5. Connor
CONNOR
Angie disappears into her apartment building and I drive away, stomach a twisted wreck, heart bashing against my ribs.
I’m fucking sick.
Six weeks. I managed to ignore her for six weeks.
Until finally I broke.
I don’t even know what forced me out here.
There’s the building we’re looking to buy—but that’s a weak excuse.
I’m late to a meeting with Sinead. We’re going over wedding details, which she knows I don’t care about, but she insists on keeping me informed for whatever damn reason.
I should be at the restaurant already, but instead, I was sitting in my car near Angie’s place like an addict, craving one tiny glimpse of her.
I’m more than sick.
I’m deeply broken.
She’s not good for me.
Worse, I’m not good for her.
That girl is a decent person. She’s living a normal life in the normal world, and if I keep this up, someone’s going to notice. That will be very bad for everyone.
Sinead’s my future. The Gallaghers are like a shining, beautiful door with the promised land spread out beyond it. All I have to do is marry her, walk through, and everything I’ve ever wanted will be presented at my feet.
Except I’m a fucking sicko scumbag stalking a junior accounting data entry girl for no goddamn reason.
Only I know the reason.
The three photos.
Bane of my existence.
Reason my dick’s sore and my palm’s callused.
Fuck, I have to get it together.
The drive to Luberto’s doesn’t take long.
I park a block off and find Sinead at a good table toward the back, catalogs and folders spread in front of her.
She’s sitting forward, her long blonde hair hanging over one shoulder, absently clicking a pen against her full lips.
I pause, lingering in the dim light, watching my future wife, and again I’m struck at how beautiful she is.
Delicate ears, straight nose, shining blue eyes that crinkle when she laughs.
She’s in a modest outfit, black top and black jeans, and there’s already a glass of bourbon waiting for me at the setting opposite.
I don’t deserve her.
“Evening, darling,” she says when she spots me approaching. She doesn’t smile, exactly, but she does this thing with her nose where it scrunches and I know that means she’s not repulsed to see me. “You’re right on time.”
“You said eight. It’s eight thirty.”
“I always assume you’ll be late.” She stands and kisses my cheek. “I got your favorite.”
I sit and drink. Misery stabs me in the throat. I really don’t deserve her.
She leans back, eyebrow arched as I take in the materials. Everything’s neatly organized, color-coded, and collated. Even her handwriting is sharp and precise.
“Are you going to pass out? You look like you’re about to faint.”
“I’m fine. It’s been a long night.”
“Oh, yeah? Got something big going on at work?”
“Not exactly.”
She lets out a soft snort and clicks her pen again. “That’s what I like about you, Connor. No bullshit. No conversation. Straight to the point.”
“Most women hate it.”
“I’m not most women, and I’m not marrying you for your personality.” She nudges a folder toward me. “Pick a suit out.”
“I have suits.”
“Good, I’m so proud of you. Pick a new one, please, or I’ll do it for you.”
I take the folder and flip it open. Inside is a series of print-outs on high quality paper showing designer jackets, slacks, and shirts. I choose at random and Sinead seems to approve.
She shuffles some pages as the waitress brings over appetizers. Yet again, Sinead has anticipated my needs, which is a goddamn miracle considering we’ve spoken barely a handful of times. The woman has a steel trap of a mind.
“Now, I know you don’t care about the majority of this stuff, but you’re going to sit there and listen anyway. Do you need anything else before I get started?”
I sit back, sipping my drink. “If half my employees were as efficient as you are, I’d be fucking rich.”
“The world would be a better place if there were more of me around, that’s for sure.” She gives me another one of those crinkle-smiles and begins talking about the wedding.
Every detail is covered. Flowers, seating arrangements, decorations, how long the cocktail hour will last, what will be served, everything.
Frankly, she should be a damn general, based on these impressive logistics.
I give her as much attention as I can manage, but everything seems to trigger my memory of Angie, and it’s like a kick to the throat each time.
When Sinead comments on dresses, I see Angie in a skin-tight outfit, the back pulled up to show her ass.
Sinead shows me plates, and I’m picturing Angie in her little kitchen, sitting on her counter top, tits out, mouth open, legs spread.
Even a mention of music gets me thinking about Angie’s hips jerking to a rhythm as she rides me, again and again, nearing completion?—
I’m a bastard and I know it.
But Sinead either doesn’t notice or she doesn’t care.
She continues to talk about the wedding while I picture another woman the whole time.
