But life still sort of feels just like something I’m drifting through.
Truth be told, I was pretty sure my uncle Cillian was going to shut down my plans of finally moving out of the main family house and into this place. Especially with all the violence and upheaval in the last few months as the fighting between the Irish Kildare and Greek Drakos families escalated to world-war-three levels.
But my dream apartment and the building itself are incredibly secure and easy to defend. Especially when there’s a rotating crew of four Kildare guys constantly guarding the lobby—much, I’m sure, to the chagrin of the other tenants.
Yet that whole “dream apartment” thing quickly lost some of its luster when they completed construction on the building across the street, next to mine. The building with the double-height glass penthouse that rises two floors above my thirty-eighth-floor apartment, that now blocks part of my view of the river.
His glass penthouse.
The man with the god-like body and the aversion to clothing. The man with the sensual tattoos and the swarthy, lean look of a Trojan warrior.
The man I have absolutely no business gawking at and thinking these sort of sinful thoughts about. Not just because it makes me a spying creep. But because he’s a man I should have every reason in the world to hate.
He’s not just my neighbor.
He’s the enemy.
But try telling that to my under-satisfied libido and clenched thighs.
At last he moves from where he’s been standing at the windows staring out at the Hudson with a cup of coffee in his hand and, mercifully, disappears from view.
Finally.
Distraction gone, I manage to pull my attention back to the study notes in front of me. Nina Simone croons over the sound system as I lose myself in the books. But a handful of minutes later, movement at my peripheral vision drags my eyes back up again. He’s back. And wonder of wonders, he’s dressed—in an impeccably-tailored dark suit. I yank my eyes back to my notes, then back to him.
This time, he’s finally gone.
I exhale slowly, swallowing as I drag my attention back to my government policy books. I don’t have time for these distractions. Not when I’ve got two weeks of notes to memorize and also a Kildare family meeting in…
I glance at my phone and groan.
Shit. In, basically, now. As if on cue, the buzzer goes off for my front door. Sighing, I close the books and pad across the living room. I glance through the peephole out of habit. Then I grin and open the door wide.
Eilish’s brows furrow as she looks me up and down.
“Neve, what the fuck. We’re going to be late, and you’re not even dressed?”
My brow scrunches as I glance down at myself.
“You need to get dressed, Neve,” my younger sister sighs.
“I’m dressed!”
“Those look like pajamas.”
“So? They’re comfy.” I raise my gaze past her to the tall guy standing behind her. “Cas, back me up here.”
But Castle just shakes his sandy blonde head and lifts a muscled shoulder apologetically.
“Cillian wants you dressed properly, kid.”
I roll my eyes at the word kid, but I let it go. Castle’s been Eilish’s and my—I suppose the word is “bodyguard”—for the last ten years. Growing up, all of our friends drooled over the six-and-a-half-foot tall, built-like-a-quarterback shadow that was always with us. That, or they were sure one of us was going to get scandalously tangled up in some steamy, x-rated tryst with him.
But, no way. No way to an “eww” degree. Yes, Castle is ridiculously handsome. But to Eilish and me he’s always been the older brother we never had. And we’re the perpetually annoying-but-loveable kid sisters he never had.
Which is why he can still get away with calling me “kid” or doing annoying big brother-type shit like messing up my hair even though I’m twenty-four.
I stick my bottom lip out, giving Castle my best puppy-dog eyes.
“But Caaaastle—”
“Enough with the waif eyes. Go get changed, Neve,” he grunts. “Your uncle isn’t exactly one to mince words, and he wants you dressed up.”
“But why? What’s this meeting even about?”
Eilish shrugs. “Beats me. Bet it has something to do with your new neighbor, though.”
Annoyed as I am to be forced to give up my sweatpants and hoodie, I know Castle well enough to know there’s no way he’s budging on this. And I know my Uncle Cillian well enough to know that one, there’s no wiggle room here, but more importantly two, there’s a reason he wants us looking sharp. Even if I have no idea what that reason is.
I root around in my disaster zone of a bedroom, stripping out of my hoodie and sweats and pulling on clean underwear and clothes. Five minutes later, I emerge in a green puff-sleeve top, black jeans, and heeled black boots, shoving my long red hair up in a loose ponytail.
Eilish, predictably, rolls her eyes.
“That’s dressed up?”
“I could go back to my extensive sweatpants collection, if you prefer.”
Eilish sighs, reaching up to smooth the single errant lock of blonde back behind her ear. She’s right. I’m still fairly casually dressed. Especially next to my princess of a little sister, who looks like a modern-day blonde Jackie-O in a pink Chanel jersey dress and heels, her hair and makeup immaculate. At nine-thirty in the freaking morning, no less. So sue me, this is the best I can do.
