The cashier boldly eye fucks Niall as she scans and bags my groceries, and I fight the urge to shudder. She’s very welcome to him.
He helps me unload everything at home, moving to sit silently, reading an iPad at the breakfast counter. While it appears he is engrossed in whatever he is looking at, I know he is watching every move I make. I haven’t felt this on display since high school.
Ignoring him the best I can, I contemplate making some traditional Romanian cabbage rolls but dismiss the idea and instead make lasagna and salad. I might be finding my feet when it comes to having a backbone, but I’m not suicidal.
Sighing in front of the well-stocked wine fridge in the pantry, I select a nice red that will pair well, leaving Niall in the kitchen as I move to set the table in the dining room.
Once supper is in the oven, I go upstairs and admire the tub covetously. Unfortunately, seven-thirty is fast approaching, and I don’t want to risk Seamus’s wrath on the very first night.
Sighing, I turn my back on it, stepping into the spacious shower. Feeling refreshed, I pick a comfortable navy blue woolen jersey dress with black tights and black leather ankle boots. This looks housewifey. It will do nicely.
Pinning my hair back and adding a lick of dark pink matte lipstick, I cast one last longing glance at the tub before walking downstairs.
Niall is still seated at the kitchen island, not moving as he watches me carefully carry the lasagna, bread, salad, and wine into the dining room. I suppose his job is to watch, not to help.
It’s twenty-five past seven, so I sit down and pour two glasses of wine, steepling my fingers as I wait. I’m wicked proud of myself for running to Seamus’s deadline so perfectly.
At seven-thirty, I listen carefully, but there is no sound other than Niall drumming his fingers in the kitchen. Sighing, my eyes darting to the ornate wooden grandfather clock in the corner of the room, I pick up my crystal glass and start drinking my wine.
By eight o’clock, I am halfway through my second glass. The food is cooling, and I am feeling distinctly disgruntled. At the very least, Seamus could have offered me the courtesy of a phone call. Surely Niall would tell me if Seamus had called to say he would be home late.
I try to tell myself that it’s only his second night as a married man, and when he got busy, it probably didn’t occur to him that he needs to call to let me know. But it doesn’t work. I’m too angry to listen to reason. I wasoweda phone call. Hell, I would have taken a three-word text via Niall’s cell phone.
Miffed, I fill my plate and a plate for Niall and stomp into the kitchen. He glances up from his iPad with an expression of surprise as I place the dishes on the breakfast counter and pop two beers, sliding onto a barstool beside him.
“Eat,” I snap as I wave my fork at his plate, taking a long pull of my beer. “I made this fucking thing from scratch. Someone might as well enjoy it.”
Niall watches me with a measured look, hesitating for about two seconds before digging into his meal.
We eat in silence, and once his plate is clean and his beer is empty, he grunts, “it’s good, thanks.”
It’s grudging, but it counts.
Seamus still hasn’t appeared by nine, so I make up a plate, cover it in tin foil and leave it in the fridge. I slowly clean the dining room and kitchen, drawing out the chore to see if he will show, but he doesn’t.
Eventually, everything is sparkling, and I am fuming. I bid Niall goodnight, getting a grunt in response, stomping upstairs to fall into bed. Seamus’s bed. It still doesn’t feel like mine.
SEAMUS
Rolling my shoulder back, I let myself into the house. It’s almost midnight, and the place is dark. Niall opens his eyes from where he’s sleeping on the sofa and is beside me in a second, assessing my bloodstained clothes.
“I should’ve been there,” he growls.
I smirk at him. “You were right where I wanted you to be. Did she have supper ready at seven-thirty?”
Niall smirks back at me. “Handmade lasagna. It was delicious. She left ye a plate in the fridge.”
Frowning at him, I stride into the kitchen. How the fuck does he know what it tasted like? Opening the sparkling stainless-steel door, my eyes dance over my fridge. At least all the beer is still in here, but there seems to be an awful lot of fucking vegetables.
I pull out a beer, popping the lid and snagging the covered plate. I don’t bother heating it, just peel off the tin foil and scarf it down. Even cold, it’s delicious.
“Did she seem pissed off when she had to eat alone?”
Niall shifts uneasily. The Reaper isn’t usually cagey. What the fuck is going on? I glance over at him, my eyes narrowing.
“She seemed pissed off that she went to the effort, and ye didn’t show,” he admits, scratching the back of his head. “Then she came in here and made me eat with her.”
She fuckingwhat?I glare at him, and he shifts uncomfortably again, shrugging as my eyes narrow further.