Shattered Hearts (Irish Kings #1)

10. Riley

Chapter 10

Riley

In reality, only four days have passed since I began my role as a decoy bride. In Riley Time, however, the Tuesday following the wedding marks at least one whole month of suffering.

I’ve used up my entire supply of patience for the year in these past four days alone. Splitting my time between home and the Gallagher estate—between being myself and pretending to be Harper—is the most exhausting work I’ve ever undertaken.

My stress is only slightly alleviated after I receive a call from an unknown number and pick up to hear Harper’s voice. She sounds stressed and speaks quickly, barely letting me get a word in edgewise. She begs me to hold down the fort for now, saying she just needed a break.

After procuring my reluctant agreement to continue posing as her replacement—somehow, she guessed our father would force me to fill in for her without even being told—she makes me promise not to tell anyone that we talked. She tells me she’ll check in again soon and not to worry.

Then her voice turns soft. Wavers. “I hope you know I still love you and want you to be happy.”

She hangs up before I can reply.

What. The. Hell.

As I fall back onto my twin’s giant California king bed, trust-fall style, I curse her for forcing me into this situation. I also worry. It’s so unlike her to act like anything other than the perfect daughter and mafia princess that I’m still not convinced foul play isn’t involved somehow.

Likewise, Finn and my father aren’t sold on her I’m sorry note. They’re both quietly putting out feelers to see if anyone knows anything.

But hey, at least I finally understand why she insisted our father buy this bed. Being Harper Brennan is hard fucking work. There really is no rest for the wicked. Or for the beautiful.

After impersonating Harper for four whole hours uninterrupted, I’m so fatigued, I know I’ll fall asleep any second if I don’t get up now, while I still have the willpower and a miniscule amount of strength.

I have to admit, though, the image of Finn waiting for me downstairs like an idiot while I take a nap up here inspires more of a smile than it should. But the image of Finn bursting in here, waking me up all angry and upset for making him wait, does not. The last thing I need is to be alone with Finn Gallagher in a room with a bed the size of a small European country.

Being around him is hell on earth. I wish I could go back in time and stop my teenage self from ever looking twice at him. Emotionally, mentally, romantically, I’m beyond over him.

Problem is, my body craves him. Those kisses? Those touches? He opened Pandora’s box. And I can’t get the lid back on to save my life.

Whenever he’s around, whenever he comes within twenty feet, my body reacts. He’s magnetized us, and now, whenever we’re close to each other, I have to fight the pull between our bodies. If I want to get out of this mess unscathed, I have to resist at all costs.

Sometimes Finn makes it easy on me.

Like when he says something naturally repellent.

Look. Relax. You’re taking this too seriously.

He gets angry that his decoy bride talks to his friends, something his real bride would absolutely need to do, and then has the nerve to insinuate that I’m overacting?

Heaving a breath, I hoist myself off Harper’s bed. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can get away from Mr. Frowny Scarface. I only came up here for reinforcements.

Many years have passed since I last stepped foot in my sister’s suite. Even before I estranged myself from the family, Harper and I weren’t exactly on fabulous terms. As a result, I haven’t been in here since our high school days.

Still, not much has changed.

Harper’s enormous bed, balanced by her tall, pastel, upholstered frame. While there’s only one window, it’s the size of two side-by-side garage doors. Two wingback chairs and a matching card table where we used to play chess as children sit in front of it. Her writing desk is long enough to lay on and dominates a single corner of the room.

Though I didn’t come here to snoop, I spend a few minutes rifling through my sister’s drawers. I’m hoping to find a clue as to her whereabouts.

When my search turns up empty, I shift gears and head for the closet.

On Harper’s wedding day, playing her proved easy in at least one way. The disguise wardrobe was provided. In the few days since, I’ve had to use my own clothes to improvise Harper-esque outfits. The issue is that my closet screams Woman on a Budget with a Day Job, and Harper’s screams Back to School at New York Fashion Week.

Since Sunday, I’ve gotten some strange glances from people at the mansion. That’s normal for me, but not for Harper. If I prompt looks containing anything less than envy or lust, that means I’m doing a bad job.

In order not arouse any more suspicion or further tarnish my sister’s brand, I’ve broken down and decided to take clothes from her closet to wear.

Padding across Harper’s plush carpet, I head through the double doors that lead into her closet and brace myself for the mini-mall that awaits me on the other side. On my way in, I swipe a Gucci tote bag off the wall. It’s the size of a shopping basket and just what I need to carry my haul in.

Harper’s closet has enough space to park an Escalade. At the far end of the room, walled in by glass, shoes, bags, and jewelry line shelf after shelf. Wooden hangers covered in brand-new designer goods surround me.

I don’t bother with giving any of Harper’s clothes a good once-over. Instead, I start snatching items off hangers and tossing them in the tote. After all, it’s not as if impersonating her means I suddenly understand her sense of style. I just hope my choices come with enough fabric to preserve my modesty.

My sister must keep herself busy by showing off her legs because I count less than five pairs of pants. Plan B is to go straight for the dresses since they’re one piece and easier to get on and off, but one glance at that section changes my mind. My options are short, skimpy, and couture, or long, skin-tight, and revealing.

