I shove my key into the lock. “I’m not in the penthouse,” I admit. “But it’s nice, and I hope you like it.”
I lock the door when we step in and take her coat, hanging it with mine in the closet. “Make yourself at home,” I tell her. I walk past her to give her some space, not liking how uncomfortable she seems.
After everything we did, there shouldn’t be all this tension between us. It’s as if she’s a different person from the one who fell asleep in my arms.
I wash my hands in the kitchen and reach for a pot and pan from one of my bottom cabinets. “This is beautiful,” she says, taking a seat on the bar stool directly in front of me.
Okay, maybe she’s warming up. I fill the pot with water and add some salt before placing it on the stove. “The building’s old, but it has wood beams, crown molding, and high-tiered ceilings that a lot of the new places don’t have. We paid Seamus, and our oldest brother, Angus, to refinish the floors, replace the countertops with granite, and modernize the bathrooms.”
For all I planned to ask and say, I’m just shooting the shit now. Truth is, I want to know what’s up. I’m a cop and that’s what cops do, investigate what’s wrong.
I walk around the counter to where she sits, trying to work through what I think I should say. But then I find myself reaching for her hips and pulling her to me for a long, lazy kiss.
I expect her to be the one to pull away. But her hands smooth over my chest, and her tongue sweeps mine with equal aggression, letting me know she’s not going anywhere.
She wants this kiss.
She wants me.
I feel that now familiar stretch in my pants, but I can’t shake the feeling I’m maybe taking advantage of her. She’s had a rough day. Her father made sure of that. So I pull away, only to find her eyes glistening with tears.
This time my mouth won’t stay shut. “You have to tell me what’s going on.”
She covers my hands where they remain fastened to her hips. “I’m not the best person for you. But I really wish I could be.”
I lift my brows. “Is that what your father says?”
Her bruised expression makes it clear that I hit a nerve, and that I’m treading on thin ice. But something changes then, a flicker of defiance she probably didn’t realize she had in her. “If I tell you something, do you promise to let me, and not judge me for it?”
I watch her for a spell, not sure where this is headed, just sure it isn’t anyplace good. “Yeah. I promise.”
She releases a small breath, working to keep those tears in check. “I’m not supposed to be a lawyer, Curran. I’m not supposed to help amend laws to make our community safer, prosecute offenders who hurt innocent people, or change the world for the better in any capacity. That’s not what I’m meant for.”
My focus remains intense, but my hold on her hips loosens.
“Since the day I was born I’ve been molded to be the next Jackie Kennedy or Michelle Obama,” she says. Her voice cracks, but I can tell it stems from anger more than anything. “All the times I gave up attending your frat parties to study, all those dances I ditched to read through stacks of books in the library, all those extra classes I took—when I didn’t have enough hours in the day for the ones I already had—they weren’t for me. They were meant to shape me into the perfect prop. That fundraiser I attended last night was an opportunity to make nice with a man I think is a complete asshole, or to find someone else like him clawing his way up the political ladder, so that one day I can stand by his side and watch him become everything I thought I was supposed to be.”