That being a girl—younger, smaller, powerless—didn’t mean I couldn’t beat him at his own game.
Max was right, though. I did stew about it for months. Months and months and still more months, until almost a year had gone by before I finally pulled the trigger on the job.
In all that time, I never once asked myself why I was stalling.
Now, sitting here at my kitchen table, grappling with the past, I have to admit Max was right about something else. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on him that the formidable Mr. Black was lightning, and I was a lightning rod.
Made to attract his strike.
I say darkly to the empty kitchen, “Okay, gangster. You want to play this game? Let’s play.”
But I’m in it to win.
The coffee steams in the cool morning air, sending up perfect white whorls like in a commercial. Approaching the SUV with a mug in each hand, I’m careful not to spill any on the front of my pretty white dress.
When I’m twenty steps away, Killian bursts from the passenger seat as if the car spat him out.
He stands stock still as I approach. Staring at me. Eating me up with his eyes.
I stop in front of him and look up into his burning gaze. Holding out one of the mugs, I say pleasantly, “Good morning.”
He accepts the mug without looking away from my face. “Good morning.”
“You look like shit.”
“I haven’t slept.”
“The front seat of your macho truck isn’t good for that sort of thing, hmm?”
He licks his lips. Drinks his coffee. Licks his lips again.
I say, “Have you considered that you hanging out here on the street with your goombahs will bring a certain amount of attention? Considering you’re trying to keep me safe, it might not be the best strategy.” I look him up and down. “You’re not exactly incognito.”
“I’m not trying to be incognito. That’s the point.”
We stare at each other. We drink our coffee. A slight breeze rustles the leaves on the trees.
He says, “In Irish, a goombah is called a comhlach.”
“Sounds like you’re trying to clear your throat.”
His lips lift into a wry smile. “Aye. Much of Irish sounds like that.”
I tilt my head and consider him. “It’s not called Gaelic?”
“It is, but at home we call it Irish. As opposed to Scottish Gaelic, which is a completely different thing.”
I’m hyper aware that the cool morning air has caused my nipples to harden, and also that Killian has noticed it, too. We both pretend we haven’t.
“Say the same word in Irish and in Scottish Gaelic.”
He thinks for a moment. “Áilleacht. Brèagha.”
“Those are the same words?”
“Aye.”
“What do they mean?”
His voice turns husky. His gaze turns intense. “Beauty.”
I drink more coffee, willing my cheeks not to turn red.
He says, “Brèagha was what my father always called my mother. She was Scottish. He wanted to say it in her language, so I grew up thinking it was an Irish word. It wasn’t until long after they were both dead that I learned it wasn’t.”
This personal family anecdote is unexpected. He isn’t the kind of man I imagine as ever being a boy or having parents. He seems like he arrived on this planet a fully formed adult, kicking ass and incinerating panties.
“So you’re half and half.”
“Aye.”
“In the Italian mafia, you can’t be a made man unless you’re full-blooded Italian.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I’m not aspiring to the Italian mafia, then.”
“I’m half and half, too. My mother’s family was British.”
He nods. “From Leeds, in the north.” When I simply stare at him in shock, he adds, “Beautiful part of the country.”
I take a moment to gather my wits, then say, “That background check was pretty extensive, huh?”
His gaze softens, and so does his voice. “It didn’t tell me everything.”
“No? Well, ask away. I’ll be happy to fill you in. What would you like to know? My shoe size? Favorite color? How I like my eggs?”
“Eight-and-a-half. Violet blue. Scrambled, with a side of bacon.”
Oh, I thought I was so smart. I thought I’d have it all under control, didn’t I? And here he is, throwing me for loops within two minutes of the start of the conversation.
He smiles at the expression on my face, then says gently, “There are some things I don’t know about you.”
I say tartly, “Like what? Which utensil I’d most like to gouge out your eyes with?”
He stares straight into my eyes. “Like how you sound when you come.”