Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
“Get out.”
“Cavin—”
“I said get out.”
It’s not true. It can’t be true.
She told me she’d never had a boyfriend. That her first date was with me.
I remember those men at the club, the ones who attacked me. One of them said something before I broke his jaw. Something about her being a whore, about her spreading her legs for half of—
I’d shut him up before he could finish. Assumed it was just an attempt to get under my skin, to make me lose focus.
They knew it would get to me. There’s nothing more to it.
I pull up my messages with Erin and stare at our conversation from earlier. Her telling me about the books. Me being smug. Her saying I was a catastrophe.
It felt real.
What if every smile, every kiss, every moment in that driveway was just her playing the part she’s been forced to play?
No.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts.
This is absurd. Erin doesn’t lie. She can’t. The lass is too honest for her own good. Hell, that’s what I like about her.
But people lie when they have to, don’t they? When they’re trapped.
And she’s definitely trapped. Fuck, she didn’t even know she was getting married to me until a few weeks ago.
I call my guard. “Where is she right now?”
“Still at the bookshop, sir.”
“Alone?”
A pause. “Yes, sir. Alone.”
“Has anyone approached her? Talked to her?”
“Just the shop clerk. Why? Is something wrong?”
“No. Nothing. Keep watching.”
I hang up and sit back in my chair, my mind racing. This is stupid. I’m being mental.
By the time my phone rings again, I’m wound so tight I nearly break the damn thing answering it.
“What?”
“Christ, who pissed in your cornflakes?” Declan. “I’m just calling to see if you want to grab dinner tonight.”
“Can’t. I have plans.”
“With Erin?”
“No. She’s… busy.”
“Busy?” He sounds suspicious. “Doing what?”
“I don’t know. Reading. Whatever she does.”
“And you’re okay with that? Not joining her?”
“She didn’t invite me.”
“So invite yourself. You’re engaged, not strangers.”
“Maybe she wants space.”
“Or maybe you’re being an eejit.” He sighs. “What’s going on, Cavin? You sound off, mate.”
I want to tell him. Want to ask if I’m being irrational, if the doubts eating at me are justified or just my own damage manifesting.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’re a shite liar.”
“Runs in the family.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You know what? Forget dinner. Come to the gym. Beat the fuck out of a bag or something. You need to work off whatever this is before you do something stupid.”
How does he always know?
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think. Just come. Seven o’clock.”
He hangs up before I can argue.
I sit there, staring at my phone, at the last message from Erin about the books and the challenges.
Am I just so damaged, so convinced that good things don’t happen to men like me, that I’m inventing problems where there aren’t any?
The next day, I want to see her.
I get an idea, so I send her a text on a whim.
Need you in the garden? The wee sprites are running wild on me.
And her responding text that came shortly thereafter:
Erin
Can’t you just sort them like you did the lads at St. Albert’s?
And I can almost see that cute little smirk she gets when she’s being cheeky.
Cheeky little thing. Those lads had it coming. Your plants are innocent, mostly. Now shift your arse,
Erin
Lucky for you it’s good timing, Mam’s on the rampage today and I need to get out of the line of fire. See you half past?
I’m as nervous as a fuckin’ schoolboy, and it takes me off guard. I haven’t been this nervous since I was a fuckin’ schoolboy.
I'm leaning against the fence when she arrives, right on time. Course she is. The lass probably color-codes her fucking calendar.
Why's that so goddamn adorable?
She's wearing leggings today and a jumper that's too big for her. Why do I want to see her in my jumper?
Her hair's pulled back in a plait, and she's got her arms wrapped round herself, like she's bracing for impact.
And Christ, she's a fucking sight for sore eyes, this unbeguiling woman. Part of me is half glad I didn't know the real Erin in school. I needed to grow the fuck up before I could meet her match.
“You came,” I say.
“You told me to.” She stops a few feet away, her head cocked to the side. The garden beds and vines, the stone path. Cataloging everything. “This is where you keep the sprites? And what’s the story with them?” Her eyes twinkle at me.
“Aye. Your wee sprites and fae. They’re taking over the whole garden. Come on.” I push off the fence and gesture toward the wildest section, where the plants have gone mental. “Let me show you what your magical friends have been up to.”
“I’m surprised. You’ve got siblings and cousins younger than you, and you let a few wayward sprites get to you?”