my eyes from the onion. “I don’t even know what Irish food is.”
“Potatoes,” he teased dryly. “Lotsof potatoes with the occasional sausage. Sheperd’s pie or a stew. Hearty food—gotta eat something to soak up the whiskey.” He tossed the onion into a warming skillet with a tablespoon of olive oil, then checked his phone.
“Shit,” he grumbled, frowning as he peered at the sizzling pan. “I have to go. You think you can finish this?”
“You’re leaving?” The words came out sounding more accusatory than I’d meant.
“That a problem?”
I shook my head quickly. “No,” I assured him. “Will there be someone here with me?”
His thick black brows drew together. “Does there need to be?”
“Not at all. I just haven’t been allowed home alone in a long time. It feels strange.”
A menacing shadow darkened his features. “This isn’t a prison, Noemi. I’d prefer if you had me or one of my men with you when you go out, but I’d like to think you don’t need someone lording over you.” He studied me for a second longer. “I need to get changed.”
Ten minutes later, he was gone.
Married and alone, like my mother had been. Was this how things had begun for her? Would I ever have any claim on him if Conner could be called away even on his wedding night?
As my brother’s magic Eightball would probably say: outlook not so good.
