Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Why does he look at me like that? I don’t like it when he looks at me like that.
No. Scratch that—I like it too much when he looks at me like that.
I swallow. "Eh, he likes to push boundaries, but we figured it out.” I don’t want to tattle on the little guy, but I’m not gonna lie either.
He nods. "It’ll help him to have the structure of school. Hey—Zoya has a list of nannies, but we’ve got some shit I need to do. Do you think you could help her look over the list? Maybe interview some of them?"
He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks away. "I don’t think anyone is as invested in who watches Luka as me—except you."
Do I nod too quickly? Am I too eager?
What is it about the two of us that makes me feel like a little girl crushing on her big sister’s boyfriend all over again?
"Thanks."
He swallows, and his voice is a little husky. "I’ll be home by five. We’ll have an early dinner so we can get Luka to bed. You said no work tonight?”
I nod and swallow hard. “Yeah.”
"Okay.”
“I pulled a casserole out of the freezer.”
The corner of his lips quirks up. How did I not know that he had a dimple there?
My heart turns over in my chest. I wish that it wouldn’t.
“You did?”
“Yeah. There were a lot. Whatever it is—we can eat it as a side dish or something. Text me what you need from the grocery store, and I’ll add it to my list."
He smiles—a flash of white teeth against those sinfully full lips.
God, he’s so fucking hot, all raw, masculine brutality. The hint of a beard on his jaw, the coiled muscle under the black shirt that fits like a second skin, the tats inked across his skin. He was more awkward when he was younger—shoulders too big for his body. But now he’s all man.
Fuck.
Rugged and broad, there’s a reason heads snap around wherever he goes. And when he turns those warm brown eyes on you, there’s no escaping.
He hasn’t dated yet. I know he hasn’t. It’s too soon. But I wonder if he will. I wonder if he’ll remarry. I wonder who she’ll be. I wonder if I’ll like her.
I hate these kinds of thoughts, so I push them away. But when he starts to smile at me—
"Look at you, all grown up and mature." He shakes his head.
"Shut up," I tell him. But I can't help my smile, adding, “You still remember that night? You had to come get me because I ran out of gas on the highway?”
His mouth curves, slow and dangerous. He remembers.
“You didn’t just run out of gas,” he says, his voice low and rough. “You called us crying. Said someone was following you.”
Us. I called Mariah and Vadka. My anchors.
Heat floods my face, but I still laugh. “I wasn’t crying,” I lie, even though we both know the truth.
His smile deepens, those gorgeous lips tilting in a way that makes my stomach knot. “You were terrified.”
Not mocking. Not cruel. Just a bittersweet memory.
“You always came when I called you,” I say, quieter.
“Of course I did,” he adds, softer now. Serious. For a second, the air between us vibrates. “You were just a kid then.”
Neither of us talks.
I’m not anymore.
"Do you actually change your car oil and check your tires now?" he asks, smirking.
I don't tell him that, no, I'm still absolute shit with my car.
“Well…”
He smiles and shakes his head. "I gotta get back to work."
"What's going on? Is everything okay?"
I hear things at the bar sometimes—before the Kopolovs do—but not always.
He looks away and blows out a breath. "We're not entirely sure yet."
"Is it the Irish?"
The Irish mob, Keenan McCarthy’s Clan, were the ones who killed my sister. They're not welcome in the bar anymore. None of them. As soon as I hear the accent, I look for the tattoo that marks them as McCarthy—but no one's come in for months.
"Yeah."
But when he doesn't offer any more information, I don't push. "Tell me if you need me."
I can at least spy—though not from the bar.
"Of course."
Then he's gone—without a backward glance or a word. Just gone. And again, it feels like I pick up the weight of my grief.
But when I go to find Luka, Grandfather is in the kitchen too. Savva Kopolov is everyone's grandpa. I'm happy to see him.
"Ruthie," he says with a bright smile that makes his eyes twinkle at the edges. "It's a delight to see you. How are you?"
God, he’s so cute.
He asks in a way that isn’t fake but shows genuine concern.
I smile at him. "I'm great," I lie. "Better since I spent a little time with this guy." I ruffle Luka’s hair.
He nods softly. He understands.
“It's hard—seeing the people who remind you of the ones you've lost.”