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Digger: You okay?
Digger: Good girl for not texting and driving.
Digger: I’m outside the building.
Me: Grab a coffee. I’ll text you soon. I think Conor will let you up once I explain everything.
Me: I like being your good girl.
“You want to tell me why a bike was following us?”
I blinked at that then jerked when I saw Conor standing beside me, reading my messages to Digger.
With a squeak, I held my phone to my chest. “Conor! That was rude.”
He smirked at me. “You tugged on my hair. I think you deserve some minor embarrassment. You got a praise kink, huh? Interesting.”
I stared at him. “Excuse me? I don’t have a kink!”
What was it with him and Digger trying to make out like I had fetishes and kinks?
“Sure you do. ‘Good girl?’”
At his arched brow, my cheeks blossomed with heat. “Don’t be—”
“Facetious?” He yawned. “That’s my job. Come on. Let’s get upstairs. It’s fucking cold down here.”
Still gaping at him, still embarrassed as hell, I followed him as he wandered over to an elevator. He tapped in a few buttons that I realized were a keycode, then he murmured, “Well? Who was the biker? This Digger guy who’s got your panties in a bunch?”
I swallowed. “He’s my husband.”
Thatgained his full attention.
But he raised a hand. “I need a gallon of coffee before we can have this conversation. I already know that it’s going to give me a migraine.”
“Welcome to my life,” I muttered.
At his grunt, I fell silent, but my cell burned a hole in my pocket when it vibrated with Digger’s replies.
Thankfully, we were delivered to the penthouse in short order. As the doors opened, Conor snagged a hold of my hand and dragged me behind him when he saw there were bags on the floor.
“Who’s there?”
“Conor!”
“Aoife? What are you doing here?”
“Brought you some leftovers,” the other woman chirped from someplace in the penthouse.
I knew Aoife was the money man’s bride—Finn O’Grady. Hers was the wedding my family hadn’t been invited to and which my father had raged over for days. Even with the bloodbath ending.
“Leftovers?” Conor crowed, surprising me by triumphantly fist-pumping the air. “What about apple pie?”
There was a soft chuckle. “How could I forget about your damn apple pie obsession?” she called out.
Smirking, he loped off, forgetting me when apple pie was in the vicinity and leaving me to linger in the lobby.
For a moment, I took in the minimalist living room, complete with a white leather couch that would seat fifteen, and odd lighting that either belonged in a strip joint or a lab.
