Page 130 of Captive Audience
“Deal.”
I couldn’t think of a better way to end the night.
48
ASHA
I’d been neglecting the podcast lately, so I spent the morning following up on possible sightings of Sierra and cold-calling shelters in neighboring states in case she’d shown up there. Still nothing.
I visited Catalina and little Niall at Torin’s penthouse in the afternoon, as I’d done a few times. Orla usually joined us, too, and despite the three of us coming from vastly different backgrounds, we were fast becoming friends.
Rook had texted earlier to say he missed me and that he’d be home in time to see me off for girls’ night, which was sweet.
I felt lighter than I had in a long time and looked forward to my man getting home.
My man.
My gangster.
My kinda-fake, kinda-real husband.
It was going to take time to get used to that.
Only two weeks ago, I’d been firmly committed to remaining single for life, believing I’d never be able to trust a man again.
Now, I was living with Rook, sleeping in his bed, and wearing his ring on my finger.
And I didn’t hate my life.
I was about to leave my office to get ready when Finn appearedat the doorway, carrying a large black box wrapped with a red ribbon. “Knock knock,” he said, and I waved him in.
“Gift from the boss.” He laid it on my desk.
“Thanks, Finn.”
“Not at all.” He smiled and turned to leave.
“Finn,” I called out before he reached the door.
He spun around. “Yes, Mrs. O?”
“I’m sorry you have to work late again tonight. Is all this overtime interfering with your fight training?”
“It’s okay. I get up early to train. I prefer when the gym is quiet, anyway.”
“Well, I appreciate it. But if you need time off, let me know. I’m sure Rook can find someone to fill in.”
He ran a hand over his short hair. “I’d rather not. It’s an honor that the boss has asked me to do this. He’s trusting me with the most precious thing in his world, and I don’t want to let either of you down.”
Everything he said tugged at my heart. “You could never let me down, Finn. There’s no one I’d rather have as my bodyguard.”
His cheeks reddened, and he bowed his head as if my compliment had made him, this six-and-a-half-foot tattooed Irish fighter, bashful.
“Still meeting up with your friends at eight?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He nodded. “I’ll be ready to leave whenever you like.”
