Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
M iranda
I wake gradually, content and happy. I'm wondering why when last night comes rushing back in graphic detail. Air leaves me in a gasp, and I'm so wet my face flames. God, what is the matter with me?
Why did it have to be Declan Kelly? All these years, I was happy…okay, maybe not like exuberantly happy. Content is probably a better word. I liked—like my life. I do what I want when I want. There's no need to answer to anyone. Yes, there were times when it felt kind of boring and small, but I didn't mind at all. There's no angst in my life, and that was more important to me than anything else.
It's a good life. The life I wanted, there's a lot of money in my accounts, my home is paid off, as is my car, and my clothes have no rips, and the only frays are the shirts I retire to sleep in. I run a finger over the strap of the nightgown. The clothes I have might not have rips or frays, but they aren't anywhere near this lovely .
Staying safe meant being see-through. It meant dressing—even in the safety of my home—in plain, boring clothes. At home, I lived in oversized shirts and stretchy, comfy leggings. Outside of my home, I never wore anything that couldn't be confused with work clothes. Leggings clinging to thunder thighs, and my fat ass meant attention. Even things I slept in were boring. Old shirts, too worn to wear out, were all I wore to bed.
WhatI want to know is how he or whoever the shopper was bought the kind of beautiful dresses I longed to wear but didn't dare. These weren't clothes I could hide in.
The sound of a door closing yanks me out of my thoughts. I look at the plain black alarm clock on the bedside table. It's a little after nine in the morning. What the hell? I never sleep this late. I'm in bed by ten, read for an hour, and fall asleep before ten thirty. My alarm goes off at seven, and I'm at work by eight-thirty. Even on the weekends, I never manage to sleep past seven.
Shock gets me up and moving.
Another go around with the washcloth as a toothbrush. I brush out my hair andcan't be bothered to put it up in its usual bun. My stomach is growling again while I'm in the closet, trying to decide between a dress or a skirt and a pretty top. I go with a sundress, this in a swirl of blues, from sky to deepest azure.
I sigh. All those clothes and no slippers anywhere. I ignore my flats and decide to go barefoot.
As Igo downthe stairs, I find the blond-haired man waiting beside the door. He nods at me without looking at me, his eyes down. Weird.
In thekitchen,I find Aoife cooking at the stove. Her head comes up.
"Good morning, dear. Declan is having eggs, bacon, and toast. What would you like? I can do oatmeal, omelet?—"
"WhatDeclanis having is good, thank you."Not wanting to put her to any trouble.
Declan is at the table, sitting in the chair I was in last night. It is seriously unfair how gorgeous he is. He's wearing a deep blue silk suit. The shirt beneath it is snow white, and without a tie, his top button is open at his throat—the contrast of the honey of his skin against his shirt is something I can't take my eyes off.
Sitting down at the table with him feels too close. Except I don't want him to think I'm going to back down from him.
"Good mornin', darlin'. You're looking beautiful. Lydia has a gift."
"Who is Lydia?" The words are out without my permission, hating the way he smiles as he says her name.
The smile changes and becomes wicked and knowing, flashing dimples."The personal shopper. She specializes in helping women find clothes that fit plus sizes since there are so few designers. I had a cousin visit me a few years ago, and her luggage was lost. Lydia brings all the clothes to one place, so there's no need to go from store to store. Do not be thinking bad thoughts of her. She's recently married, and her husband is a possessive man who would have no problem making me pay for simply smiling at the woman."
I roll my eyes as Aoife brings a plate to the table.
Declan slides it across to me."Eat. I'll wait until Aoife makes more."
Opening my mouth to argue, he cuts me off with a firm shake of his head. "I won't be eating while you look at me doing it. It will only take her a few minutes. "
Embarrassed. I give in. I'm starving.
"Coffee, dear?" Aoife asks as she brings a pot to the table.
I nod. "Yes, please."
"Here's the cream. Declan won't use anything else." She sets an adorable small pitcher of cream on the table.
There's a small matching bowl on the table with a lid for sugar. I put a few spoonfuls into the large, heavy cup of coffee.
Declan's phone chimes. A frown appears before he answers the text.
"Am I at least going to get my purse back?"I ask while I remember.
A soft chuckle."No. It's not as though you have any need for it or your phone. You don't call anyone."
Ouch. Fucker. "Is the blond guy going to be babysitting me again?" More for anything to say than because I actually care.
He loses his smile. "Why does it matter if Colm is here? Did he say something to you? Do you want him to?"
The change in him is shocking. He's the mobster I thought of him as, a man who beat people—killed people.
I shake my head. "No, I'm just curious. I didn't even think to get his name."
