CHAPTER FIVE

SPARROW

I SCURRIED MY way to the kitchen at dawn. Confused about my last encounter with Troy, I wanted nothing more than to be on his good side.

Fine, I would just admit it—I wanted that job.

And let’s face it, it moved something inside me to know that he’d noticed me at church. That he’d noticed me at all. So I decided that I was going to give Troy Brennan an honest chance not to be a world-class jerk.

I fixed him breakfast, fluffy blueberry pancakes with maple syrup and a cup of hot chocolate—my personal favorite—and greeted him with a big smile when he walked down the stairs, squinting away the morning sun. He was still wearing his briefs and sporting some serious morning wood. And when I said “wood,” I meant more like a forest.

My curiosity got the better of me and I peeked down, trying to calculate the size of him as I pretended to straighten the silverware and napkins I’d set out on the island.

I was no expert, but his junk looked like something that could comfortably fit into the exhaust pipe of a truck and not, so help me God, into my vagina. I might have taken a moment or three to stare, interest and fear flickering in my eyes.

“Don’t worry, Red. It doesn’t bite.” He yawned into his forearm, nudging me out of the way to reach for the coffee pot on the counter behind me.

“But it can spit,” I offered over my shoulder, smiling coyly.

He sent me a crooked, condescending smirk. “Not at you, with the way you’ve been treating it so far.”

He was being an ass again, but I kept trying, not letting my ego get the better of me. I pointed at the large dish on the island. “Pancakes. Right here, hot and fluffy. And hot chocolate, too. Do you want some whipped cream?”

I wanted him to remember the girl he wanted to marry. I wanted myself to forget that he was the man my father worked for. I wanted us to try and be something, even if it was stupid and naive.

“I don’t eat sugary crap,” he answered unapologetically, his voice bone-dry. “And I definitely don’t drink hot fucking chocolate. But next time I’m hosting a tea party, I’ll borrow a tutu and you can help me fix some cupcakes.”

My ears pinked as I withdrew the plate of hot pancakes from the placemat, swallowing back the bitter lump in my throat. I marched to the sink and dumped the food with a loud clank. I broke his stupid, precious, probably expensive plate. Good.

Silent, Troy plucked a banana from the wire bowl on the countertop. He opened the fridge, pulling out some OJ and plain yogurt, and banged the fridge shut with his foot.

Still mostly naked. Still hard as stone.

“I’ll be in my office upstairs. Don’t forget dinner tonight,” he said, walking away. “I left another credit card on your nightstand. Try to look your part. No Keds bullshit or emo-kid hoodies. Got it?”

“Jesus Christ.” I scowled. “Chauvinist much?”

“Not much, just enough to want my wife to look like a woman and not a twelve-year-old boy who raided Hot Topic.”

I wanted to tell him he was being a dick, but knew it wouldn’t help my chances of scoring the job. Instead, I balled up my fists, ground my teeth and stormed out of the apartment, banging the door shut behind me.

I was practically able to feel the hair on my head graying when I jabbed at the elevator button aggressively, gave up after a few seconds—too pumped on my own boiling anger to stand still—and took the stairs down to the lobby of his building, two at a time. I climbed down all freaking fourteen floors and started my morning run without my gear or running shoes. Just Keds. The ass. All I had was tons of energy to burn.

And that was enough.

When my feet hit the cold, damp sidewalk, my breath evened. Finally, a minor bliss.

As I plugged in my earbuds and played “Last Resort” by Papa Roach to accompany my run—I needed something angry just like me—I already felt Connor on my heels, trying to catch up with my pace.

I was going to waste the day away, and fantasize about the million opportunities I’d have to shove a fork into my husband’s chest at dinner. The last thing I’d do was follow his instructions and become a sweet, pretty wife in a dress.

And every time he pushed—I’d pulled harder.

I DIDN’T BUY anything seductive or alluring for our dinner out, like Troy had ordered. In fact, I refused to leave the kitchen, drowning my frustrations in making food. Tons and tons of food. I used all the ingredients in the cupboards and fridge, and spent the day fussing over food for the shelter.

