Chapter 40 Kellin
Kellin
Maeve and I spent the better part of the day getting poked, prodded, and bandaged up by her father’s private doctor, in the penthouse of all places.
Brody and Connor stopped by to check on us. Well, her.
Watching her brothers express their concern and treat her with the respect she deserves thawed my heart by a good millimeter or so.
And we heard the play-by-play. How Brody tracked the other Russians down and made the executive decision to kill Doyle to prevent Rostov from getting his grubby hands on the accountant and bringing down the Gallaghers on both coasts.
After everything…all that fucking work…the accountant’s dead.
According to Connor, Doyle hadn’t yet spilled any of Shane’s secrets. The rat wasn’t prepared to talk without two million in an offshore account, and Declan wasn’t about to give up that kind of money without reassurance, so it was a real stalemate for most of his LA stay.
A bold move on Brody’s part, killing Doyle. He used a .50 caliber rifle from a quarter mile away. Didn’t kill any Russians—that was all me—but managed to end their mission with a single bullet.
Declan, who’s presumably pissed, didn’t bother to show his face.
Both brothers tried to convince Maeve of Declan’s relief over her safety and claim he happily sacrificed Doyle to rescue her.
Please. I doubt Declan would lose much sleep over Maeve’s death.
The decision to kill Doyle—and single-handedly end the brewing fight between the two Gallagher factions while simultaneously getting my ass out of a boiling pot—was all Brody.
Finn considers Brody’s move an act of peace.
In the Irish Kings’ eyes, we’re even.
I hope it stays that way for a while.
Maeve slides a foot under my thigh. “Penny for your thoughts?”
I set my whiskey down and cup her foot in my hands, gently massaging her sole. “I was just thinking about how I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”
“Well, you’re certainly on top of the world.”
Close enough. On the penthouse balcony, the salty night air and gorgeous view provide the perfect backdrop for cuddling on the loveseat.
But the best part is the music.
The Arden sits just two floors below us. From our current position, we can enjoy the wedding festivities from afar as they wind down.
Jordan Weaver’s parents spared no expense, and we’re reaping the benefits of their nine-piece jazz band without the need to dress up or schmooze or fork over a wedding gift.
Maeve sighs. “I love this song. ‘Cheek to Cheek,’ by Ella Fitzgerald.”
“Now, jazz is a genre I can get behind.”
She jabs me playfully in the gut with a toe. “Just jazz?”
“Baby steps, darlin’. I’m not a convert yet.”
When I lean over, she presses a sweet, soft kiss to my lips.
It’s almost midnight, and only half a dozen couples linger to sway on the dance floor. All but the most devoted partiers retreated indoors long ago.
During my worst moments last night, as I struggled to free myself while believing Maeve hated my guts, I wondered if I’d even live to see the next day.
Nestling Maeve tighter to my chest, I allow myself a moment of appreciation. Stars glitter over the ocean as we enjoy an essentially private concert.
Best night of my whole damn life.
Presently, the Gallagher factions are at peace. No clue how long the truce will last, but since Brody axed the accountant and I saved Maeve, both coasts decided to wave the white flag.
At least until Declan conjures up a new scheme.
The Cypress only suffered minor fire damage—the Russians risked everyone’s death just to snatch Doyle—but the media attention sparked by the affair was nothing short of major.
This is going to go down as the wedding of the year. The phones have been ringing off the hook since this afternoon. You can’t pay for that kind of press.
On the news, the Cypress appeared magical, similar to another hotel Maeve recently introduced me to.
I imagine her vision materializing before my very eyes.
Of course, according to Maeve, Lenora’s responsible for the wedding success.
Maeve already informed her assistant that, as of tomorrow, she’s getting a promotion. The new general manager is one hell of a spitfire.
And Maeve’s humility is sexy as hell.
The way the woman deflects and redistributes compliments is just one of the many reasons she’s got such a well-oiled machine. Her employees respect her.
I respect her.
I spoke with my buddy at Zenith, and they, along with Finn, have agreed to help me invest in the hotel. We’re going to buy Declan out.
At the end of the day, Finn’s a businessman, and my buddy Brian from the investment group is a visionary. He sees in Maeve and the Cypress what I have all along.
Maeve warned her father that she’ll air the hotel’s dirty laundry if he refuses to sell. I doubt he’ll give us much trouble. Declan’s always had a weakness for money. His ego will insist that he accept the buyout and run.
“Do you need another drink, babe?” Maeve leans over and plucks my empty tumbler off the table.
I shake my head. “I just need you.”
She sets the tumbler back down, snuggles into the crook of my arm, and releases a sigh into the cool air.
“After all the trouble they went through, I still can’t believe Brody assassinated Nolan Doyle.”
“I can. Neither Gallagher family would benefit from Rostov accessing Doyle’s information.” Though I’m not convinced that was the only reason.
Part of me wonders if Brody didn’t gun the guy down in protest of their father’s treatment of Maeve.
I wonder if Declan instructed Brody to fetch Doyle and leave Maeve to fend for herself. Maybe that’s why Brody released me in the first place.
I’ll never ask, and he’ll never tell, which means I’ll never know. But I’ll also never forget the way Declan treated Maeve.
I’ll never trust that man, but I will ensure she gets her hotel. By any means required.
She nuzzles in closer. “When are you leaving? And when will you be back?”
“Who says I’m leaving?”
She shoots up, gazing at me with wide, misty eyes. “Really? Don’t tease, Kellin.”
I coast my knuckles down her cheek. “This place is about to blow up. Don’t you need all hands on deck?”
She throws her arms around me, burying her nose in the crook of my neck.
My heart pounds in my chest. No doubt she can feel it too. I couldn’t hide my feelings for this woman if I tried. “I might not be able to get used to classical music, but I can get used to LA.” I smile, making a mental note to tell Finn of my change of plans…in the morning.
“At Last,” by Etta James wisps up from the Arden below.
I lack Maeve’s music knowledge, but this song, one of my favorites, reminds me of a rare happy memory from my childhood.
I brush my lips over her ear. “Do you want to dance?”
Maeve purses her lips as she rises and takes my hand. “Can you even dance?”
I plaster a mock-offended frown on my face, though my lips twitch. “Hey, I’ve got rhythm.”
“I know you’ve got stamina. Let’s see about this rhythm.”
She laughs as I spin her under my arm, and then we sway with the music.
For a while, we just move, quietly, arms around one another.
I soak in this moment.
Maeve. My Maeve.
How am I lucky enough to claim this woman as mine?
She glances up at me, and I drink in those beautiful freckles, those glowing, sparkling brown eyes…
My first attempt to kiss her leaves us yelping in pain.
“My lip—”
“My nose—”
“Sorry.” We both apologize in unison and snicker.
Shit, I can’t even breathe when I’m kissing her. Stupid broken nose.
Not that I let such a puny injury deter me. This time, I ease my mouth onto hers, careful not to exert any sudden pressure. In about two seconds, though, my tongue is plunging deep.
She pulls back with a huff. “Ow, Kellin.”
“I know, I know. Sorry, darlin’.”
She pokes my chest, her fingers lingering for a moment before sliding down. “We don’t have to kiss.”
“I think we do.”
“No, I mean…” Wiggling her eyebrows, she slips her hand inside my sweats.
I moan, instantly hard. “We don’t have to kiss.”
She drops my sweats and briefs, releasing my cock. Then she pushes me gently back onto the couch, peels off her yoga pants, and straddles me while staring into my eyes.
I’m going to have every freckle on her face memorized by the end of the night.
And I can’t wait.