Chapter 2
CALLI
The embers crackle, popping and snapping as I stare at the orange flames. Wind whistles through the cracks around the old cottage windows, making the fire dance and flicker. Rain hits against the glass.
Three days.
That's how long I've been at the Killaney cottage. Three full days of silence except for the occasional sound of sheep that scream in the distance like they know something I don't.
Keira and her brothers were supposed to come tomorrow. Now it's next week.
They say they got held up. I told them I'd be fine here alone.
And I am.
Sort of.
The "peace and quiet" I wanted has left me more wired than I was in Chicago. The cottage is beautiful in that old-world way. Stone walls, thick windows, a fireplace that takes work to light. I thought the silence would help me reset. No brothers. No questions. No bodyguards lurking like shadows.
Just me.
But it turns out, silence talks back.
I've taken walks along the cliffs. Tried reading by the fire. Cooked something that tasted awful. Everyone knows I'm not the best in the kitchen.
Nothing helps.
My thoughts are just all over the place with family stuff, my dad's death, and now apparently, a certain smooth-talking man who's made himself hard to forget.
I lie here on the couch, my fingers tracing the edges of the napkin in my hand.
It's soft now, not crisp like when he handed it to me. The ink has even started to fade, the numbers bleeding further into the fibers.
"This is ridiculous," I say aloud.
How would I be the one who regrets anything? The nerve of him.
But I unfold it again, staring at his handwriting.
I've been lying here for what? Ten minutes? Twenty? The fire has died down a bit, which means it's been longer than I care to admit staring at this stupid cocktail napkin.
"Fuck this," I say, standing up abruptly, tossing the napkin onto the coffee table like it's burning my fingers.
I change out of my pajamas in ten minutes flat. Jeans, boots, an oversized sweater, and a lightweight jacket. I grab my phone and head out the door before I can overthink it.
The rain's let up and everything is damp. It's not cold enough to be uncomfortable, but I look forward to getting indoors.
My boots crunch against the wet stone gravel. The smell of grass fills my lungs.
This part of Ireland is really beautiful.
The small village is only a fifteen-minute walk from the cottage. I follow the lane until I see a cluster of buildings.
The pub sits at the end of the main street. Keira told me it's "proper Irish," whatever that means.
The sign above my head says "The Crooked Harp." A cute name.
I push open the heavy wooden door and the warmth hits me immediately, not just the physical heat from the fire, but the atmosphere.
Low ceilings with dark wooden beams. Stone walls lined with old photographs and local rugby memorabilia.
There are a few people inside, scattered throughout, and the way they look at me tells me they know I'm not from around here.
I make my way to the bar, sliding onto a stool that gives me a view of both the door and the fire. My shoulders drop for the first time in days.
"What'll it be, love?" the bartender says as he comes up to me. He's all brown hair, freckles, and an easy smile. Late twenties maybe, with bright blue eyes. Cute.
I sigh.
"Umm. Something local."
He smiles. "Whiskey?"
"I don't usually, but I'm here," I say, placing both my hands on the bar and shrug. "So why not."
"Woman after my own heart," he says.
His accent rolls over the words, making them sound like music. He sets a glass in front of me, pulls a cork from a bottle, and pours amber liquid into a glass.
"First time here?" he asks, leaning on the bar.
I swirl the liquid in my glass, watching the way it catches the light from the fire. "That obvious?"
"We don't get many beautiful American women in here alone." He winks, but it's playful, not creepy. "I'm Connor."
"Calli," I say, raising my glass and taking a sip. It burns sweet and strong down my throat and I cough. "Oh my god."
Connor laughs. "I can see you’re definitely not a whiskey drinker."
"No, Jesus. How do you—"
"My uncle distills it. Makes me stock it or he'll disown me."
"Oh. It's great."
Connor laughs. "Few more sips and it gets better. If it doesn't, I'll buy your next drink."
I shake my head and take another sip. I don't want to be rude.
"Okay, it's a little better." I lie.
"So, what brings you to our corner of the world?"
"Peace and quiet. Life's a bit complicated right now." I allow myself a genuine smile.
"Ohhh," he says and whistles. "Sounds serious." His Irish charm makes me laugh.
"No, no. Just three overprotective brothers," I say and take a sip, coughing again. "This," I continue, "this is good, Connor."
He laughs and takes it from my hands. "I'll get you some red wine."
"Thank you," I say and nod. "Don't tell your uncle."
"Don't worry. Secret's safe with me," he says and slides a glass of red wine in front of me.
I take a sip. "Okay, I like this."
"Good. Now, about your brothers. I've got four sisters myself. All convinced I'll die alone without their help."
"See," I say, setting my glass down, "I don't even interfere with their lives. But being the youngest, they think it's their right."
"Ah, hold on a second," he says as he moves away to serve another customer, then drifts back. "So, here alone long?"
"Friends coming in soon. Thought I needed some time alone before they arrived."
"And now you need some company instead?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Just conversation."
