Filthy Secret Bonus Content

“Is this it?”

I stared around the room. “Is what it?”

Declan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Conor, this isn’t set up for a wedding at all.”

“What kind of miracles do you expect me to pull out of my hat at this much short notice? Hotels will suck my dick for the level of money we’re throwing at them, but they can’t find convention spaces with a week’s notice.”

“And the goddamn public library could?”

I shrugged. “Thought you’d like it. It’s nice, isn’t it? Look at that dome. That’s a period feature.”

“Period feature, my ass. You thought I’d like celebrating my nuptials surrounded by books?”

“You’re the artist in the family.”

“Art, Conor. Art. Not fucking books. When was the last time you saw me pick up a book?”

Declan narrowed his eyes at me. “I read. Just not fucking literature.”

“You should read. It’s good for the soul.”

He palmed his face. “They’re allowing us to eat in here?”

“They are. They don’t usually rent out this space, but I greased some palms.” Enough that I didn’t think they cared if we started a riot within these hallowed halls. “By the way, they said they’ll rename the new wing after you.”

“Exactly what I fucking need. People knowing my name whenever they borrow a goddamn book.”

“You’re very ungrateful,” I complained. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” I waved a hand that encompassed the waiters who held trays aloft with drinks on top of them with a selection worthy of a liquor store. There were enough amuse-bouches to feed a cattle market, and I’d arranged a sit down dinner that’d take place toward midnight. His lack of appreciation for the stress I’d gone through to arrange this had me sniping, “What more do you want?”

“I don’t know. Roses? Ain’t that what women want?”

I frowned. “Roses? You mean if I’d thrown a couple thousand dozen rose petals around the place, you’d like it?”

Declan huffed. “It’s a fucking library, Con. I can smell gym socks over in that corner—”

“Don’t lie. They cleaned it. And I asked them to spray Febreze everywhere.”

He blinked at me. “Jesus Christ. Febreze? You couldn’t have gone for Jo Malone?”

“Febreze eliminates trapped lingering odors.”

“You just repeated the ad claims.”

I shrugged. “It works. Quite interesting how it works too,” I mused. “It uses these things called cyclodextrins—”

“I don’t wanna know.” Declan blew out a breath. “If this is your idea of a wedding party, I’m fucking terrified about what you’re gonna say for your speech.”

My mind went blank at his statement.

Speech?

What speech?

I didn’t need to say a word, though, because Aela made an appearance.

I wasn’t sure why people said that women glowed when they were pregnant. She didn’t have a ring of light around her, and if she did, I’d wonder if she was carrying the second coming.

That’d be ironic.

Da’s grandchild—the second coming.

My lips almost twitched.

But no, she wasn’t glowing. She looked pink from happiness, though. And while she continually rubbed her back as if it were aching, it didn’t stop her from darting around the library—I’d been watching her.

Monitoring her, in truth.

Shay had been born breech. I was concerned this one would be too.

O’Donnellys were difficult. There were many times my grandmother had told me that all O’Donnellys were born breech, and I didn’t want Aela or Aoife going through that again.

When I’d asked Finn if Jake had been born breech, he told me that he’d blanked out Aoife’s labor.

When a man like Finn blanked out those parts of his memory, I knew something was truly terrifying, which had left me wondering if childbirth was as bad as it was depicted in Alien.

That had led to me watching it online.

Fascinating stuff.

Lodestar had watched it with me, and had gagged.

I hadn’t.

And people thought I was a pussy.

“Declan, oh, my God! You’re a fucking genius,” Aela crowed, bouncing on her tiptoes and slinging her arms around Dec’s neck. “I love it.”

Declan frowned. “What do you love?”

She beamed at him. “The library! It’s inspired. How did you do it?”

He cleared his throat. “Greased some palms,” was his vague reply, even as he looked at me over her head.

I tried not to appear too smug.

“Greased some palms?” she squeaked. “It must have cost a fortune. I love it! It’s so different. We have to take pictures—”

She dragged him away, and he turned back, wide eyed, mouthing, “Thanks, bro.”

Sniffing at his departure, I felt the buzz in my pocket.

Lodestar.

While my phone vibrated in a standardized pattern, and I knew she hadn’t hacked into the hardware to change it, I swore her vibration occurred at a different beat than everyone else’s.

A flight of fancy to be sure, but I was entitled to them from time to time.

Reaching for my cellphone, I peered at the notification.

Lodestar: I’m bored.

I’d wanted to invite her.

I really had.

But something had held me back. Something…

I sighed.

Didn’t answer.

Tucked my phone away even though I craved communicating with her.

I wanted to talk to her. For her to be at my side. For her to be standing here, holding my hand, and telling me that I was a moron for being a Dr. Who fan.

The intensity of my need for her presence in my life was becoming discomfiting.

I blinked as I realized I was no longer alone. “Shay. What’s up?”

He arched a brow. “You were talking to yourself.”

“Only way to get any sense around here.”

He grinned. “You could talk to me. I make sense.”

“You’re hormonal.” When his mouth gaped, I muttered, “No offense. It’s true. You’re fourteen. A very irritational age.”

He sputtered, “I’m almost fifteen.”

“Still hormonal. Do you know why your dad would want me to make a speech?”

Shay’s consternation shifted. “Aren’t you his best man?”

“Am I?”

“Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know.” My brow furrowed. “You mean he wants me to be his wedding planner and his best man?”

“I think he came to you for both, didn’t he?” Shay questioned.

“Damn nerve,” I grumbled. “I’m not getting paid for any of this, you know?”

“Do best men get salaries?”

“They should,” I complained. “And wedding planners definitely get salaries. He owes me.”

Shay grinned. “When you ask him to get paid, can I be there?”

“Why would you want to?”

He shot me an innocent look. “No reason.”

Distracted when I saw an Asimov title stacked incorrectly behind his head, I asked him, “Does no one respect the Dewey decimal system anymore?”

“The Dewey what?”

“I’ll take that as a no,” I grumbled as I reached for the book.

“Anyway, what are you going to say for your best man speech, Uncle Con?”

As I flipped between the pages, my lips began to curve.

Dec hated sci-fi.

My smile widened as I palmed the book in my hand, deciding it was fate that some miscreant had stacked a sci-fi title among philosophy journals…