Page 37 of Blindsided
“Does this feel strange to you? Us sitting here talking like we’ve known each other forever when we literally just met a few days ago?”
A smile tugs at her lips. “I was just thinking the same thing. It’s like... I don’t know, like we’ve met before.”
“In another life, maybe,” I suggest, only half-joking. “Perhaps I was a pirate, and you were the governor’s daughter who nursed me back to healthafter a shipwreck.”
She laughs, a real one this time. “More likely you were the village drunk and I was the disapproving barmaid.”
“Ahh, you got me there,” I admit with a grin. “Though I prefer to think of myself as a charming rogue with a drinking problem rather than a straight-up alcoholic.”
“Is there a difference?”
“About six generations of family money,” I quip. Immediately regret it as I remember that family money comes with the MacGallan name—a name I apparently have more claim to than I realized.
Kori seems to sense my shift in mood. “Want some tea? I was just having some.”
“Got anything stronger?”
“The bottle you left on the porch?”
I shake my head. “I promised that it would stay outside. Bad form to break a promise five minutes after making it.”
“Even for a charming rogue?”
“Especially for a charming rogue. We have a code.”
She gets up and disappears into the kitchen, returning with two mugs of tea. As she hands me one, our fingers brush, and that same weird familiarity washes over me again.
“So, what’s your plan?” she asks, settling back on the sofa. “You can’t hide from your family forever.”
“Watch me,” I challenge, but there’s no real conviction behind it. “I just need some time. Declan and the others are so focused on finding Tomas and this sister that they’re not stopping to think about what this all means.”
“And what does it mean?”
I stare into my tea, watching the steam curl upward. “It means everything I thought I knew about myself is wrong. My dad—Patrick Murphy—was a mean, bitter drunk who died when I was fifteen. I spent my whole life trying not to become him, and now I find out he wasn’t even my father.”
“Does that change who you are, though?” Kori asks quietly. “You’re still you, regardless of whose DNA you carry.”
“Easy for you to say. Your identity hasn’t been completely rewritten.”
“Hasn’t it?” She sets her mug down with more force than necessary. “Five days ago, I was Kori Blake, wife of the president of the largest financial firm in Toronto, Mark Blake. Now I’m... what? The woman whose husband preferred her sister. The idiot who gave up her career to be the perfect wife. I’m having my own identity crisis over here.”
I look at her—really look at her—and see the same raw pain I’ve been feeling all day. “We’re quite thepair, aren’t we? Both running from who we thought we were.”
“At least we’ve got good scenery for our breakdowns,” she says, gesturing toward the window where moonlight glints off the distant sea.
“And questionable haircuts,” I add, nodding toward her choppy locks.
She touches her hair self-consciously. “I cut it myself. After I found out about Mark and Lana.”
“Lana? Your sister’s name is Lana?” When she nods, I can’t help but laugh. “Kori and Lana. Your parents have a thing for unusual names?”
“Says the man named after a Biblical murderer.”
“Touché.” I grin, lifting my mug in a mock toast. “To new identities and terrible haircuts.”
She clinks her mug against mine. “And to finding random men buried on beaches.”
“Just the one, I hope. Otherwise, you might have a concerning hobby.”