Hours of solitary cooking made me finally come to terms with the gravity of my situation. Until last night, I hadn’t exactly been sure what was happening. I hadn’t fully digested the fact that I had married this man.

But now it was real.

And it was scaring the hell out of me.

Connor was pacing back and forth in the living room, talking on the phone. I was almost tempted to use the opportunity to try and run away. Then again, where the hell would I go? My dad would hand me right back to Brennan, fearing the consequences of thwarting his boss. I couldn’t burden Lucy with my presence, and no loan shark was going to hand me enough to flee town, seeing as they all knew my husband or one of his family members, and at the very least, didn’t want to mess with him.

At four p.m., Maria stormed into the kitchen with a face like thundercloud, informing me that it was time to clean up all the mess I’d made and that I had to evacuate her kitchen before she grabbed me by the hair and did it herself (not in so many words, but her shouting in Spanish and hand waving certainly implied it). She was extra pissed off today, with a dash of furious, because she had a double shift both at Andrea’s and at Troy’s. Apparently he spilled some OJ in his study earlier in the morning, and of course, his hands were too precious to clean up the mess himself. Now she had to clean my mess, too.

She announced that Mr. Brennan would pick me up at eight p.m. from the lobby of our building and that I should be ready in an evening gown. I snorted into my chest, deeply focused on packing a double batch of mac and cheese. The amount of food I’d prepared could probably feed a whole army, and not a small one either. But cooking was therapeutic, and I needed a way to distract myself from my reality. From him.

“I don’t have an evening gown,” I grumbled, pivoting to the oven and taking out the coconut pies. I only had one little black dress in my closet. I wore it to weddings, funerals and I was planning to wear it to my first-ever date tonight. Anything in-between didn’t require fancy attire. In my opinion anyway.

“Too late to go buy,” she barked at me, disappointed with my inability to follow simple instructions from my husband. “What do you do? Mr. Brennan will be mad!”

“He’s always mad.”

Maria let out an exasperated sigh and turned around, fishing her cell phone out of her apron. She pressed the phone to her ear and shot me an annoyed glare. When the person on the other line answered, she started talking to them animatedly in Spanish. I wiped my hands on my pants, mildly interested in this turn of events.

Finally, after a few minutes, she hung up on the person and wiggled her finger at me. “My daughter will give you nice dress. She your size. But you no dirty it and you give back after dry clean. Comprende?”

I nodded, a little shocked and a lot relieved. I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand why she’d want to help me. Either way, I was glad Brennan would see me in something presentable and perhaps give me this job.

“Thanks, I guess.” I followed her movements as she began cleaning up after me.

“You,” she said furiously, scrubbing pans and shielding me away from helping her with her shoulder, “are little girl. He,” she continued, pointing upstairs with her chin to where the bedroom was, “a big, powerful man. You no annoying him, or he dump your ass.”

I couldn’t help but break into a laugh. “Dump your ass” was just about the funniest thing Maria had ever said to me.

I shook my head and walked to her, pouting my apology. “You’re right. And please don’t clean after me. I can do this myself.” I carefully tried to pry a dirty pan from her hand.

She rolled her eyes and elbowed me away. “Let me clean, silly girl.”

I packed up all the food that I’d made and dispatched it to the homeless shelter, via a taxi and a big tip from Connor, who refused to let me deliver it myself.

I didn’t get to meet Maria’s daughter. She left the cocktail dress for Connor to pick up in the lobby along with a pair of high heels while I was in the shower. Those, too, were exactly my size. When I walked into the bedroom, the gown was already laid out on Troy’s big bed. It was a peach-colored and sleeveless, with a sweetheart neckline and a thin gold belt.

At 7:45, I zipped it on me, added some makeup (not too much, just a little mascara and lip gloss to cover up my freckles and hours of self-pity) and rode the elevator down to the lobby.

Not to my surprise, Troy was late. I texted Lucy and Daisy while sitting in one of the creamy leather chairs, waiting for him. A sudden urge to wrap myself up in familiarity, in their friendship, gripped me. Plus, it was evident they were more than a little suspicious about my sudden disappearance from our neighborhood.

Me: Hey, girls, want to have drinks next week?

