Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
I’m more attracted to a smell than I am to my own future husband.
And that’s a serious problem.
I can’t sleep. Even though it’s after midnight and I’m exhausted, every time I close my eyes, visions of my future life with Finn torture me. The dull boredom of our daily life. The quiet dread of knowing it’ll always be him until the day I die.
I’ll never have love. Not in any meaningful way.
Maybe I’ll cheat and find someone, but it can never be public. I’m doomed to hiding any real relationships from the world. Trapped in a perfectly fine marriage. Crushed by boredom.
“What is wrong with me?” I whisper, jumping out of bed. I throw on a hoodie and sweats against the chill of the evening and pace around my suite. I should be happy Finn seems like a decent guy. What would I rather? Some violent asshole who’s going to hit me and treat me like a breeding cow? Obviously not, but a dumb little voice in the back of my head keeps thinking maybe I’d end up like Adriano.
Falling madly and stupidly in love with my husband.
That’s not going to happen. Even if Finn and I develop some kind of acceptable relationship, it’ll never be that toe-curling, knee-shaking need. Maybe I can be okay with that. I mean, it could always be worse.
But I still feel like it’s fucking terrible.
I leave my suite and steal out into the halls. The mansion is dead quiet this late. Red lights glow under security cameras, and I hear the soft footsteps of guards down on the first floor. I walk to the western wing of the building and pause outside a large wooden door.
Then I smell it. Which can’t be right. I push inside slowly, breathing deep, and it’s definitely him. I know that scent. I dream about it all the time.
It’s my ghost. He’s here, in this room, or at least he was.
But how? And why? It makes no sense. I’ve never smelled my ghost anywhere but in my suite. I’ve even checked a few times over the years, just in case he was wandering around or secretly sleeping in one of the guest areas.
It’s him, though. I’m sure of it. The ghost’s scent lingers in the library, spicy and masculine. I come in here at least once or twice a week when I’m having trouble sleeping, and this has never happened before. My mouth’s hanging open, and my heart’s racing, and a part of me expects to find some Chapstick left out on one of the easy chairs near the massive shelving units.
Instead, what I find is infinitely worse.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, startled and freezing in surprise. “I didn’t think—”
I don’t finish that sentence as Cormac Whelan looks up at me, his blue eyes frosty and harder than diamonds, his full and gorgeous lips in a tight line, his square and masculine jaw working ever so slightly. He’s got a book open in his lap, and his right hand is gripping a glass of something brown.
I take a step back, my stomach lurching with sudden fear.
“You couldn’t sleep,” he says. His voice is low and resonant. It sends a sudden spark straight into my core. Finn never made me feel like this. As if I’m being slowly, carefully, meticulously undressed, quivering with need the whole time.
It’s freaking me out.
I should make some excuse. Get the hell out of here. Adriano warned me to stay away from Cormac, and I think he’s right.
But there’s that smell again. Heady, smoky, spicy. The perfect bouquet. I take a deep breath and nearly let out a groan.
Cormac’s wreathed in it.
I take a step closer. “Guess not. Looks like you found my favorite room in the house.”
He closes the book in his lap. “You spend a lot of time in here?”
“When I’m not at Grace House, I’m here or in my rooms.”
“Grace House?”
“It’s a women’s shelter I volunteer at.”
I expect him to make some pithy comment. Most mafia assholes I’ve met think it’s silly that I give up all my time to charity. He only nods once.
“I like libraries,” he says. “They’re quiet.”
I don’t even know how to respond. I keep looking at him, though, and breathing deep. What was my ghost doing in here? Does he have something to do with Cormac? A million questions swirl around my head, and I wish this guy would stop looking at me like that.
“Your brother seems nice.” I keep edging closer. Like I’m dancing along the edge of a steep fall.
“He’s a good man.”
“You think so? Maybe you should marry him then.” I grin weakly at the dumb joke.
He doesn’t smile back. “Nothing’s easy in our family. But you’ll be welcome.”
“Right, nothing’s easy,” I murmur, feeling so deeply uncomfortable but unable to get away. I steal a glance down at the book in his lap but totally miss the title. Instead, I’m looking at his muscular thighs, and god damn, this man is stacked. In an extremely distracting way. “What do you, uh, think of Philadelphia?”