Broken Vow (Brutal Birthright #5) - Sophie Lark Page 0,1

“There’s no such thing as bad publicity, except your own obituary.”

He’s a version of my father who grew up in Ireland—an alternate reality, if we’d all been raised there instead of Chicago.

Tonight he knocks on my doorframe, saying, “You know we don’t pay you by the hour, Riona. You can go home once in a while and still have plenty of money for those fancy shoes.”

The shoes in question are a pair of oxblood Nomasei pumps, set neatly to the side under my desk. I take them off when I know I’ll be sitting a while, so they don’t get creases across the toes.

I smile up at Uncle Oran. “I knew you’d notice those,” I say.

“I notice everything,” he says. “Like the fact that you’ve got all the South Shore land purchase agreements in front of you. I told you Josh was going to handle those.”

“I had already started them,” I say, shrugging. “I figured I might as well finish.”

Oran shakes his head. “You work too hard, Riona,” he says seriously. “You’re young. You should be out with friends and boyfriends. Once in a while, at least.”

“I have a boyfriend,” I say.

“Yeah? Where is he?”

“About five miles that way.” I nod my head toward the window. “At Mercy Hospital.”

“Oh, the surgeon?” Oran sniffs. “He’s still around?”

“Yes,” I laugh. “What’s wrong with Dean?”

“Well . . . ” Oran sighs. “I wasn’t going to say anything. But I saw he sent you roses the other day. Red roses.”

“So?”

“Not very imaginative, is he?”

I shrug. “Some people like the classics.”

“Some people are intellectually lazy.”

“What’s the right flowers to send a woman?”

Oran grins. “I always send whiskey. You send a woman a bottle of Bunnahabhain Forty-Year Single Malt . . . then she knows you’re serious.”

“Well, we’re not,” I tell him. “Not serious.”

Oran strides into my office and scoops up the stack of folders off my desk.

“Hey!” I protest.

“This is for your own good,” he says. “Go home. Put on a nice dress. Go get your man from the hospital. Enjoy a night out. Josh will find these on his desk tomorrow morning, the lazy shite.”

“Fine,” I say, just to placate him.

I let Oran carry the folders away, and then I watch him head over to the elevators, leather satchel slung over his shoulder in place of a briefcase. But I have no intention of actually leaving. I’ve got a million other projects to work on, with or without the purchase agreements.

And this is my favorite time to do it—after everyone else had left and the lights have automatically dimmed across the floor. In total silence, the rest of the office dark, and only the city lights sparkling below me. No interruptions.

Well—almost none.

My cell phone buzzes on the desk next to me, where it lays face-down. I flip it over, seeing Dean’s name.

You still at it? Want to come meet me for a drink at Rosie’s?

I consider. Rosie’s is only a couple of blocks away. I could easily stop for a drink on my way home.

But I’m tired. My shoulders are stiff. And I haven’t had a chance to exercise yet today. I think about a glass of wine in the trendy, noisy bar, compared to a glass of wine drunk in my own bathtub, listening to a podcast instead of a recap of Dean’s day.

I know which one sounds more appealing to me.

Sorry, I text back. Going to be working late. Then I’ll just head home.

Alright, Dean replies. Dinner tomorrow?

I hesitate.

Sure, I say. 6:30 tomorrow.

Dean and I have been dating for three months. He’s a thoracic surgeon—intelligent, successful, handsome. Competent in bed (I would guess all surgeons are—they understand the human body and they’re in full control of their hands).

I should want to go to dinner tomorrow. I should be excited about it.

But I’m just . . . indifferent.

It’s nothing to do with Dean. It’s a problem I seem to have again and again. I get to know someone, and I start picking away at all their flaws. I notice inconsistencies in their statements. Holes in logic in their arguments. I wish I could turn off that part of my brain, but I can’t.

My father would say that I expect too much from people.

“No one’s perfect, Riona. Least of all yourself.”

I know that.

I notice my own flaws more than anyone’s—I can be cold and unwelcoming. Obsessive. Quick to get angry and slow to forgive.

Worst of all, I’m easily annoyed. Like when a man becomes repetitive.

It’s only been a few months, and already Dean’s told