Lucy: You tell us.

Me: ?

Daisy: Stopped by your house. Your dad said something about you moving out. What’re you hiding, Birdie?

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Guess the reassuring messages I’d sent my friends hadn’t really make the impact I was hoping for.

Me: You must have misunderstood. I’m not hiding anything. Just busy. My interview is in a few minutes, btw.

Lucy: You worked at a diner and take cooking classes. Now all of a sudden, you have a job interview at Rouge Bis? One to ten, how stupid do you think we are?

Me: Mmm…5?

Me again: Kidding. Look, I can explain.

No, I couldn’t. And that was the worst part. I knew they’d find out eventually, but I didn’t want to deal.

Daisy: You better. We’ll be waiting for you @ our usual spot. Good luck with the interview.

I was about to fire Lucy and Daisy another message when I heard footfalls and my eyes shot up from my cell. I recognized his walk. It was elegant, self-assured and claimed the space he’d just entered. He wore a pale gray suit that somehow made him look even taller and broader. I stood up, smoothing my dress with my hands and looking at him like a guilty kid.

“How were the pancakes?” Brennan placed a dry, impersonal kiss on my cheek.

Like he had to. Like I was an annoying aunt. He also seemed to have forgotten (or not noticed) I’d thrown the stack of pancakes in the sink. Wow, what an attentive husband. Lucky me.

“Worth all the sugary crap in them.” I tipped my chin up defiantly, then rethought the attitude. I wanted that job. “Like my dress?”

Brennan frowned, but his expression looked more puzzled than angry. “You picked this dress yourself?” He took a step back, examining me. His frown made him no less easy on the eyes.

In fact, any expression other than his cold shark-gaze made my pulse increase. He wasn’t unattractive, and it bothered me. A lot.

“Shopping wasn’t first priority,” I admitted, making sure there was enough distance between us. Brennan was hot. Not just figuratively, he actually radiated warmth. “Maria was kind enough to call her daughter and ask if I could borrow a dress from her.”

“Her daughter?” He studied my face as we made our way out of the lobby, like he didn’t believe me.

“Yeah, her daughter. Why? Is it too peachy for your taste? Or maybe you were expecting a leather thong like my wedding gift?” I cocked an eyebrow, shivering as we exited into another cold, drizzling night.

He simply pressed his palm possessively into the small of my back and led me out to the awning-covered sidewalk. I tried to ignore the bolt of lust shooting down my belly at his touch. I wanted to move into his heat. Probably just the fact I had little to no experience with the opposite sex, I tried convincing myself. After all, I hated this man. My body, as it turned out, didn’t share the sentiment.

“You look nice,” he offered, though everything about his compliment felt like it had a hidden meaning, as per usual.

“Thank you.”

The street was buzzing with traffic and pedestrians. I recognized his car from his visit to my neighborhood. The white Maserati—a stark contrast to a mob-style black Mercedes, I didn’t fail to note—was double-parked in the middle of the one-way street in front of the building. He’d created an unapologetic traffic jam, blocking the way of a dozen vehicles behind him. People were honking and swearing, waving their fists out of their car windows despite the rain.

But when they saw it was Troy Brennan who approached the shiny GranTurismo, they swiftly tucked their heads back into their cars and rolled their windows up. I actually heard the clicks of the closest doors locking in unison.

Embarrassed beyond words and horrified by my other half’s arrogance, I shook off his touch and picked up my pace to his car. He carried an unopened umbrella, but didn’t increase his speed or spare me a second glance as I rushed to avoid getting wet. I still couldn’t believe it was so rainy and cold in June. It was like the whole world had conspired against Sparrow Raynes. It was bad enough to deal with this guy without nature deciding to taunt me with constant clouds.

“Did you have to block all those people?” I asked as I fastened my seatbelt.

“No.” He met my gaze, unblinking, as he climbed behind the wheel. “Just didn’t care enough not to.”

I stared out the window with pursed lips and thunder in my eyes as the car rolled into Boston’s unforgiving Friday-night traffic, trying to let the chilly leather seat cool my temper. The radio station played “Heavy Is The Head” by the Zac Brown Band and Chris Cornell. Pretty ironic, I thought bitterly.

