Page 113 of The Love Destroyers

A sinking feeling fills my gut even as alarm pounds through my veins. She knows, and it sent her running, same as I thought it would. Only this time she’s going to fucking stay away. That’s the typical reaction people have to finding out someone they’re sleeping with is a killer.

I can’t blame her, and it was probably inevitable, the second I gave in to what I was feeling for her. But it hurts like hell.

I sit up in bed, groaning, because I’ve added a hangover to my list of discomforts. Someone—Emma, must have been—put a glass of water beside the bed, so I down it and then head into the en-suite bathroom to take a piss and brush my teeth.

I feel like a crumpled dollar bill in the lint tray of someone’s drier. I’m tempted to crawl back into bed, but even if Emma left, and I got fired by the most unprofessional woman in the worldfor being unprofessional, I’m not done. I’m going to find a way to help them take Jeffrey down. I need to do it for her, even if she doesn’t want my help anymore.

So I leave my room and nearly trip over my own feet.

There’s a new rabbit habitat in the living room—a real one—and all of Chuck’s things have been put away. Carrot is chewing on something, but he hops toward the wire side of his enclosure when he notices me.

She took care of him.

She took care of him because I like the stubborn bastard, I know that as clearly as I know my own name. My gaze moves to the kitchen table. To her, owning the room like a damn goddess, sitting in front of a cup of coffee. There’s another cup in front of the empty seat across from her.

My heart lifts in my chest.

“You’re here,” I say, my voice hoarse.

“I wasn’t about to leave you after what happened yesterday. I heard you stirring in the other room, so I made us some coffee.”

“Yesterday?” I ask, glancing at the clock mounted over the stove. Five-thirty.

Her brow creases. “Seamus, you slept for nearly a whole day. I was getting worried, but Chuck knows someone on the second floor who’s been a nurse for years. She took a look at you. She said you were breathing normally and basically implied that you needed it. You woke up when I shook you hard enough, but you went right back to sleep.”

I groan and lower into the chair across from her, running my hands through my hair. What the fuck have I missed?

I glance up. “Have you talked to Rosie?”

She nods. “And your brother. They were worried about you. Chuck and I have been keeping them updated.”

“Where is he?”

“With my mother.”

“WatchingMary Tyler Moore?”

She grimaces. “I’d prefer not to speculate. I caught her shopping for some lingerie this morning. Lingerie that Ellie talked about on Instagram. That’s about all we’ve found on the phone. Nicole has been giving Ellie and Jeffrey the runaround, but who knows how long they’ll stick with it. They’re barely even pretending to get along.” Her mouth tips into a nearly there smile. “You know, they hired that kid Otis to be Ellie’s new personal assistant.”

“No, shit,” I say, thinking of Sophie and her aunt. They were probably glad to get him out of the house, and God knows the kid is a yes man, especially where Ellie is concerned. He’ll do fine as a PA.

“Yeah, I suggested it to Nicole. She says it’s a better personnel fit. The poor kid shaved a wart off Jeffrey’s foot this morning.”

“Aren’t we supposed to be tormenting them?”

She raises her eyebrows. “There’s been some of that. Nicole brought them to an interpretive dance. But she’s going easier on them, because she was worried Jeffrey might be on to us. She wants to lull them into a false sense of security.”

That’s my fault, obviously. I sigh and rub my forehead, willing the pain away, then notice the painkiller she set out for me beside the coffee. Not the prescribed type, but an over-the-counter brand. “Thank you,” I say, then down it with the coffee.

It feels strange to be sitting here like this, as if everything is normal, when I know what I told her. I can still feel the words leaving my mouth.

“What did Rosie and Declan say?”

“Not much,” she says, giving me a pointed glance over her coffee cup. I can already tell this isn’t my Emma—the woman who curled up next to me in bed last night, or the Emma who saton my face the night before. This is lawyer Emma. But is she my lawyer or here for the prosecution?

She sets down her cup. “I wanted to hear it from you.”

I scrub my hands over my face. “I need a drink.”

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