Page 6 of Unwilling Bride
And I know right then, I’ll never be the same.
3
CLAYTON
I needyou to hunt someone down.
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I read the text again and groan quietly. This isn’t how I imagined starting my morning.
It’s the word usage my boss threw at me. Leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Hunting someone down never ends well.Findingsomeone, now that’s a much better connotation. I’m not in the mood for a hunt. That implies there will be blood on my hands. And after the night I just had, I’d much rather eat a full stack at IHOP and watch football—the proper kind—than get back to work.
It’s not often that I feel relaxed enough to settle into a chair for a full game of anything, but I feel fucking grand at the moment—thanks to the woman curled up in the bed. Resisting the urge to look at her, because then I’ll crawl in next to her, I return to the messages on my phone.
Your betrothed bolted.
Deadly. Apparently, she doesn’t want to get married any more than I do.
It’s a marriage of convenience, as they say, but that doesn’t make it any more appealing. Truthfully, I never imagined myself settling down. A lifetime on the road, working for one Boss until it was time to find another, hasn’t left me with much opportunity to think about a missus. I didn’t have any role models in the relationship department either, not with Da getting killed when I was wee and me Ma too busy trying to survive to do much in the way of parenting.
But when the Boss said I was getting married, I didn’t argue, even though I wasn’t told who the girl was. I knew it didn’t matter anyway—if the Boss wants me to have a green card, grand, I’ll get a green card. You can’t be a good enforcer if you’re perpetually at risk of being deported. And besides the logic of it all, I’m not paid to ask questions. My job is to do as I’m told.
Can’t say the arrangement took me by surprise, though. Ever since the Boss hired me on, he’s been pushing me toassimilate, as he calls it. He doesn’t like his boys to stand out—it can be problematic if you’re in the habit of engaging in criminal acts. Witnesses can identify you easier, police start keeping tabs on you, you get recognized and targeted by other families, that sort of thing. So first things first, Bruno told me to erase my accent. I got it smoothed out to the point where people barely notice it nowadays, but the brogue can come on pretty strong when I’m watching the beautiful sport or having a pint or chatting up a woman. That’s when I’m the most myself, too. When I can let my guard down a bit.
I suppose the accent comes out when I’m fucking, as well. Basically, any time I’m dropping the cold-blooded butcher persona I’ve cultivated for my job.
Aye, the accent was out in full regalia at the pub last night, and hence I ended up in bed with the smoking hot woman not five feet away from me now. Jaysus, I still can’t believe she turned out to be a virgin. I wouldn’t have shacked up with her if I’d known. I’m not a fucking monster.
Can’t say I regret it, though.
…maybe I am a monster.
My cell buzzes with another incoming text.
She was last seen yesterday afternoon at home. Never returned.
Three dots blink across the screen as another message comes through. When it finally appears, it’s an image that renders poorly at first, then becomes increasingly clear. My brows knit and I bring the phone closer to my face.
You’ve got to be pulling my feckin’leg.
Five foot eight, slim, dark blonde hair, blue eyes. Last seen getting in a car wearing jeans, a black leather jacket, black boots. Name: Charlie Abbott.
I shake my head, still incredulous.
Those black boots and jacket are on the floor not five feet away from me, right beside the goddamned bloody bed.
Digging my fingers into my hair, I take a couple deep breaths. I don’t need to compare the picture on my phone to the living, breathing woman in the bed—the images will be the same. Same pretty face and thick-lashed, blue eyes. Same soft mouth and tousled hair. The woman I met at the pub last night is my fiancée. What are the fucking odds?
But God, from the first moment I saw her, I couldn’t stop myself from heading her way and trying to get to know her better. And now, to find out that she was the bride arranged for me all along…it’s like my life has turned into a bloody Hallmark movie.
Luck of the Irish, indeed.
I’ll take care of it, I text back.
I’m not telling the Boss that she’s with me now.
He seems mighty worked up over her disappearance, judging by the way he started this conversation.Hunt her down! Makes me wonder if there’s more riding on these nuptials than my citizenship. Ah, hell. None of this is for me to worry about. As arranged marriages go, this one might not be so bad. Charlie is beautiful, and easy to be around, and more than willing in the bedroom. We’ll see how long that last part holds out when she finds out who I am, though.
There’s a stirring of sheets behind me. Slipping my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, I reach for my T-shirt but pause with it in my hands as I watch her slowly awaken. She rolls over to face me, her eyelids fluttering softly as she comes to from a deep sleep. It’s only now, in the harsh morning light, that I realize how young she must be. Her skin, so smooth and glowing with the flush of youth, is unlined and flawless. Her dark gold hair falls around her cheeks and a hand reaches up from under the blankets to tuck it behind her ear. She’s a slight thing, delicate even, but she’s definitely not weak. A man would be a fool to think otherwise.
