Unfixable by Tessa Bailey

Author:Tessa Bailey [Bailey, Tessa]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: brazen, romance, erotic, kristen ashley, j lynn, new adult, racing
ISBN: 9781622665457
Google: ECM4AwAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00JD223TW
Barnesnoble: B00JD223TW
Goodreads: 21527270
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2014-04-12T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

“I can’t believe it. Dead, he is?” Kitty wails. “Who’s going to make the cod and chips now?”

I’m halfway down the stairs the next day when Kitty’s question reaches me, slowing me to a stop. I let my laundry plop down on the stair I’m standing on. It’s eight o’clock in the morning, the latest I’ve slept since arriving in Dublin. A horrifying fact. I suspect the only reason I didn’t wake up earlier is because Kitty didn’t knock on my door with ice-cold tea and charred toast. Oddly, I kind of missed the damn wake-up call. Now it seems like there might be a reason besides Kitty’s scatterbrain.

“We’ll manage.” It’s Shane’s deep voice, rolling up the stairs like smoke to reach me. Something hot and sticky invades my belly, in a way that demands I press a hand to the area above my zipper. Having no choice, I’m wearing the same jeans as yesterday, although I’ve tucked my Chicago PD sleep shirt into them so no skin is showing. I’ve thrown a jacket on over everything, even though it looks to be another day of great weather. Laundry must be done today, or I’ll be forced to walk around Dublin naked.

“How can I manage when people keep keeling over and dying on me?” Kitty’s voice has reached a hysterical pitch. I hear a chair scraping back and Faith speaking in a calming tone, but it doesn’t seem to be having much effect. “First your father, now Martin. He made such a lovely cod and chips, Martin did. It’s an absolute shame. I’d hoped to have it for my lunch today.”

Ah. The cook died. I guess I waited too long to try the cod after all. Not wanting to get in the middle of a family discussion, especially one involving the mourning of a friend, I turn with the intention of going back to my room, but my boot catches on the laundry bag, sending it hurtling down the stairs. It’s louder than it should be thanks to the rickety railing and dead spots in the wood. I cringe when conversation ceases below me.

Just when I’d forgotten my luck is fucked.

“The American must be up.” Another chair scraping along the wooden floor. “You better let me be the one to tell her about our Martin.”

“Her name is Willa, Ma,” Faith says. “And she doesn’t know Martin from a hole in the ground.”

“She’ll read about it in the papers, I suspect,” Kitty continues as if Faith hadn’t spoken. “Better to get it out of the way now.”

I’m still frozen on the steps, as if they might forget about the falling laundry bag and go back to their conversation. Or chalk it up to another guest. With a frown, I eyeball the row of doors above me. I’m starting to wonder if I’m the only guest at the Claymore Inn.

“Willa,” Shane calls. “We know you’re there.”

I heave a sigh and make my way down to the empty pub. Kitty is standing closest to me with her hands behind her back, chin raised toward the ceiling.

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