Page 74 of Stolen Rival
Patrick takes my hand, rubbing circles on my palm with his thumb. “You helped,mo mhuirnín. That’s what just happened.”
Chapter 37
SORCHA
There’ssomething peaceful about being awake in the dead of night. For some reason, this mammoth old house feels different when everyone’s asleep.
The formal drawing room has become something of a sanctuary to me since I discovered it a few days ago. It’s after one in the morning, and I’m curled up on an oversized maroon leather chair, with a blanket covering my legs, and Titan—the not-at-all-terrifying guard dog who can kill on command—is snoring softly at my feet.
Dinner with Patrick’s friends was—dare I say it—fun, especially after he sent Andrew “the Mood Hoover” home. But when I got back to the house, I tossed and turned for over an hour, unable to resolve the man I saw among his nearest and dearest with the monster who slaughtered my family in cold blood.
It’s like he’s two different people, and I’m not sure which one is the real Patrick Mahoney.
After I finishedThe Taming of the Shrew, I picked upThe Count of Monte Cristo, and now I’m ontoLes Misérables. Perhaps subconsciously, I’m on a redemption kick, looking for guidance from literature of old on how to, if not forgive Patrick for what he’s done, maybe to at least, one day, learn to fully accept it.
If the roles were reversed, Da would have done exactly what Patrick did, and I’m honestly not sure what I think about that.
A creak from the doorway pulls my nose out of my book. Patrick stands with yet another unreadable expression on his face. He’s leaning against the doorframe, shirtless, arms crossed like he’s been there for some time, and wearing low-slung gray tracksuit bottoms.
I didn’t think Patrick Mahoney was the kind of man to even own a pair of gray trackies. But they work for him, and the warmth circling my belly says they’re working for me, too.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you.” His voice draws my attention from where his Adonis belt leads down under the band of his trousers.
I place my bookmark between the pages, close the book, and set it on my lap. “Can’t sleep?”
He shakes his head. “I see you are having a similar issue. Would you like some tea?”
“That depends. Are you going to wake up some poor sod to make it for me?”
The edges of his lips pull upward. There are few things I love more than making Patrick smile. He suits it, even if it’s not something he does often.
“I am perfectly capable of boiling a kettle.”
I snort, moving my blanket to the side and standing to stretch. “Prove it. Because I find that hard to believe.”
“You don’t have to come with me.” He doesn’t move as I approach. “I can bring it in here.” For some reason, he doesn’t seem to want to leave, and I have a sneaking suspicionhe has some kind of attachment to the formal drawing room.
“What is this room? It seems empty all the time so I thought it would be okay to read in here. I can find somewhere else if I shouldn’t be here.”
His face softens. “This house is your home too,mo mhuirnín. I just find it curious that the room you’ve become most fond of is the room my father used to spend a lot of his time in as well.” After a long sigh, he stands up straight. “He’d have liked you.”
It’s a rare compliment from the man in charge. “Unlike his son.”
Pivoting, he leaves my words hanging between us as he heads for the kitchen with me trailing after him. “I meant it when I said you could stay in there and read. I’m happy to bring tea to you.”
I draw alongside and bump him with my hip. “You need adult supervision to make sure you don’t burn the house down trying to make a cuppa.”
He shakes his head, but there’s a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “You really don’t have a high opinion of me at all, do you?”
My first instinct is to retort that he killed my family, but neither of us needs the audible reminder. “It’s not that. It’s just… All I’ve really seen you do since I got here is sit at the dinner table and eat food that someone else makes and brings to you. If that’s what being the head of the Irish mafia entails, then I can see why it’s a popular job.” I wink at him. “Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind it either.”
“I’d better watch my back then… before you stick Mairead’s steak knife in it. Although you probably left it in New York. Ihave plenty of steak knives, though, so I should still exercise caution.”
My jaw drops, mouth gaping open. How did he…?
He taps his nose, but that smirk widens. “I know everything, remember.”
I wince. “Are you mad?”
