Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 43444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
“I’m already here. We can let William decide what happens next.”
“I’ll agree for now,” Tasha responded carefully. “But you’ll need to keep me on speed dial and check in or I’ll worry. And I worry out loud, usually in front of witnesses. You and William are family and I take this family’s safety seriously.”
“William and I aren’t… I’m not. Not really.”
She was laughing again. “Oh princess, there’s no escaping it. Even if you weren’t secretly hitched to our latest bad boy, Thoreau and Hugo have been honorary members for a while now. In fact, the Wayne-Finn merger is working out so well, I’m tempted to do a little matchmaking with Shelley and Matthew while you’re gone.”
Her youngest sister and William’s brother? “Natasha Rivera Finn, get that thought right out of your head. Use bleach if necessary.”
“See? I knew we’d be a perfect team. We’re already arguing like sisters.”
“I have sisters.” Bronte fought a smile, knowing Tasha would hear it in her voice. “And that’s not necessarily a good thing. Besides, we’re distant cousins-in-law, if anything.”
“Sister-cousins. I can work with that.”
“Of course you can.” Bronte tossed her cup in the trash and started walking. She should go back to the inn to shower and change, but her sleep-deprived steps were guiding her toward the big building that held her sort-of spouse instead.
Pat’s Irish Pub. Seamus Finn could fit two of his bars in that place. “Thanks for giving me the address, Tasha. I know keeping this between us wasn’t your first choice.”
“I never agreed with the idea the guys cooked up at the station. Tempers were too high and I know for a fact that Younger regrets sending William away, even temporarily. That’s not how we deal with problems in this family.”
“No, I heard the Finns are more about group meetings and interventions. Kumbaya, and all that jazz,” Bronte teased.
“Funny. True, but funny. Knowing your brothers, I don’t imagine the Waynes are all that different.”
She could have shut that argument down forever by telling her about the Wayne Way. That in her family they were more likely to vote on punishments than hug things out, like any other democracy or cutthroat reality show. But she held her tongue instead, wrapping things up with a quick goodbye and a promise to check in. The last thing she wanted to do was remind Tasha that William’s absence, the one that seemed to upset her so much, had more to do with Bronte than anything else.
The decision had come about fast enough to give her whiplash, but she’d been more than willing to have her drunken episode magically swept under the rug by the family Finn. It galled her to her feminist bones to admit how willing.
Agreeing not to pursue an annulment right away had also been selfish, allowing her to hide the truth from her parents and coworkers for a while longer. To pretend that she hadn’t had a mid-life, celibacy-induced meltdown spurred on by William’s arrival into her safe, routine-oriented bubble.
From the moment she’d caught him flirting with one of the ER nurses, he’d gotten under her skin. She’d never seen eyes that light blue. That hungry.
The instincts she’d always relied on had been screaming out a warning, but for the first time in her adult life she wanted to ignore them, push young Monica out of the way and claim the beautiful bad boy herself.
Then, of course, he’d proceeded to “borrow” his cousin’s car, leaving the injured man stranded and confirming that he was, in fact, an ass.
Every time she’d seen him after that, whether he was covered in bruises or propositioning her without his pants, he’d proven those initial instincts right. And every time he left she couldn’t get him out of her head.
It had to be his accent, his pheromones, or maybe those hypnotic eyes of his that always caused her to act so out of character. She was reaching, but other than that, Bronte couldn’t explain her reaction. She could deny it to the moon and back, but she couldn’t forget what she’d gotten herself into that night. Or that, margarita madness or not, she’d done it willingly.
William wouldn’t let her.
He’d been harassing her for months, which could explain her unusually hostile reaction to shamrocks—the punk ass leprechaun. Was it any wonder she was cracking under the strain?
Eight hours away and he’d still managed to give her daily reminders of his existence. Fresh-out-of-the-shower selfies. Nightly texts of the suggestive or philosophical variety, depending on his mood. All laced with entreaties for her to respond in kind.
And then there were the gifts. Several times a week another present would arrive at her door, each one so ridiculous she couldn’t decide whether he was having fun at her expense or trying to be romantic.
She would have guessed the former, except they were all so incredibly…thoughtful.