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“Well, next time, I’d rather you didn’t risk my life, okay?” I say, turning away.
Her audible “humph” does nothing to stop my stride as I home in on the office.
Ouroffice, I remind myself as I approach. Sure, Connor is stationed here almost 24/7, does all of his work here and knows everybody by name. Whereas I… well… stumble in whenever I feel like it.
We’re still partners. There’s still a desk in there with my name on it.
Even if it’s currently being used as storage space for Connor’s files.
I lean casually against the doorframe, waiting for Connor to notice me. There’s no reason to walk around the base so quietly—it’s more of a force of habit at this point.
But my redheaded partner in literal crime falls for it every time.
“Jesus Christ, Arnold. I’m getting you a fucking bell,” the Maguire Don exclaims when he finally notices me watching him.
Connor never stopped using my full name, even after I insisted otherwise. I tried shortening his name in retaliation a few months ago, but my jaw has never fully recovered.
Ironically, however, Connor looks like his own jaw is having some trouble healing now.
“Was your face always like that?” I tease, enjoying the way Connor reddens.
“Don’t. I’m not in the mood,” he snarls in warning.
I throw my hands up in surrender. Connor’s left eye might still be swollen, but there’s no denying the fire of rage that burns within it. It’s not until he releases me from his glare that I take the opportunity to continue. “Just saying, it looks like you did three rounds in the ring with Mike Tyson… Oh, wait…”
I have to duck to avoid the mug he throws at me. “Jack Duffy is hardly Mike Tyson, you ass!”
The ceramic shatters behind me as I stand up straight again. I don’t bother mentioning that I’d have to disagree with him—the bastard son of Padraic Duffy really did a number on him. I suppose Connor’s only solace is that Jack can’t be looking much better.
“I take it there hasn’t been any more news?” I say in an attempt to lighten the conversation.
Connor sighs. “None. The bastard has disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“And your sister…?” I inquire carefully.
“Aimee made her choice,” Connor growls.
I make a mental note not to bring Aimee up again in casual conversation. For months, we’d been trying to locate the Maguire sisters after we heard a rumor that they were back in New York. Finding out that the oldest had been willingly staying with Jack Duffy, the Maguires’ oldest enemy, had stung more than the blows to Connor’s face.
“I was talking about Roisin,” I smooth over quickly.
The younger sister was still out there somewhere. All we knew was that Aimee had been keeping her safe.
Connor runs a hand through his long, shaggy hair and begins to tie it back off his face. “Of course,” he says, calmer now. “I suppose you’d be more interested in finding your wife, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s future wife,” I correct, trying to cover up my cringe.
I regretted the moment I pitched the idea to Connor. But he had nothing when we first met, and so agreeing to marry Roisin had seemed like a fair price for my financial support. In theory, it was a smart, pragmatic investment on my part.
But in practice…
“Whatever,” Connor says, rolling his eyes. “That’s what I wanted to discuss with you. I want you to head up the search for Roisin; make it your number one priority.”
I settle into a seat. Connor, in business mode, needs my full attention. “Resources?”
“Whatever we can spare,” Connor says firmly. “I need her here, safe, where I can watch over her. You’re the only person I trust with this.”
“I take it you’re not asking?” I say as I rest my feet on the desk.
