Page 157 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
My heart pounds. “You know what? Forget it. I’ll just wait. That’s the routine, right? Wait for Dorian to show up and decide how much I get to know. And then the two of you distract me and pretend everything is okay.”
And I hate how well it works.
Even now…
While he was in the office, Brennan removed his suit coat and tie. His shirt sleeves are rolled back.
He’s large. In control. Reassuring. Even if his hair is mussed from him dragging a hand through it.
Now that I’m here, safe in the cocoon of intimacy they’ve created in our home, the air of confidence he exudes invites me to forget what happened.
And I’m tempted yet again.
Beyond frustrated with him, with the situation, even myself, I walk past, back to the bar. This time, I do reach for the bottle of wine. Not that I’ll be able to get it open with the way my hands are shaking.
“He’ll tell you.” Brennan’s words are quiet, so quiet I almost don’t hear them.
“Will he?” I tip my head to the side to study him. “You know? Never mind. I’ll find out myself.” I stride to my purse and fish out my phone.
Brennan goes pale.
“The internet should know something.”
“Isla…” There’s real warning in his tone.
“I’m sure Celeste is expensive, but worth it.”
“Don’t.”
“Or what?” I demand.
“Be patient.” Brennan moves in closer, not in a rush, not crowding me. Just a steady presence. One I want to hate—but can’t.
“Look, let me get you some wine. Dorian will be here in less than five minutes. If you’re not satisfied then, hire Celeste, and I’ll write the check.”
I exhale shakily. “Five minutes.”
At his nod, I drop my phone back into place.
Brennan uncorks the bottle and carries a glass to me.
Our fingers brush, and I meet his eyes.
He’s so close, I inhale the scent of masculine determination and protection. No matter what, this man will always take care of me. Even if I don’t want it.
Why can’t this be simple?
He tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Isla…”
“Stop.” Needing to protect myself, I hurry away to stand in the middle of the living room.
I clutch the stem tightly. But since my hands are still a little shaky, I don’t take a sip.
Between us, the tension thickens like humidity before a Gulf storm. I don’t even hear the elevator. Just feel it. The shift in pressure. The inevitability.
And then?—
“Isla.”
