Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
The silence she leaves behind is suffocating.
Francesca turns to me. “You okay?”
I bark a laugh. “That was a normal day.”
She walks to the fireplace and stares at the unlit logs.
“She’s not always like that,” I say.
“Yeah?” she replies. “When is she worse?”
I flinch, then drop into the nearest chair, running a hand through my hair. “I brought you here to scare you off,” I admit. “To show you how fucked up it really is.”
She turns, arms crossed. “Mission failed.”
I look up at her, and the rawness in my chest bubbles over. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”
It comes out too loud, too sharp, but she stands her ground, chin lifted in quiet defiance. “Because I don’t think you actually want me to.”
I suspect that might be true and I hate it. “You think you know me?”
“No,” she says, steady. “But I want to.”
I push to my feet, the movement too fast, too reckless. I start pacing—short strides, sharp turns. The floor creaks beneath my boots as I walk out my agitation.
“Why?” I snap. “So you can fix me? You want to play Florence Nightingale to the broken Brit? Collect another charity case to make you feel better about yourself?”
She doesn’t rise to the bait and she doesn’t back down. “I want to understand you,” she says. “Not save you.”
I stop pacing. For a second, I stand there, hands curled into fists at my sides like I’m bracing for a fight. My heart pounds in my ears, but it’s not rage fueling it. Not really.
It’s something else. Something worse.
She saw the full spectacle that is Vivienne Barnes. The slurred words, the bitterness, the jagged mess of a woman who used to throw dinner parties for royalty and now downs pills with her wine before noon. And Francesca didn’t run. She didn’t make excuses or pretend not to notice. She saw the wreckage and she stood up to it.
And she’s still here.
“You saw what she’s like,” I say, quieter now. “You saw all of it.”
“Yeah,” she says. “And I saw what you did.” She takes a step closer. “You walked in anyway. You stayed standing.”
I shake my head. “That’s habit.”
“Maybe,” she says with a shrug. “But you didn’t let her tear me apart. And you didn’t pretend she wasn’t exactly what she is. That requires strength.”
I want to tell her she’s wrong. That she still doesn’t get it. Most importantly, that none of this makes me worth staying for.
But the words won’t come. Because somewhere deep inside me, I want to believe Francesca’s right.
And that terrifies me.
I move closer before I can stop myself. “You think bringing you here makes me brave?”
“I think it makes you worth knowing.”
We’re inches apart now. Her voice is calm, but her eyes are fire.
“You push everyone away,” she whispers. “But I’m still here.”
“Why?” I demand.
“Because I see you.”
I grab her then. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. My hand is in her hair, threading roughly into the loose knot at the back of her neck, and then my mouth crashes against hers—raw, desperate, like a punishment.
I don’t know how to be tender. I refuse to be careful. I give her everything I’ve tried to suppress, and it erupts all at once.
Francesca gasps—a sharp intake of surprise—but she doesn’t pull away. She surges into me, grabbing the front of my shirt and fisting it tight as her mouth accepts my attack. She kisses me like she’s been holding it in just as long, like we’ve been circling this moment, knowing that when we gave in, it would burn us both to cinders.
My hand cups the side of her face, thumb grazing the line of her jaw, and I realize… maybe I can be gentle. I kiss her deeper—like she’s the only one who can erase the bad parts of my life. The cameras. The noise. My mother’s voice still echoing in the next room.
Francesca’s fingers are in my hair now, gripping like she wants to keep me there—or maybe it’s to keep herself from falling.
We’re both breathing hard, mouths barely parting before finding each other again. Her teeth graze my lower lip, and I groan, the sound guttural, involuntary.
This isn’t about lust, although that’s lurking. It’s everything I’ve denied myself. Everything I thought I buried.
For one wild, thrilling moment, I force myself to believe that nothing else exists. I feel and then I acknowledge that I like this way too much.
Until the doubt creeps in.
I pull away and we’re both breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her hands still curled into my hair.
“This is a bad idea,” I mutter, my forehead dropping to hers.
She doesn’t agree. Doesn’t whisper I know or pull away like I expect.
Instead, she says, “Why?” I look at her, her eyes never leaving mine. “I mean, sure, it’s messy,” she continues. “And you’re broody as hell. But there’s a connection here, Ronan. Attraction. Interest. Chemistry. Call it what you want. But don’t pretend it isn’t there.”