“You can wipe that satisfied grin off your face,” I said after a steadying breath. I could see his amusement from my peripheral vision. “Rudeness doesn’t impress me. I’ve never seen the appeal of the whole angry-asshole façade, and I’d definitely never fall for someone like you.”

"Troy Brennan. Nice to meet you. There’s always a first time for everything.”

“Maybe this…” I waved my finger between us. “Will be the first time you realize that not all women are the gold-digging, cookie-cutter, cardboard stereotype you’ve been dating so far.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t burn all your bridges to my good graces.” His smirk somehow broke into an even wider smile. “You have something you want from me tonight, Red.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He flashed me a quick glance before training his amused gaze back on the road. “Because you agreed to have dinner with me.”

I blew some air out of my lungs, rubbing my bare arms. He noticed and turned on the heater. Sadly, it was the nicest thing he’d ever done for me.

“Okay, you’re right. I have a suggestion I need to run by you.” My voice was thick.

“Later,” Brennan said, and I decided not to push for now.

As the silence stretched. I adjusted my dress, pried at the high heels that felt too tight.

“How’s your foot tonight?” he suddenly asked.

“Better,” I answered automatically, then bit my inner cheek once I realized what I’d done. Shit.

I was collecting shit-moments by the second this evening.

His lips pressed together in a thin line. “I’m a lot of bad things, but an idiot is not one of them. I figured you cut yourself on our wedding night to avoid consummating our marriage. You wearing my socks, and the blood I found on my razor was a big fucking clue. I’m not a rapist, Sparrow.”

Feeling my cheeks heat, I rubbed my forehead. “With all due respect, Brennan, with your track record, I decided it was better to be safe than sorry.”

“My track record?” He hissed out a breath. “Please educate me on what the fuck you’re talking about? And quit calling me Brennan. I’m your husband, not your boss.”

I needed to backpedal my last remark. What was I supposed to answer? Everyone knows you killed Billy Crupti? People say you break bones for a living? You make my knees weak with fear?

“My point is,” I said, “intimidating a woman with sex is disgusting. I didn’t want you to touch me.” I folded my arms over my chest, trying to catch my breath again.

That was my constant physical state around this man. I could run for hours on end and sing simultaneously without missing a note, but I couldn’t, for the life of me, talk to him for a few seconds without feeling like I needed an inhaler.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Red. But if I recall, on our wedding night you creamed my boxers like they were a fucking birthday cake.”

This man was so disgusting sometimes the need to hurt him overwhelmed me.

“Thanks for the poetic analogy. And still, I don’t want to have sex with you.”

“Yes, you do.” His lips curved seductively, his eyes still narrowed on the car in front of us. “Your eyes wander to my morning wood. You grind yourself against me when given the opportunity. Your nipples were so hard when I sucked on your blood, they almost cut through your shirt.” His right hand traveled from the gearbox, hovering over my thigh, but never touching. “And you kissed me last night and moaned my name. You.”

Damn, it was hot. I could feel the warmth of his skin, even through the dress’s fabric.

“You’re ripe, Red. And you want to have sex. It’s just a shame you want to have it with a man you hate.”

I shook my head. “Unbelievable.”

He shrugged, holding the steering wheel in one hand and drumming on the gearbox with the other, moving away from my thigh. “Love and hate are similar in a lot of ways.”

“Is there a way to love you away from me?” I snapped.

“No, but you could hate-fuck me all you want.”

I flushed lobster red, a jolt of warmth finding its way to my groin. Troy Brennan was perfectly content with talking dirty, whereas I was embarrassed at simply thinking about sex. Yet again, he had the upper hand.

I stretched, straightening my spine, wishing we weren’t in the middle of the traffic jam from hell. I had a feeling we weren’t going to make it to the restaurant even if he made reservations for nine o’clock.

I changed the subject. “We’re going to miss our reservation with this traffic. Maybe we should just forget dinner.” The less time together, the better.

“I don’t need reservations. I own the place. They’ll serve us at four in the morning if that’s what I feel like.”

