Chapter 18
CATRIONA
“I’m not gonna lie, I’d marry a mafia boss, too, in order to have access to this pool again. I’ve missed it.”
A laugh bubbles out before I can stop it. “Yasmine!”
She doesn’t even lift her head from the float. “I said what I said. It’s a heated pool. After days on my feet, this is my definition of heaven. I don’t even care if my hair gets wet, and I have to spend forever on it afterward. This is worth it.”
“I still have all your products with me. You can use our shower after if you want.”
Yasmine perks up. “Really? Your parents’, right? They had a double shower-head. I didn’t understand what a slut I was for good plumbing until now. Living with my family is great, but sharing one shower between three generations is getting old.”
“What’s mine is yours,” I say, and let my eyes slip closed again. This is the first time in what feels like a century I’ve relaxed. As long as I don’t think about waking up next to O’Connor, I keep a tenuous hold on this rare sense of peace.
Needless to say, Yasmine had guessed the broad strokes of what O’Connor is involved in. According to her, “I’ve read enough smut to know the basics. Mob right?”
“So how does this work? Being a mafia wife. Is it all blood and drama? If something wild is going to happen, I don’t have rounds, and I can crash here.” When I pause, she cracks an eye open. “If yesterday was anything like what goes on, then you may need a doctor around.”
“Fuck. Don’t call me that. But yeah, basically it’s been all drama so far.” I hesitate, then say, “But are you really sure you’re comfortable being here? I’d really understand if you weren’t.”
“After the things I’ve seen in the ER, it’ll take a lot more than him to shock me. As long as I’m not roped into any illicit activities, I’m fine with it. Nothing, not even the mob, can keep me away from you.”
Chuckling, I close my eyes and relax into the bone-melting warmth of the pool. “Your parents don’t know anything about this, do they?”
Yasmine snorts. “Of course not. They’d flip. Could you imagine? Reggie is already laying eggs about it. You’re lucky he didn’t decide to tag along with me. It makes sense now why he was keeping tabs on you after the wedding.”
“He was? No, scratch that. Of course he was. You two love being in the center of trouble. I swear, there was a time when my life wasn’t so exciting.”
“When was that again?”
I splash water at her, and she shrieks and kicks her feet until she’s out of my attack radius. “Truce, truce.”
Part of me feels guilty about taking a moment to enjoy this.
There are so many things I should be doing: finding another clerkship, figuring out who shot Mr. Broussard, smoothing over the media for Dad’s campaigns, and studying.
But I can’t seem to force myself to do any of them.
I’m tired of being a crusader—of fighting for the truth when no one else does, of facilitating familial relationships when all I get from them is pain or no reciprocal effort.
Unbidden, the memory of O’Connor showing up at the hospital floats to the forefront of my thoughts.
I squash it down and blame the momentary lapse on too many margaritas.
The margaritas, of course, were requested by Yasmine to fulfill my lifelong debt from the night of the masquerade.
It seems the repercussions from that monumental mistake will follow me forever.
Finally, I’m able to lure Yasmine out of the pool with promises of watching whichever movies she wants.
I used O’Connor’s bank account to pay for the snacks and went a little overboard: popcorn with every possible topping, little boxes of candy like we’re at the movies, and a variety of sodas and mixers.
If I’m feeling any guilt, it’s hidden behind the satisfaction of bending a small part of O’Connor to my will.
Yasmine makes us more drinks, and then we settle on the sofa.
I pass her a giant bowl of popcorn topped with a ton of butter and give her a box of Raisinets.
She flips through the TV and picks a movie—one that I haven’t seen before.
As it starts to play, I sip at my margarita and open a package of peanut M more would be a decidedly terrible decision considering the circumstances. “What happened?”
O’Connor situates himself behind me, and I pretend not to notice. “Nothing you need to worry yourself about, darlin’.”
Mara hands him his drink and says, “I wish you both would stop dragging me into these situations.”
“What situations?” I ask. My eyes are glued to Yasmine. She carefully unbuttons Eamon’s white shirt. He’s reclining against the pillows, lightly assaulting her with a grin, and I realize I don’t think I would ever want him to look at me like that. A shiver racks my body.
“What’s your name?” he asks her.
“Dr. Baptiste,” she answers coolly before leaving for the kitchen, followed by the sound of splashing water.
Oh no. Maybe bringing her here was a mistake.
I should’ve tried harder to keep these two parts of my life separate.
The last thing I want to do is pull her any further into the madness.
It’s exactly why I haven’t looped Reggie into my investigations.
Yasmine will have to keep secrets from him, and I know if he ever found out the truth about Dufresne, he’d never look at either of us the same again.
I open my mouth to object, but she returns, drying her hands and saying to Eamon, “If you keep looking at me like that, I am going to make this so much worse.”
Unfortunately for her, that was the absolute wrong tack to take with him. He opens his mouth to comment, but O’Connor silences him with a look, and Eamon frowns like a kid who just got told he couldn’t have another piece of birthday cake.
“It is a gunshot, through and through, to his shoulder. Should just need disinfecting and stitching, but we can handle this.” O’Connor’s gaze shifts to me, and I cross my arms over my chest even though I’m wearing a light cardigan to ward off the chill, because a shiver goes through me at his attention.
“We were closer to here than anywhere else, and I wanted to get this treated with discretion—but we’ll leave if that’ll make you feel more comfortable. ”
At this, Eamon protests, but it could’ve been because Yasmine stripped more of his shirt, and he’s playing for false modesty.
A dull feeling squeezes my chest. “What were you doing that caused you to get shot at?”
The words are out of my mouth before I think about them, drawing O’Connor’s gaze down to my lips.
“Does it matter?”
I can feel the three other people in the room watching us, riveted. I should be self-conscious, but all I can focus on is the dread knotting up inside my intestines. “Of course it matters. Weren’t you just pitching a fit because someone was shooting at me?”
“Pitching a fit?” Eamon cackles until it’s cut off with a groan as Yasmine inspects the wound.
She hasn’t even touched him yet, and he’s being a giant baby.
I’m starting to think the psychotic man I thought him to be is only one side of him, and I don’t know if that’s reassuring or terrifying. “Were you pitching a fit?”