Page 78 of Ireland

“Do you like cooking?” she asked from her seat at the island, taking the opportunity to memorize every scar on his back. There were at least a dozen by her count and three that looked traumatic.

“I don’t mind it. When I go to the bayou, I fend for myself. At home, I have Marcelle, and she fusses over me as you just did. She makes sure I eat regularly and often.”

“Have you not been eating enough in New York? We’re kinda known as one of the great cities for foodies.”

He shrugged, sliding the omelet onto a plate and setting it before her. “I lose track of everything when I’m working. A lot of moving pieces to stay on top of. It wasn’t easy to get… here.”

From the way he picked his words, she understood that he meant it hadn’t been easy maneuvering her father to the brink of insolvency.

My involvement with Vidal was years in the making by the time we met…

“A big strapping guy like you forgetting to eat?” she teased, agreeing that it was best to avoid discussing why they shouldn’t be together like this.

He cut off another pat from the stick of butter and dropped it into the pan. “I’ve been told that food restriction is common among those who grew up not knowing when their next meal would be.”

She paused in the act of chewing, startled then anguished. Despite everything, she cared for Ronan. It hurt to imagine him so young and vulnerable. “I didn’t know that,” she admitted faintly.

Pouring the last of the scrambled eggs into the melted butter, he faced her to put the bowl in the sink. He gripped the edge and held her gaze, dazzling her with the utterly masculine beauty of his body. “I can eat with you, though. I’ve found that being with you makes some things easier for me.”

Ireland’s face went slack, shocked by his revelation and how it tightened her chest.

His mouth curved wryly, and he returned to cooking as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on her.

She drank her juice, her throat so tight it hurt to swallow. It took so long to pull herself into a semblance of calm that Ronan was digging heartily into his finished omelet before she could continue talking.

“So, when this is all behind you, will you slow down and work less? Maybe take better care of yourself. Have you killed your great white whale?”

The lusciously sensual curves of his lips compressed into a thoughtful line. “I haven’t really thought of what would happen after.”

“Isn’t that the goal of revenge? To get on the other side of it and live the life you envisioned for yourself once the scales were evened?”

His nostrils flared on a deep inhalation. “I never looked that far ahead.”

“I guess it’s time you did,” she said quietly, forking another bite into her mouth.

Ronan nodded and resumed eating.

His subsequent thoughts took him far from her, just as life soon would.

It was a gorgeous day at the shore, the sky a vivid cloudless blue. Seagulls hovered and dipped playfully, their raucous cries carrying on the soft, warm breeze. Eva lay between her husband’s legs on a deck chaise with her back against his bare chest. His hand was under her oversized T-shirt, drawing circles on her belly. Lucky lay by their feet, his chin resting on Gideon’s ankle.

She reached for the flute of champagne on the end table beside them and took a sip, searching for the easy equanimity she usually felt when they were in the Outer Banks. Instead, the now inescapable sense of driving impatience haunted her.

When did the three of them stop being enough? Inexplicably, she was still completely happy yet aware that something vital was missing. She took another big sip and set down the flute.

Gideon held an e-reader in his other hand, enjoying the latest installment of the police procedural series she’d introduced him to in the early days of their relationship. The couple in the series—a mogul and his cop wife—were childless, too, but by choice.

“I can hear your thoughts spinning,” he murmured. “What’s on your mind?”

She hummed evasively instead of answering.

His attentiveness was only one of the many qualities he possessed that would make him an exceptional father. When you had Gideon Cross’s focus, it was absolute and laser-sharp, making you feel like no one else existed for him. A child would bloom under his care, just as she and Lucky had.

Earlier, she’d watched Gideon playing with Lucky on the beach, throwing a small piece of driftwood for their beloved beagle to fetch. She’d stood on the main deck, coffee in hand, and imagined children playing with them. A dark-haired, blue-eyed boy and girl. Then, two girls—one with lustrous dark hair and the other with beautiful auburn ringlets. Then, a tow-headed boy alone, joined later by a smaller sibling perched on Gideon’s hip. The mystery of what a child of theirs would look like begged to be solved.

Heaving out her breath, Eva turned her head to rest her cheek against her husband’s chest. A sudden wash of hot tears took her by surprise, the sadness rising so swiftly that she was taken under by it. She pressed her hand over his, stopping the gentle motion of his fingers over her skin. His palm was warm against her stomach, while the salt breeze that ruffled her hair was a cooling counterpoint to the sultry humidity.

“Do you ever think about our baby?” she whispered.

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