I turn back and head for the skirt rack next.

Once I’ve filled the bag to the brim, I peel off the clothes I wore this afternoon. After shimmying into an ensemble Harper left hanging on the bathroom door, I prepare myself for more foot torture and grab the least offensive pair of shoes off Harper’s shelf.

The comedy routine that follows, known as me trying to walk down four flights of stairs with a Gucci tote bag that weighs the same as a middle schooler, still isn’t over by the time I hobble into the garage a few minutes later.

Like a shadow, Finn lurks in the corner by a black Audi, that perpetual scowl on his face. Running into the man in a semi-lit garage is something one would want to avoid for their own safety. Myself included.

Instead, I school the pain on my face into something I hope resembles neutral discomfort and shuffle toward him, the pain receptors in my feet screaming with each step. I try to act casual as I adjust the leather, knee-length pencil skirt squeezing my lower half.

The click of the five-inch fuck-me heels on the smooth cement floor of the garage must’ve summoned Finn’s attention. I feel the weight of his gaze on me before I even glance up.

Finn doesn’t say anything, but the intensity of his stare makes my heart stutter and my feet stop walking. Why does my body forget how to function the minute I see him?

My lips part, but no sound comes out. His dark eyes seem black from all the way over here.

My neck warms when he tracks the length of my body. I resist the urge to fidget and hide myself. Finn’s attention is like a microwave, heating me up, spinning me around.

His lips quirk, as if he’s fighting off a smile. I brace for the sting in his words. That’s all I do around him. Brace for it.

He takes a step toward me. “You walked through the house like that?”

I’m cool, I swear I am…until those words leave his mouth.

Is this petty bastard criticizing my inability to walk in heels?

I resume my hobbling, faster than before. “How about the next time someone leaves you at the altar, I impersonate you , and you can be the one who comes down the aisle in the Jimmy Choos.”

My foot goes sideways over a piece of gravel someone tracked in here, and my balance flies out the window.

I go down gasping before a fist as hard as stone clamps around my upper arm and hauls me toward the Audi. My back hits the passenger door as Finn boxes me in against the sports car.

His hands are fixed to the roof, arms extended on either side of my body, exasperation on his face.

All of my annoyance dissolves into ash, electricity zapping me from end to end. I must be some kind of a whore for thinking about kissing him right now.

Finn’s face floats above mine, his cruel mouth only a few inches from mine. I blink.

“What?” His rough voice is almost a croon.

A quake starts in my belly and spreads south.

“More silence, huh?” One of his eyebrows lifts. “Nothing smart to say?”

“Is it too late for me to take a cab?” The words come out breathy, and I want to kick myself for letting him affect me the way he does.

A muscle pulses in his thick neck as frustration flares in his eyes. His right hand drops to the passenger door handle by my hip and rips it open like he’s mad at it. My body brushes his, setting every nerve ending on fire.

“Shut up and get in.” He steps back and gives me space.

Seconds tick by as we stare at each other in silence.

Swallowing back my argument, I lower myself inside without a fight. To my surprise, Finn doesn’t slam the door behind me. He closes it with all the grace of a true gentleman and then stalks around to the driver’s side and gets in.

I hold my breath as he starts the car and pulls out of the space.

Being around Finn just gets more and more confusing. The strangest part is that so far, the most stressful segment of my theatrical debut as his bride isn’t the actual impersonation itself. What happens after a morning spent pretending is what drains me the most.

Car rides with Finn.

Everything he says and does feels like it’s in reaction to me . Not this situation, nor my sister. Me. The one he never noticed before. I feel like I’m in an alternate dimension these days. I’m not Harper, and I’m not myself. I’m a crazy, distorted, fun house person who agreed to this ridiculous sham and is on the verge of a psychological meltdown as a result.

What I want to know is, what’s going through Finn’s head? Why isn’t he out, like a one-man search and rescue team, trying to find Harper? I mean, I’m not around him all the time. Maybe he’s looking for her whenever he’s not with me, but it sure doesn’t seem like it.

In fact, I don’t get the impression that Harper’s occupying his thoughts much at all.

Or maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part.

I sneak a glance at the enforcer beside me, who has one arm balanced on the open window and the other extended to the steering wheel. The April breeze ruffles his dark auburn hair and carries his delicious cedar scent to my nose.

Why are you doing this, Finn? What’s in it for you?

How can he possibly benefit from this arrangement we have going?

Obviously, he saves face this way, but I don’t believe for a second Finn cares about saving face. I may have been wrong about him in a million ways, but I’m sure he doesn’t give a damn about appearances of all things…

No. I’m wrong. I must be.

I don’t want a rumor going around that my wife’s easy.

You walked through the house like that?

Now I understand.

For all I know, Finn could have jumped at the chance to marry Harper because she’s the highest quality eye candy there is. She’s a status symbol any enforcer would love to have on his arm. She knows how to carry herself perfectly. Just like our mom, Harper can play her part with beauty and aplomb.

