Guess what today is? #1lineWed which means a new snippet and today’s theme is **HEAL**. Have I mentioned Ronan O’Connor? Yeah, he’s the very sexy Wolf who is the nominal leader of Boston’s Irish mob. Wanna guess who his mate is? I think I’ve introduced Maura Brannigan here before. Or not. Anyway, she’s an assistant district attorney. Fate is such a…brat sometimes. 😉 Anyway, apropos of nothing, have a snippet that currently is a random scene in the book. It’ll find it’s place eventually.
Why did Maura even bother locking her door? Finding Ronan O’Connor sitting in her living room no longer freaked her out. No. Not sitting. Lounging. He sprawled on her couch, feet propped on her coffee table, the TV tuned to something sporty. He muted the program, watching her as she dropped her purse and keys on the hall tree before stripping out of her coat and kicking off her boots. Ignoring him, she headed to the kitchen. After an interminable day at work, she wanted two things—the bottle of wine chilling in the fridge and a hot bubble bath.
He followed her, and as soon as she turned from the fridge, he snagged the bottle out of her hand. A corkscrew appeared as if by magic. Maura didn’t bother with a wine glass, grabbing a plastic tumbler instead. This was no time for the finer things. He smirked, damn him, but poured a healthy amount into the glass she held out. She stepped around him, still not speaking, and schlepped to the bathroom. She shut and locked the door, then realized she’d forgotten the bottle. Opening the door, she reached out, retrieved the bottle from him, shut and locked up once more.
Ten minutes later, she was naked but for steaming water and bubbles. The door opened. Of course it did.
“Why can’t I keep you out?” she asked without opening her eyes.
“And why would you want to?”
The faint Irish in his voice washed over her as gentle as the bubbles in her bath. Focus, she ordered her brain. “Gee, let me think…because I don’t like you.”
“Why do you keep lying to yourself?”
Good question. She did like him. Despite everything. Like the fact he was the number two boss of the Boston underworld—at least the Irish portion of it. He was a criminal. And Maura Brannigan was the up-and-coming, shining star of the District Attorney’s office. It was just a matter of time before they were together in a courtroom, her at the prosecutor’s table and him across the aisle with his defense attorney.
“Go away, O’Connor.”
“That’s not gonna happen, Maura.”
Frustrated, she slugged back the wine left in the tumbler. Before she could set the glass down, he’d refilled it. “It won’t work.”
“Oh? Ya seem to be relaxin’ with all that wine in ya. I think it’s workin’ just fine.”
She opened her eyes so she could roll them at him. “Us, Ronan. We won’t work. We can’t work.”
“He’s dirty,” Ronan said, cutting her off.
Maura saluted him with her glass. “As I found out today. Thanks for noticing.” She sat up, ignoring the way his eyes dropped to her chest. She could be a burlesque queen for all the bubbles covering her. “I can’t fix this.”
“No, ya can’t. The man made his bed and crawled into it with the scum.”
She wanted to scream. “How many murderers and rapists will get out because of him? How many victims and families who finally started to heal will be torn apart?” She choked back a sob. “Too many, Ronan. Too fucking many.”
And then she was out of the tub and cradled in his lap as he sat on the closed lid of the john. He held her and soothed her and she cried. Maura never cried. Except this once. With this man. Just for now. Tomorrow would be a different story.
And that’s the crux of it. I’m going to enjoy watching these two dance their tango. Writers, any healing words to share? Readers, when you’ve had a bad day, what do you reach for to help heal your frazzled nerves?