And a part of me wonders who Sinead is thinking about.
There’s no way in hell she wants me to stand up there as the groom; there’s got to be someone she’d rather kiss and spend her life with.
We don’t talk about that though, because what’s the point?
This is our future. I can keep obsessing over my angel, or I can delete those three photos and move the fuck on.
“I appreciate you indulging me.” Sinead gathers her things after an hour is finished. Neither of us has a full meal. Instead, it’s mostly drinks. “My father says I’m wasting my time. He says you’re a man, after all, but I want you to be informed. And if you have any opinions?—“
“I’ll keep them to myself, where they belong.”
She laughs and touches my arm as we leave the restaurant together. “I don’t want it to be like that. We’re partners, right? Yes, I understand that I am doing the vast majority of this wedding, but I’ll listen if there really is something you care about.”
Guilt smashes into me. Sinead is kind. After all this, after my lack of interest, my one-word answers, my half-attention, she’s still trying. Maybe because she’s not stupid and realizes we’d better make this work.
While I’m still resisting.
“I appreciate that,” I say honestly as we linger out front. “I’m being awful about this, I know.”
“It’s fine. Honestly, most of this stuff—“ She lifts her fancy dossier. “I’ve had it since I was twelve.”
“I believe it.”
“You know, Connor, we don’t have to fall in love.” The way she says it so simply sends a jolt of pain into my chest. “I don’t harbor any illusions about that. But at the very least we can be civil with each other. We’re going to be married, right? We’re going to make a family.”
That pain turns to a sick horror.
Goddamn children.
I know what’s expected of me. She clearly does too. Speaking our vows is one thing, but the only way to build a lasting alliance is through blood, and blood means babies. Sinead is already thinking about carrying my offspring and she’s clearly resigned herself to our situation.
The least I can do is try to be in this with her.
“You’re right.” I take her hand. It’s smooth and warm. I’m surprised by the smile she gives me. It’s genuine and she twines her fingers through mine. “Look, I know I’ve been a piece of shit about this process, but I’m here with you. We can be more than civil.”
Her eyebrows arch like she’s sharing a joke. “Are you flirting with me?”
“You’d know it if I were.”
Her other hand touches my chest. “Maybe try it sometime. Like I said, we’re going to be married.” Her palm lingers over my beating heart, and god damn, she’s such a gorgeous woman. Any man would kill to have her like this.
Except I feel nothing.
She lets me go and walks away. I watch her ass sway, thinking, one day that’ll be mine, and I should be excited. I should be thanking god my boss hitched me to such a fine woman.
Instead, I’m only cold.
“Connor! There you are!” Danielle stands in the doorway of my father’s kitchen wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I’ve been thinking about you.”
“I’m only here to see Rowan.”
“She’s up in her room. But listen—“ Danielle comes toward me and I already know I don’t want to hear it. Her hair’s blown out, she’s in full makeup, and her sweatsuit looks brand new. Dad’s been splurging on his much, much younger second wife again.
“Tell me about it another time.”
“That phone you promised!” she calls after me as I hurry up the stairs. “Come on, Connor, don’t be such a stingy prick!”
I grind my teeth but bite down on a sharp reply. I’ve been dealing with Danielle for a very long time, and I’ve learned that it’s better to avoid her than to get into a confrontation. Mostly because Dad’s so pussy-whipped he’ll take her side on just about anything, no matter how goddamn stupid.
Though it’s my fault for telling her I’d upgrade her iPhone. I only said it to shut her up. That’s on me.
Life’s not easy with a stepmom only two years older than I am.
I stop outside a door at the end of the hall with a pink nametag on the front. It glitters in the overheads. I knock and wait until my sister calls out.
Rowan’s on her bed, legs crossed, books in her lap.
Half-read manga is scattered all over. Posters of cartoon dudes with huge muscles and massive swords are plastered to the walls.
Full Metal Alchemist, Bleach, One Piece, a bunch of stuff I barely recognize.
Pop music blares from her laptop speakers and Rowan beams at me, her dark brown hair cut short.
She looks like her mom, but she takes after our dad, and I love her so much it makes parts of me want to fall to pieces.
“Did Mom corner you again?” she asks, grinning massively as I slump down into her desk chair. It creaks under my weight.
“I made the mistake of walking through the front door. How’d you know?”
“You look like you hit a deer with your car, that’s how.”
“It’s always a pleasure coming home.”