Just like that, a gap opened up in the traffic. He sped through a light, and my heart picked up speed, along with the car. We were going to visit Rouge Bis, the restaurant I so desperately wanted to work at. This brought new possibilities and hence new hopefulness to my mood. I perked up in my seat, trying to keep my smile to myself.

Back to plan A.

Back to playing nice.

Back to building bridges.

I decided calling him by his first name would be a good start.

“Can you tell me a little more about why you chose to marry me, Troy?” I stared straight ahead to avoid the sting if he decided to award me with another snarky comment.

He was navigating the streets like a fire-spitting monster was on our heels, violating every driving law known to man, and inspiring some new laws in the process.

“When you were nine and I was nineteen…” He paused, letting the gravity of our age difference sink in. “There was a wedding. Paddy and Shona Rowan, remember them? She was his third wife, I think.”

I swallowed hard, nodding. One of the only mobster weddings Pops was ever invited to, and, boy, was he proud. The groom was a man who dabbled in real estate and drug smuggling after the FBI threw his friends in jail. He didn’t mind socializing with peasants like my dad.

And on his wedding day, I found out why.

Paddy Rowan was high on my shit list, one of the first two people up there, along with the man who sat right next to me. The only difference was that I hated Troy and wanted him out of my life, but Paddy? I wanted Paddy dead.

“I remember,” I said, pain already tickling the pit of my stomach. “‘Saving All My Love For You.’”

“Excuse me?” he said, sounding amused.

“The name of the song we…you know.” My face was on fire. I was embarrassed to admit that I remembered. “We danced to it. “Saving All My Love For You” by Whitney Houston.”

“Yeah, sure.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Anyway, my family shared a table with yours, much to everyone’s surprise.”

Just in case I’d forgotten just how low-class I was.

“But,” he continued, “Paddy was always a clueless prick. Anyway, you sat across from me. I didn’t pay much attention to you, because you were nine, and that was too fucked up even by my standards.” He shook his head, almost cringing. “I remember you were the cutest, politest little thing. You asked my mother tons of questions. At one point you asked her if her teeth were real. Then you tried to convince me to dance with you.”

“You agreed.” Memories slammed into me. I dug my fingernails into my palms, pressing my fists on my thighs, hoping he wouldn’t notice. I tried to focus on the part of the day he was talking about, the sweet memory of my dance with the much older boy, a memory I’d somehow completely erased until now.

“Yeah.” He raised one eyebrow. “You were hell-bent on dancing a slow dance.” He suppressed a chuckle. “Even then, Red, I was your first.”

My fists tightened and I continued to stare out the window. It wasn’t embarrassment that he was my first slow dance that shook me to the core. It was what happened after that dance that made it one of the worst days in my life. So bad, in fact, that it made my mother leaving me seem like child’s play.

I cleared my throat, suddenly realizing how exposed I felt. “The line to the valet is two-blocks long. Pull over and I’ll let someone know we’re here.”

“I own the place.” Brennan—no, make that Troy—laughed, delighted by my unintended joke. “Watch.”

He slammed the Maserati into park in the middle of the busy street, slid out and threw his keys to a uniformed valet who was leaning against a wall in the alley and smoking a cigarette. The valet, who was about my age, caught the keys in his palm and nodded furiously at Troy, dropping the cigarette like it was a ticking bomb and jogging to the Maserati’s driver-side door.

As another traffic jam formed behind my husband’s vehicle, I began to suspect he was the sole reason for bad traffic in Boston. It was entirely possible that if it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t need the T.

“Smoke again during your shift and you’re fired. Scratch my car and you’re dead, get it?” Troy barked at the guy with his keys.

He sauntered over to my side of the car and opened the door. I stepped out, accepting his hand and allowing him to guide me by the waist as he ushered me into the glitzy restaurant. Two other restaurant staff already held the door open for us. Faint elevator music wafted through the doors, along with the smell of mouth-watering food and pale, sandy light.

“You’re not nine anymore,” he said gruffly as we waltzed in.

“And thank God for that,” I muttered, my thoughts traveling back to Paddy Rowan.

Block it, I ordered myself, just like I always did. Just like I blocked everything else.