Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Conor glances at me and shakes his head. “I don’t expect anything in return, Ivy. They’re just clothes.”
I feel like an idiot for even thinking otherwise. Especially when I tried to fling myself at him any which way I could offer last night in a bid to protect Archer. He didn’t accept then, so I don’t know why he would now.
I pad over to the sofa and examine the pieces he bought me. There’s a winter coat and a couple lighter jackets. In another bag, I find all the cold weather basics. Scarves, beanies, gloves, jeans, boots, and sweaters. And a multi pack of cotton underwear, along with two bras.
“How did you know what sizes to get?”
A flush creeps over Conor’s face as he shifts in the chair. “I looked through your bag.”
Heat pricks at my neck, and I want to be angry at him for invading my privacy, but how can I? It was a nice gesture, or at least it seems like it. Even if it makes me feel slightly humiliated that he had to buy me clothes at all, it doesn’t feel like that was his intention.
“Is there a problem?” he asks.
“No.” I clear my throat. “I’m just… these are really nice. Thank you.”
“I didn’t pick them out,” he says. “So, I can’t take credit for that. Crow’s wife did all the shopping.”
“Then I should probably thank her too.” I go about the business of picking out something to wear for the day before Conor stops me.
“There’s a dress in the bathroom.”
“A dress?”
“Aye,” he grunts. “For the ceremony.”
Right. We’re getting married today. And he bought me a dress. My heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s going to blow out of my chest. “Where are we doing it?”
The words come out all wrong, and my cheeks heat when Conor turns to me with a smirk. “We’ll exchange vows at City Hall. Nothing too fancy. But ye should at least have a dress.”
I stare down at my toes. “Are you sure you want to do this? You could just send me away, you know. Archer and I can disappear, and I wouldn’t be a hindrance in your life. You wouldn’t have to change anything.”
The muscle in his jaw tenses, and his eyes darken. “No can do. You’ve seen some shite ye were never meant to see and this is the only way I can keep you and my crew safe.”
There’s no point arguing. Conor has made up his mind, and I won’t be changing it. But I still can’t help wondering if he really knows what he’s getting himself into.
“So, it’s just the two of us then?” I ask, for no other reason than to break the awkward silence that lingers between us as we wait in the hall.
Conor tugs at the tie around his neck like it’s strangling him. “I’ll tell Crow after.”
He looks as sick about the thought as I currently feel. My blood is pumping so hard and fast it sounds like a freight train running through my ears. I’m lightheaded and nauseous and I can’t stop glancing at the exit, wondering if I could actually make it. But then, out of nowhere, Conor takes my hand in his to stop me from shaking.
“It will all work out. No sense letting yourself get out of sorts over it.”
He sounds so certain, but how can he be? I search his eyes and as tense as he might be, all I find there is calm. So much calm. I don’t know how he can be so okay with this. Signing his life over to someone he barely knows. But then again, I guess it doesn’t really work that way in the mafia. If he gets sick of me, he can just get rid of me. I’m pretty sure I don’t have the same option. But I will be his wife. A role that I’m certain comes with expectations. It’s enough to make any sane person fall off the deep end. But when I look at Conor, steady and strong and fearless, I have to believe that it will be okay. What choice do I have? I’m in it now. At least for the time being.
I study the lines of his face. The long lashes and angular jaw and those soulful green eyes. He is handsome in an obvious way, but there are so many subtleties I have yet to unearth. With our eyes locked on each other, it occurs to me that I want to know them. Like that scar above his eyebrow, how did he get it? Or the callouses on his hands… what made him so hard? I want to know his secrets. The things that hurt him. The things that shaped who he is today. These are dangerous thoughts to have. I’m not supposed to care, and I try to remind myself of that when he squeezes my hand and they call our names.