Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 65239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
In the third photo, Sean’s older but only by a few years. His hair is longer. He’s sporting some sparse facial hair, and his T-shirt is stamped with the logo from a fast food place. He’s with three other young men who look to be the same age as he is. If pressed to guess, I’d peg them at sixteen or seventeen.
“Take an hour to consider what I just said.” Sean’s voice catches my attention. “Then call me back.”
With that, he ends the call.
“That seemed to go well,” I tease.
Laughing, he pushes to his feet, buttoning his suit jacket. “It’s all in a day’s work.”
I glance back at the photos. “How old were you in this picture?”
He closes the distance between us with a few measured steps. “Sixteen. That was taken at the boarding school I went to. Those guys are my three closest friends.”
I stare into his face, noticing the soft smile. “What are their names?”
He taps a finger against the glass of the frame. “That’s Graham, next to him is Harrison, and on the end is Kavan.”
Kavan.
I’ve heard that name before.
Without thinking, I blurt out, “Kavan Bane?”
“That’s right.” Sean turns toward me. “You’ve heard of him?”
Dagen told me that Kavan killed his father. He made a point of telling me that he had been a friend to Kavan at one time since they went to the same boarding school and shared some classes. More recently, I read about Kavan in a column written by his fiancée. It was a love letter to him by Juliet Bardin that appeared in a magazine called New York Viewpoint.
“I read about him,” I admit softly. “In New York Viewpoint.”
“Right.” He nods. “Juliet, his fiancée, wrote that. She did a damn fine job.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat as I stare into the eyes of the man I’m head over heels in love with. “You went to The Buchanan School, didn’t you?”
“I did.” He beams. “I’m a Buck Boy through and through.”
I’ve heard those exact words before, but they came from the mouth of a different man. It was the man I was supposed to marry.
My gaze drops to the floor. “I should get back to work.”
Sean’s desk phone starts ringing just as I feel the tender touch of his fingers against mine. “I should too, Champ. I’ll see you for dinner tomorrow night.”
I don’t answer because he’s turned around and headed back to his desk.
Instead, I quietly sneak out in search of the nearest washroom, so I can take a moment alone to catch my breath before I head back to my desk.
Chapter Fifty
Sean
I walk into the foyer of my parents’ townhouse on Saturday morning to another unlikely Declan sighting. This time he’s sporting a pair of board shorts that he must have last worn a decade ago.
“What the hell?” I spit the words out through a laugh. “This fashion show you’re putting on for me needs to stop. Those are too damn tight.”
He reaches down to cup the front of the shorts. “I should have been on that billboard, Saint. Just admit it.”
I haven’t seen my brother shirtless in years, but dammit, it’s possible he may be in better shape than I am.
In addition to the tattoo that’s graced his chest since he was a teenager, he now has one that runs down his side. It looks like something written in script that I can’t quite make out.
“You wouldn’t have agreed to be on the billboard,” I point out. “Something about you being a lawyer and being too distinguished for that.”
His head falls back as he chuckles. “Law is still my backup plan.”
It was his first and only plan until I approached him with the idea of launching an underwear brand. Declan gave up a promising law career to jump into the business with me. He didn’t have to do it, but he knew how much I wanted to be my own boss, so he put the career he worked hard for on hold to be by my side.
I owe him everything, and there’s no way I can repay him.
“Put on some pants,” I say as I brush past him, holding a cup of coffee in each hand. “The board shorts need to go into the donation pile.”
“No chance in hell.”
I steal a glance at him over my shoulder. “What time did you get here?”
“I slept here last night.”
That turns me back around to stare at him. “You what?”
“The alarm went off around midnight,” he explains. “Mom called me in a panic, so I came down to check it out.”
I glance around, noting that everything looks in order, including the vases my mother covets and the paintings on the wall that she has deemed priceless.
“By the time I got here, the police were waiting out front.” He laughs. “There was a patrol car in the area, so they stopped by to check it out after the alarm company called it in.”