Page 19 of Trust Me

Willa Callahan was a goddamn nut.

Fuck it—Willa Brennan.

I’d recognized her the moment those two perfect sapphires edged in feathery dark lashes blinked up at me last night. If I hadn’t been so committed to burying my emotions regarding the arrival of Brennans on US soil, perhaps I would have given the surveillance footage a closer look and figured it out sooner. Or had I done that when Keegan showed me the video?

The same constellation of freckles still spanned the bridge of her nose, but eyes that once regarded me with innocence now reflected a relentless pain that screamed tragedy. The kind of tragedy that breaks your spirit, steals your soul, and morphs you into a monster.

I would know.

I relaxed my fingers around her wrists, not wanting to mark her. She sucked her lips into her teeth to quiet her tinkling laughter as she continued to lean against me like I was a piece of lounge furniture.

She had two functional legs. I didn’t understand why the fuck she wasn’t using them.

Then I remembered I’d already decided that she was fucking crazy.

She also smelled like vanilla.

My chest burned, reminding me that my hatred for the Brennans was visceral. A stance I’d never reconsidered.

But she’s Jack’s daughter.

An awareness settled over me. One I’d been telling to fuck off since I’d found Willa entranced by our family portrait.

Her presence complicated matters. Threatened my pledge. Willa being connected to the Brennans raised the stakes should this deal go sideways. It felt necessary for me to be the one to uncover the story behind Willa Brennan, including her return to Boston. Maybe it was the black eye she’d nearly succeeded in hiding that jarred my emotions from the shadows of my soul.

Oddly, it felt personal.

“Who hit you?” I demanded. My knee-jerk interrogation surprised me as much as it probably did her.

Her watery eyes shimmered under the streetlamps with a hint of satisfaction taking over her features. “You first,” she chirped.

My grip tightened around her joints on instinct. “A six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-forty-six-pound biker from Dorchester who goes by the name Smalls.” I jerked my chin at her. “Your turn.”

Her expression sobered and she pulled away.

My hands irrationally felt empty.

For reasons I couldn’t explain, I found myself considering the odds that she’d attack me again.

My fingers flexed. “Tell me,” I insisted, harsher this time.

Her dainty nose lifted in the air, defiance written all over her face. I’d spent a lifetime studying the body language of others to make sense of what I could see but didn’t always allow myself to feel, but my future sister-in-law was an anomaly.

I wasn’t sure I liked how that title sounded in my head. I was certain I’d hate it if I were to speak it out loud.

She folded her arms. “Shouldn’t we be heading inside? My mobster radar tells me we were being tailed on the way here.”

Her cleverness tempted a smile, but I kept it under wraps.

Were was the operative word. I’d ditched the Russian tail, and she was going to ditch the attitude and answer the fucking question. “Who. The. Fuck. Hit. You?”

Her lips parted to share her reply, but she exhaled deeply instead. Her chin dipped as a demure version of herself stepped forward. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a terrible dancer. Aiden was afraid I’d embarrass the family ...” She blew her long bangs out of her face in a dramatic gesture. “I’ve been taking classes in ballroom dancing, and last week, I caught an elbow in the face because ... well ...” Her nose wrinkled. “Two left feet.”

There are two types of lies: white and strategic.

After I concluded the sort, I’d set out to determine the reason for Willa’s deception. But this would take time, and right now the terrible liar apparently needed God more than I’d fucking realized.

Taking her by the elbow, I led her away from the street and toward the church. “Your secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell anyone that you’re a klutz.”

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