His face softens, but there's still no smile. "It's Colm. You seemed more comfortable with him than Ryan. However, do not become too comfortable with him. If you do, I'll have to kill him."
"Why would you do that?" Horror fills me at how calmly he says it .
"Because I don't want to have to worry about him touching you. No one touches you but me. Do you understand?"Still that eerie calm.
I nod, unable to find my voice. He will kill someone over me? And I'm completely fucked in the head for it to turn me on. Michael frequently had me dressing with my breasts on show when we went to client dinners. Once a man grabbed my ass and explicitly said how he'd like to fuck me. When I complained to Michael, he shrugged and said to quit being such a prude.
The back door opens. It's the tall, dark man again—Ryan. "That cat is the devil. She scratched me all to hell. But she's in the cage, Declan."
"Banshee? What are you doing to her?"
"There's a rescue in St. Louis who will take her. The vet's office works with them. They were already on their way to Chicago this morning. Ryan, go on and take her to the vet. I need a little longer to have breakfast. By the time you're back, I'll be ready."
"You can't get rid of her. She loves you." I'm fighting tears for the demon cat.
An eyebrow goes up."While I have a soft spot for the cat, she comes and goes as she pleases. She rarely came into the house more than twice a week. She's also a cat. You're allergic, and she scratched you. There is no way in hell she's getting the chance to do it again."
I want so badly to argue. Only Aoife is back with a plate of eggs and bacon. He turns his attention to his food.
"I feel bad," I mutter .
"Don't." It's an order.
Jerk. I move the eggs around on my plate, losing my appetite.
Sighing,"Miranda, in the end, it's better for her. They'll find her a home. She will love the next person who gives her all the treats she wants."
"Anything else before I go upstairs to clean?" Aoife asks.
"I'm sorry. I made my bed, but?—"
"No worries, dear. It's my job."She assures me with a smile as Declan shakes his head.
Once she's gone, I immediately feel the air shift. My eyes find his on me without permission.
"You're going to be mad at me now for the cat." It's not a question.
I shrug. "It doesn't feel right to get rid of her when it's not like I'm going to be here long."
"Whether you're here for two weeks or two days, it's not an option for her to hurt you." The words are quiet, almost solemn.
How can he say that about the cat when I have no doubt in my mind he's going to hurt me far worse? Not physically. I don't know why, but I never once feared he'd be violent with me. But he's going to destroy me in a way that will hurt far worse than a fist ever could.
"I don't want to hurt you, Miranda." The words are soft—almost a whisper. How can he read me so easily? "If you think hiding from this will make it go away, you're wrong. It will only become an itch you can't scratch that will drive you mad with need."
I can't meet his eyes the way I feel him urging me to. Keeping my head down, I move eggs around on my plate. "I'm not built the way you are. I can't…" I shake my head. "How could you be married to someone and not care when they died?"
There isn't any anger the way I expect at me daring to question him. "Because I didn't know her. I never cared for her. It was an arranged marriage. I was young and dumb at twenty-five."
He shakes his head. "That's not true. I wasn't dumb. Meeting her, I knew we weren't going to work. She was only eighteen and desperate to leave Ireland. All she talked about was coming to America, to Chicago. I thought we could grow to care for each other. My parents didn't even like each other when they were married. Somehow, it turned to love. My mother adored my da, and she was the reason he got up in the morning… After she died, he was lost in his own world for years. I remember thinking I hope I never love someone that much."
I fight to blink back tears. His thoughts on love were too close to my own thoughts after watching my father grieve my mother. How I was almost glad I didn't love Michael the way my mother loved my father.
"She wasn't in Chicago six months before the new wore off for her. I encouraged her to go to school. To do something with her day. But she wanted none of it. She went back to Ireland to visit. It was supposed to be a week. She didn't come back until her da sent her back a month later. I didn't have any patience with her. I'll admit I could have been… nicer or something. A few months later, she was gone again. I told her I didn't care if she came back. Two weeks later, she was drunk in a car and ran into a fucking wall. The only thing I felt was relief she was the only person killed, and there weren't any kids."
"How old are you?" I eye the silver in his hair .
"I turned forty a few months ago."
"Were you born here in the States? Your accent is barely there sometimes—other times, it's super thick." I'm curious of everything to do with this man in a way Ishouldn'tbe.
"Iwas born here in Chicago, in this house. They didn't have enough time to get to the hospital. The lack of an accent is from my da's insistence I attend private schools throughout my education. He knew times were changing and education and the connections I would make in school with children of men with money would be important. In private schools, everything is uniform, even the way you speak. When I went to Ireland, I caught it bad, the heckling for lack of an accent." He chuckles at the memory.
