Sparrow(29)

TROY


CATALINA SENT HER dress and heels so Red could wear them tonight to f*ck with my head. It worked. Because when Red wore Cat’s dress, unlike my mistress, she didn’t look like a wrapped candy waiting to be unfolded. She looked like a sweet f*cking princess who is about to lose her innocence at the hands of the big bad wolf.

I fed my personal little Red Riding Hood more sweet memories to keep her happy, my words like music to her unsuspecting ears.

Guilt was a thief. It would steal your mind, mess with your priorities and would eventually steer you from your original plan. I couldn’t allow it any room in the life, so I pushed it aside, convincing myself that on some level, these moments we shared weren’t lies. Just half-truths.

We did slow dance at the wedding.

But I never thought she was endearing in any way.

In fact, at nineteen, I already knew that she was destined to be my wife. When I danced with nine-year-old Sparrow, all I’d felt was anger. Mostly for me, a little bit for her.

All that mattered now was that Sparrow bought it, and she was beginning to crack. Rays of light streamed through her walls of defense. Even though I liked their warmth, I was careful not to give her too much hope. We weren’t a real couple, and this wasn’t a love story.

A waiter showed us to the best table in the restaurant. My wife took in the room wide-eyed, and I knew why. Before me, she could hardly afford a Happy Meal. Now, she was gaping at the waterwall dividing the brass bar from the bronze concrete tables. Hell, the lighting here alone cost more than her father’s annual salary.

People swiveled their heads in our directions, gossiping in hushed tones over their overpriced meals, probably wondering how I, of all people, had settled down—and with an average Catholic girl, no less. They were swallowing her whole with their gazes, following her wobbly steps, like there was a secret hiding behind those innocent green eyes and that crimson hair.

I straightened to my full height, towering almost a foot over my wife, my hand guiding her narrow waist as I led her to our seats.

“Everybody’s watching us. People are talking about us,” she said, her voice small.

“Do you care?”

She hesitated, looking down at the high heels she swayed in, before lifting her face up, her expression resolute. “No.”

“Good, because opinions are like *s. Everybody’s got one, and they usually stink.”

“Well, that’s just your opinion.” She chewed on a smile, and the cleverness of her comment didn’t escape me.

I bit back a grin, feeling a tad less annoyed with being seen with her. She wasn’t supermodel material, but f*ck it, her mouth was good for more than licking and sucking, and that was refreshing, I supposed.

Red spilled the beans about what she wanted from me while we were sipping Kir Royale. I had a feeling if she knew a single cocktail was $125, she wouldn’t have polished off three in a row just to get the liquid courage to ask me if she could work at Rouge Bis.

A part of me liked that about her. She wasn’t particularly interested or impressed by my money, even though she had none. That showed character. Or endless stupidity. I was leaning toward the former, though.

I clenched my drink and pretended ignorance, like I hadn't already done the math the night before, when I went through her texts. I inspected the room while she rambled on, trying to sell herself as a valuable employee.

She sat across from me, tapping her foot beneath the table and watching me for a reaction. She was so caught up in trying to see what I was thinking she paid little attention to the way people were still staring at us. Sparrow was an observant little thing most of the time, but as opposed to my so-called “string of cookie-cutters,” she seemed to rarely give a damn about what people thought.

It was a liberating quality in a woman.

“So you want to work here?” I folded my arms behind my neck and leaned back when she finally stopped talking to take a quick breath. I didn’t hate the idea. Maybe if she worked here, she wouldn’t be grating on my f*cking nerves whenever we were both under the same roof. Getting her out of my hair was an idea I was warming up to.

She nodded. “I’ll do anything. I don’t mind starting from the bottom.” She cleared her throat nervously, but I spared her the sexual innuendo. “I worked at a diner as a cook. It may not sound like much, but I can also wash dishes or work as a waitress or…”

She was rambling again. Lifting one hand, I cut off the stream of words. “Time to be blunt. What the f*ck makes you think you’re good enough for the best place in Boston?”

Her face fell. For a second, I almost felt sorry for her for marrying a bastard like me, but then I remembered she was a f*cking headache I inherited from my old man, and I stiffened my back in my chair.

She squared her shoulders back, taking a deep breath. “I’m a great cook, Troy. Try me,” she challenged, calling me by my first name. She only did it when she tried to be nice, which wasn’t very often. Her eyes were almost pleading, but her tone let me know she wasn’t going to beg.

I let my mouth curve into a slow smile. That hint of fight gleamed behind her eyes again, dancing like flames. I stood up, offering her my hand.

“What are you doing?” She looked a little confused, but took my hand and followed suit, her chair screeching behind her.

“I’m going to see if you’re as good as your word, Mrs. Brennan.”