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We’ll work.
We will abso-fucking-lutely work.
Humming to myself, I flip another page in the hardbacks I picked off the men’s bookshelves. An organized crime book. One of the dozens they have here. History books, criminal law books, autobiographies of New York’s most famous mafia bosses—if it was ever written, I bet it’s here. At least it seems like it by how huge their collection is.
This could be something to do with the shady crowd milling around the hotel. I recognized some politicians here and there. Then there are those with the hardened expressions. And those I’ve seen in the newspapers.
But what could it have to do with Carter’s and Killian’s taste in books?
Probably nothing. I shrug, continuing to read Bugsy Siegal’s story. Truly interesting stuff. I’d have kept reading for hours, except I can’t sit still another second longer. I place the book back on the shelf where I found it and check the clock mounted on the wall.
Eleven a.m.
Too early for lunch. I unlock my phone, going through work emails.
Seed delivery to approve for next week. A signed contract for a wedding coming in three months. Opal asking whether I’m going to be on time on Monday morning.
Done. Done. Done.
In the silence of the huge penthouse, I’ve got nothing better to do than think.
My mind whirs to Carter and Killian. Drawn to them as if they were the honey to my hungry bee. My body heats and the memory. My skin is itchy with need.
They touched me. Ran their tongues on me. Kissed me. Kissed us.
We were together. We are together.
My God, I miss them.
Also, I hope Killian approves of me giving him a nickname. He has to.
I growl at my eagerness. My feet pace back and forth in the men’s office as I try to wrench this idea from my head.
And failing.
Maybe Killie?
Too soon, Amara. Chill the fuck out.
My heart aches to hear their voices. I’m sure they could calm me down if they were here.
I could call them. That’d soothe my rattled soul for sure.
No.
They’re working, and I’ve never been the clingy type. I have no plans on being one now.
Looking for something to do, I move my phone between my right and left hand.
My phone, that’s right. I do have something to do.
Call my landlords aka my parents.
How I wish there were other available spaces I could move my shop to. Sadly, there aren’t. I checked. Have been checking every now and again in case I get thrown out for no reason whatsoever. It’s not the craziest idea.
I hope I’m wrong about them.
More than that, I hope they’ll be okay with me subletting the apartment so I could use the money to help out around here. I don’t care what Carter said. I want and should pitch in around here.