"So you lived in Ireland?"
His nod is small. "When my mother passed, my da was out of it. I was sent to Ireland to live with an uncle."
When his mom died? He said he was only ten when she died. How awful of his father to send him away like that. I understand even more why he felt that way about love—his father's grief was so deep he cared more about it than his son's own pain of losing his mother.
"I enjoyed the years in Ireland, but it never felt like home. By the time I finished school, I wanted to come back. I asked if I could. He agreed—with the commandment I continue on to university. I applied to Northwestern and got in. I moved back in here with my da, and we had a few good years before he died."
"Northwestern? What did you get your degree in?"
A shrug of his broad shoulders. "Economics, I picked it on a lark, thinking I would change it eventually, but I never did. Much to my surprise, I grew fascinated. "
"A lark? Usually, when people pick a major as a lark, they don't pick economics. They pick psychology."
His smile appears again."Psychology. Alas, the Irish put no stock in such nonsense. Fairies and saints carry more weight than Freud or Jung."
Ican't help but laugh.
An alert sounds from his phone. "Ryan is back. I need to leave. If you need anything while I'm gone, let Aoife or Colm know."
With a nod, he pushes up from the table and is gone.
I'm glad he's gone. It was beginning to feel too…normal and nice. God, what's the matter with me? Get back to the damn audit so you can get out of here.
I work flat out until my stomach warns me it needs food. Giving in, I toss my pen down and stretch. It's annoying because I'm finally able to see the differences between last year and this one. The only problem is they're not huge, just enough to tug at the corner of my brain—I know something isn't right, but I'm not sure yet.
Getting up, I go into the kitchen to find Aoife in the middle of chopping what seems like a mountain of carrots, onions, and celery. "Well, hello there. I was beginning to worry about you. What would you like for lunch?"
Worried I'm bothering her, I shrug. "I'm good with a sandwich or something. Idon't?—"
Her smile is kind. "Dear, please stop being so shy. Colm was in here a half hour ago pleading for a Sheperd's Pie. It's only got a few minutes more to go. Declan would be angry as hell at me for not making you what you would like. If it's beyond my skill then I can order it in."
Blushing, "I would actually love Sheperd's Pie. It's never the same when I make it at home."
"Probably because you're only using ground beef instead of lamb."She glances at the stove, where a timer is running. "Three minutes. I'll slice the bread I baked earlier to go with it. We also need to sit down and go over your favorite things I need to shop for you. Have a seat."
I'm confused about her shopping for me. But don't want to bother her while she's busy.
The moment the timer goes off, Colm is through the door. Rubbing his hands, he's smiling big. "I can't wait, Aoife. It smells delicious."
I notice he's careful not to even glance my way. Remembering Declan's warning about killing him if I were nice to him, I'm guessing Declan gave him a similar warning. I still need to figure out why his being so possessive turned me on.
I'm grateful when Aoife yanks me out of my thoughts as she brings multiple plates to the table. Two filled with a generous serving of the pie and two with thick bread. She also has a little plate of butter.
Colm has already taken his own plate and left the room. Aoife brings her own plate to the table, as well as a sparkling water for me."When Declan told me to refresh the guest room yesterday, I wondered about you. Seeing him today confirmed it.I'mso happy he finally found you."
Confused. "I'm sorry?" I don't really understand what the heck she's talking about. Was it that big of a deal to do the audit?
She chuckles."You and Declan.I'venever seen him like this with a woman."
I shake my head."I'monly here to do the audit."
This time, she lets loose a shout of laughter. "Right. He removed Banshee for you. His care for the cat was well-known to everyone. No one was allowed to mistreat the foul creature in any way. He might have said it wasn't a big deal, but he refused to see her before he told Ryan to take her away."
My chest goes tight at the idea of him getting rid of the cat for me when it did matter to him. "I knew it. I told him not to. The cat didn't mean it. I'm not going to be here long."
"Interesting. He wants me to get your favorite foods and any drinks you might like, so anytime you want something, you can have it. Declan hasn't cared in the past if a woman had a food allergy—or any type of allergy—let alone had me shopping for the food she wanted." She's curious as soft brown eyes run over me.
I'm blushing. He said it himself last night. He'd never taken care of someone before. While I believed him, her surprise over it slams it home. "I don't want to get involved with him. I'm only here to do the audit."
"You're thinking if you say it enough times it will make it true?" Her eyebrows are up.
"It is true."
A small smile. "All right, dear."
I want to argue with her, but the woman's eyes are too sharp to hide from .
Long after I finished eating lunch and gave her the list she demanded, I can't stop thinking of what she said.