“If he does, he’s doing a great fucking job of hiding it,” I mutter.
“Just give it time,” Maggie says gently. “Why didn’t the two of you go on a honeymoon, anyway? That could have been good for you, some time away together—”
“He has too much business here to take care of.” I skirt the topic ofwhatthat business is carefully, not wanting to give too much away. “Things are—fraught right now. It wouldn’t make sense for him to take time off to vacation. It would look bad to his men and the other Kings.”
Maggie frowns. “Surely the two of you could go away for the weekend, though? Next weekend, maybe? It’s not like money is an issue. Just book a last-minute trip. Somewhere fun and exotic. If he’s away from all of this, maybe he’ll be able to loosen up around you. Maybe you can get a glimpse of what his true feelings are.”
That could be good or bad.But as Maggie says it—the idea takes hold, and I can’t shake it. I remember how good things were in London, in Dublin, how I saw parts of Connor that he’s mostly kept well-hidden since we came back to Boston, since he shut down around me.
What if she’s right? What if a little getaway with nothing to do except spend time together and explore each other is exactly what we need? I know it could be a disaster—Connor and I’s sparks turn into fights as often as they do sex—but it could also be an eye-opener. It could tell me if there’s really a chance or not, if I should try to push past my pride and show him I want more, that I feel things for him, or if I should throw up the same walls he’s building so quickly and turn to Niall for my happiness.
A little time alone, somewhere romantic. If I can convince him to go, that is.
“How did you feel when you found out the warehouse was on fire?” Maggie asks gently. “When you got there and saw him fall?”
I don’t really want to be honest. I don’t want to admit how far I’ve slipped from the defiant girl in London who wanted nothing to do with Connor McGregor beyond what he could do for her. But Maggie is the only person in the world that Icanbe completely honest about my feelings with, and I’m not about to start lying to her now.
“I thought my heart would break if I lost him,” I say softly. “I’ve never been so afraid in my life. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
Maggie looks at me keenly. “Then go home and book that weekend, Saoirse.”
“I’ll think about it,” I tell her. But I know I’ve already made up my mind.
4
SAOIRSE
Connor is asleep when I get back. There are dishes in the sink that tell me he scraped together some kind of lunch for himself. When I peek into the bedroom, his water glass is empty, so I refill it and leave it at his bedside again. It doesn’t feel like enough, but it seems like it’s all he’ll let me do.
How much he’s sleeping worries me more than a little, but there’s not much I can do about that, either. Instead, I go to the living room and get my laptop out, sinking back into the soft couch as I start to look up travel destinations for a last-minute getaway.
If I go ahead and book it, he can’t say no, right?Connor was raised to be much more frugal than I was. From the way he lived in London when he didn’t have his family money to fall back on, he’s adopted a less lavish lifestyle than what I’m used to. I can only imagine that wasting money already spent on a booked vacation by not going would make his skin crawl, so even if he doesn’twantto go, he’ll probably agree to it.
I can’t help but question, as I scroll through gorgeous photos of Greece, Spain, and the Caribbean if I should really be doing this at all. If my husband has to be manipulated into going on vacation with me, is it even worth it? Isn’t that the answer I’m seeking, right there?
The only thing that makes me keep going is the memory of those few times when he’s let his guard down—the times in London and Dublin, the night he pretended to be William, that flicker of happiness in his eyes when he saw that I’d come to the warehouse before he shut down again. The way he loses control of his desire with me, even though he keeps saying, over and over again, that our sex is supposed to be cold and clinical.Organic IVF.
I want this memory with Connor, even if it’s all I get. I want the possibility of a few days with him where we can enjoy each other, even if there’s a possibility that I might just lose him in the end, anyway.
I want to make this last-ditch effort, and if it fails, then I’ll come to terms with the fact that I agreed to this, and I have to stick to the terms. I promise myself that, as I flick through photos of Japan—neon Tokyo at night, rural onsens, cherry blossoms everywhere. It’s past cherry blossom season now, but there’s something sensual about the tucked-away photos of the spa resort I find—a romantic onsen with a private bartender, VIP treatment, couples massages, Michelin-starred meals. It’s everything a honeymoon should be, and even though I’m not going to sell it to Connor like that, it makes me feel warm and soft inside to think of us going there together.
Plus, I’ve always wanted to go to Japan.
I spend a few more minutes flicking through photos, looking at the views from the resort of Fuji National Park, the glorious greenery making the tension ease from my shoulders just looking at it online.
If I wait any longer, though, I’m going to chicken out, so I quickly book one of the nicest rooms for us and send a quick text to my father asking if I can have the use of the jet the next weekend.
For what?he sends back, and I can hear the gruff suspicion in his voice just from the message.
A getaway with Connor. To make him a little more malleable.
It’s absolutely not to make Connor any more malleable for my father, but he doesn’t need to know that. It does the trick, and with a few keystrokes and my credit card information, we have a romantic weekend in Japan booked, just outside of Tokyo.
Now to wait for Connor to wake up, so I can tell him.
When he does, limping into the kitchen, he looks so bleary from sleeping all day and irritable that I’m hesitant to tell him. But I can’t exactly wait until the last minute or trick him into getting onto my father’s jet with me, so instead, I wait for him to notice I’m there. He does after a few minutes, downing another glass of water and more painkillers before slowly making his way into the living room and towards our bar.
“What are you doing?” he asks as he pours himself a glass of whiskey.