Page 90 of Three Irish Kings
Liam’s paranoia seems to be rubbing off on me. But Isla could have escaped a dozen times, and she hasn’t. She trusts me. And I need to repay her with my own trust.
“All right, but you have to wear a disguise. At least a hoodie and some sunglasses, maybe a mask. I don’t want anyone else suspecting you’re Maggie and running off to take you to Ronan.”
Isla smiles and bounces to the room, to the closet and pulls out a pair of sweats, a hoodie sweatshirt, and a pair of sunglasses, bundling herself up until she almost looks like a celebrity trying to ward off paparazzi.
I look down at her, her eyes hidden with the big sunglasses, and I kiss the tip of her nose.
“I don’t even recognize you."
She snorts out a laugh and takes my hand, letting me lead her to my nineteen-seventies muscle car.
“An Irishman with an American car? Who would have thought?”
“They do a few things right.”
Isla laughs, and I keep the top down.
She shimmies and shakes to the music, howling out lyrics in an off-pitch, and I can’t help but laugh.
It’s actually nice to be out of the house with her. Like we’re a real couple instead of... whatever we are.
Isla’s quick in the drugstore, and I stand by the register, scrolling through my phone for any updates on Maggie’s location. So far, Imogen Rivers hasn’t sparked up any more hits,still shows as being in the hospital, so I think sending Cillian to Burberry is the right thing to do.
When Isla returns, she looks a little pale.
I frown, putting an arm around her as I tap my card to pay. “Are you feeling all right,a ghrá?”
“Just hungry.”
I’m not sure if she’s telling the truth, because she looks too weak and pale for it to just be hunger, but I head to a burger joint on the way home just to be safe.
When we arrive, she does manage a few bites of her burger and all her fries, but it’s unlike her not to finish her meals. She’s ravenous most of the time.
“A ghrá,you’re sick.” I place my hand on her forehead, and she leans into my touch.
She’s not warm but clammy, and that doesn’t make me feel much better.
“Do you need a doctor?”
She shakes her head. “No, no, nothing like that. It’s probably just a stomach bug.”
“Oh, poor baby. Want me to take you to bed?”
She nods.
As soon as we park outside the house, she is holding her arms up like a little kid, and I chuckle, scooping her up bridal style and taking her to bed.
I tuck her in, but she makes grabby hands at me.
I shed my shirt and slide under the covers with her.
She puts her head on my chest like always, listening to my heartbeat, and she feels thin beneath my hands, like maybe she’s dropped some weight.
I frown again. “You’re sure you’re okay,a ghrá?”
“I’m fine.” She kisses along my collarbone, and I hiss.
“Don’t start,a ghrá.You’re too sick to handle me making love to you.”