The precise amount she smiles to appear pleasant, lovely, and unattainable without being flirtatious…the kind of spell she casts on men to keep them on a string for months… My sister’s probably got a doctorate on the subject at this point.

Finn must be so deep under Harper’s spell that, for the chance to marry her even someday , he’d happily pretend with me until she comes back.

I avert my gaze before he catches me staring. Still uneasy, my heart drums an irregular, unsettling beat. Questions sprout up through the soil of my mind like weeds.

Even if Finn is snared in Harper’s web, that doesn’t explain why he insists on being courteous to me, does it? Waiting for me, opening doors for me. On every day we’ve been scheduled to make an appearance, Finn has dropped me off at work and picked me up. Why he’s so bent on driving me, I have no idea. Neither of us enjoys it. That much is obvious.

Yet, all of my protests have been futile. He flat out refuses to let me transport myself. Despite the fact that I seem to do it so often, Finn isn’t the type of man I want to argue with. But how am I supposed to feel when I arrive at work nowadays?

What if one of my coworkers saw and asked me about him? What do I say?

My brother-in-law dropped me off.

Just thinking those words pulverizes my heart.

My sister’s fiancé picks me up here sometimes.

That’s every bit as bad.

Being in the car with Finn is akin to being underwater. Submerged in taut silence as I hold my breath. Sometimes, we don’t say one word to each other, and still the quiet between us deafens me.

If the radio in this luxury vehicle works, I have no evidence. My fingers itch for that dial, just to end the tension drowning us, but I fold my hands in my lap to keep still.

While Finn drives, I sneak a glance at him. His massive hands are tucked around the steering wheel. There are scars on his right hand from where he cut himself, no doubt from practicing with the butterfly knife he always carries and twirls when lost in thought. When I was younger, I guess I thought he wanted to master knife tricks for fun. Really, he was learning knife craft to make himself more lethal as an enforcer.

The short-sleeved shirt he wears exposes his muscled forearms and some of the tattoos I’ve never gotten to admire from up close before. There are numbers inked on his forearm in slanted letters. Two sets of digits. Dates, I think. A month, a day, and the same year for both.

There’s a scar on his tricep and a small marigold outlined in black nearby. Etched onto one of the petals are the initials MJBV .

The tattoos on his fingers catch my eye too, especially one on his left ring finger. A thin black line runs the circumference, like a dark, spindly wedding band tattooed on his hand.

I know enough to know that tattoo is Kings’ specific. I don’t know the details, but there are a whole slew of meanings associated with particular mob tattoos, and I’ve seen other Gallagher men with the same one. Maybe it stands for widower…

Finn moves his left arm to the wheel and folds his right onto the armrest between us. The heat radiating off his skin touches me. My heart rears up like a spooked horse, just having his long, rough fingers reclined so close to me.

Calm down! Why do you have to be so damn susceptible to him? Things will be a lot easier if ? —

The screech of tires drowns out every other sound.

Out of nowhere, an acid green muscle car swerves into our lane, cutting us off in traffic. Finn thrusts his arm in front of me and slams the brakes.

We lurch forward. The offending vehicle zooms off. The close call has both of us breathing hard, and when our eyes meet, the unguarded exchange that passes between us sends my heart scrabbling against my ribs.

Finn’s eyes boil with a contagious heat, warming my cheeks. His outstretched arm hovers mere inches in front of my chest.

The dude behind us lays on the horn so hard, we jump, snapping out of the moment and back into reality.

Finn retracts his arm and drops his foot back on the gas. My head hits the headrest as we race through the intersection onto the next block.

“You all right?” Finn’s voice is gruff with an emotion I can’t name.

“Fine.” Never told a bigger lie in my life.

As we ease to a stop at the next light, the oxygen in the car begins to evaporate. The squeezing and popping of straining leather draws my gaze to Finn, whose ghost-white knuckles tighten around the steering wheel hard enough to rip it from the console.

Murder’s in Finn’s eyes as he scowls at something ahead of us.

Terror drips through me. I follow his vengeful gaze.

The acid green muscle car zips into a turn a block ahead of us.

With my luck, I’m going to be late for work since Finn needs to stop and assassinate the driver on the way.

What else could that frothing, venomous gleam in his eyes mean?

Some people get road rage. Finn gets road wrath.

His jaw clenches and loosens on repeat. I brace myself for a chase, but Finn surprises me by continuing to the shelter. By the time we get there, I’m lightheaded from holding my breath.

I all but dive out onto the curb, gulping down that grimy Manhattan air. My nerves, always on edge when Finn’s around, tell me to run inside again without so much as a goodbye. But when I don’t budge, the passenger window zips down a few inches, making me freeze.

I bend over a little and find Finn’s expectant eyes leveled on me.

My heart leaps up to my throat.

“Friday.” That one word is Finn for, we’re doing something on Friday, right?

I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just shake my head yes, confirming our next appearance day. Finn gives an almost imperceptible nod.

Then, without another syllable, he smashes the gas and tears off into the dimming afternoon haze, like a shadow disappearing with the daylight.

Would he have killed that guy back there, if not for me?

Unanswered and unsatisfied, my heart stammers, beating hard for the man I know I can’t have long after he’s gone.