Page 23 of The Final Contract
“Because…” My throat tightens, but I force it out. “He’s a similar height. A similar build.”
Killian nods once, then pulls out his phone, thumbs already moving across the screen.
I frown. “What are you doing?”
“Building a profile. Everything we know goes in. Every detail. It’ll go into Ledger files—and Jaxon’s system.”
I nod slowly, leaning back against the leather seat. “Right.”
The car hums on, city lights sliding past, but I don’t speak again. The rest of the ride, I just stare out the window and try to piece together how quickly this all spun out of control. How a few flowers, a few notes, became this.
And how crazy it feels to know that, for once, I can’t just walk away.
The elevator ride up to my penthouse is quiet, only the low hum of the cables filling the space. Finn will be posted at mydoor tonight, and Killian—well, for all intents and purposes, he’s moving in.
Guest room, most nights. Rotating guards at the door. And one day a week, Killian will be off duty, and someone else will be my shadow.
That’s the plan, anyway.
When the doors slide open, we walk the short stretch of hallway to my door. Finn straightens from his post, sharp suit fitting his tall frame perfectly.
“Finn,” I nod in greeting.
“Ma’am,” he replies, his Irish accent wrapping around the single word. Stronger than Killian’s, unmistakable. Killian’s is faint, slipping out here and there in certain words—but Finn’s? Full and rich.
And it makes me think… if Killian’s accent ever bled through like that, paired with his already dangerous good looks and that lethal body?
Deadly.
As it is, Manhattan’s women are already in trouble.
I’m about to suggest food, already halfway to saying it aloud. “I was thinking of ordering some?—”
The thought dies in my throat.
The moment the door swings open, a scent greets me. Rich, decadent, mouthwatering. And the warmth of flames flickering from the fireplace, casting the room in soft amber glow.
My steps slow as I take it in—the low lights, the fire, and a lavish spread of dishes arranged carefully in my living room.
My living room.
The place where I always end up. Not the table, not the stools at the bar. The couch. The deep, overstuffed couch that swallows me whole while I eat and read, while I let the world fade away.
It’s exactly what I wanted after tonight. Exactly what I daydreamed of during Elijah Carter’s never-ending monologue. And it’s already here.
Already waiting for me.
I glance over my shoulder. Killian is standing a few feet back, speaking low to Finn, pretending like none of this has anything to do with him.
I can’t help myself.
“Finn,” I say sweetly, “did you do this?”
The look on Killian’s face is priceless—staring straight ahead at the blank wall, like he wasn’t expecting me to throw the bait.
Finn’s mouth twitches. He cuts his eyes toward Killian, already catching on, and smiles. “Aye, well, I might take the credit for it, but I reckon he’d sack me straight away. Kill took care of ye, ma’am.”
Killian’s glare could burn a hole straight through him. “That’ll be it for the night, Callahan.”