"Fair enough. I'm good at that. Mind if I pour a drink and chat with you?"
I stare at him for a moment. "Sure."
For the next half hour, I feel almost normal.
Connor tells me about local legends, makes me laugh with stories about tourists who've come through, recommends places I should visit.
I don't have to think about family obligations or Ares's expectations or anyone else.
Here, I'm just an American tourist having a drink.
When Connor reaches across the bar to point out a photograph on the wall, his fingers brush against mine. It's nothing, casual and fleeting, but it's the first human contact I've had in days, and I realize how touch-starved I've been in my solitude.
"That's old Finn Murphy there. Comes in most nights. Claims he saw the Dobhar-Chú, Ireland's Loch Ness monster. Of course, nobody believed him, but he—"
"She's done drinking."
I freeze, the glass halfway to my lips.
Connor looks up, his easy expression hardening. "Sir, can I help you with—"
"No." The voice is quiet, low, but it drips with possession. Command.
I turn slowly.
And there he is.
Niko.
He stands behind me, dressed in black from head to toe. His hair is slightly damp at the edges, curling against his temples. His eyes are fixed on mine, and the intensity in them makes my stomach drop.
"I think the lady was enjoying her evening," Connor says, but his voice has lost its confident edge.
Niko doesn't even look at him. "She was. Now she's not."
He then takes a step forward and looks directly at Connor, who backs up further.
"I need to check on some tables," he says, and I watch him go, then turn to Niko.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I ask, my voice coming out more aggressive than I intended.
"You told me Ireland." His voice is calm. Steady. Like he hasn't just invaded my life without permission. "That was enough."
I shake my head, stunned. "Are you serious?"
He doesn't answer.
"You could've waited, you know," I say, my fingers curling around the base of my glass. "To see if I texted."
"Would you have?" he asks, and then with the ease of someone who's never been denied, he steps forward and takes a seat next to me.
I stiffen as his coat brushes lightly against my side. I'm stunned. Floored. Angry, and a bit used to it. Men have a tendency of showing up randomly in my day-to-day life. Normally they're working for my brothers, but still.
"Sorry," I snap. "I didn't invite you to sit."
He glances around the pub, then back at me.
"You didn't stop me either."
God, he's infuriating.
"Look," I say, rising from the stool, "I came here to get out of my own head, not start any kind of scene."
"I'm not making one."
"You're not not making one," I say with a scoff. "You think because I took your number, you get to just show up and intimidate people?"
He turns to me, his knees close to touching my thigh.
"Do you still have it?" he asks.
"Have what?"
"The napkin with my number."
I hesitate for a moment and then take a sip of my wine. "Maybe."
He smiles. "I think that's a yes," he says and leans in slightly, "and because you didn't throw it away, maybe part of you wanted me to come."
I have nothing to say to that. Mostly because it might be true.
Niko glances at Connor, then back to me. "It's late. We should go."
"I haven't finished my drink." I lift the glass defiantly.
Niko reaches past me, takes it from my hand, and drains it in one swallow. The gesture is so unexpected, so possessive, it catches me off guard. Heat floods my cheeks before I can stop it.
"Now you have."
I'm torn between outrage and something else.
Connor comes over and clears his throat. "Everything alright here?"
"Fine," I say automatically, then realize how that sounds. "I mean, he's— we know each other."
"Old friends," Niko says, standing, and pulls out his wallet. He places several bills on the counter; way more than my drinks cost.
Connor hesitates for a moment, looks at me, then back down at the stack of bills and takes it, walking away.
I slide off the stool. "I'm leaving."
"I'll drive you. It's raining again."
I stop and turn to him. "I walked. I can walk back. Besides, it's barely misting."
"Calli. I'll take you."
"I don't need you to take me anywhere."
"I didn't ask if you needed me," he says, coming up to me. "I said I'm taking you."
We stare each other down.
He doesn't blink.
"I didn't come this far to leave you walking home alone in the dark."
I laugh, short and sharp. "And how exactly did you find me, by the way? That's not creepy at all."
He doesn't rise to the bait. "Like I said, you told me Ireland. That was all I needed."
"What, so you just searched every pub in the country until you found me?"
"I don't need to explain my methods."
"And I don't need a ride."
"Stubborn," he says. "Who would have thought."
I don't acknowledge his remark.
I turn to Connor. "Thanks for the drinks. And the company."
Connor nods, but his eyes flick between me and Niko. "Sure you're alright?"
Niko’s jaw flexes and then he answers for me. "She's fine.”
This only makes me more determined to prove him wrong, so I head toward the door, ignoring Niko completely. The second I step outside, I realize how wrong I was. It's not misting, it's pouring. I stop and grit my teeth.
I hear the pub door open and close behind me, then footsteps. I don't turn around.
"Calli." His voice cuts through the sound of rain. "No need to get wet."
Damn it. I would be soaked by the time I got home. Maybe if I'd had the rest of Connor's uncle's whiskey, I'd go, but I sigh and turn to him.
"Ugh. Fine."
He pops open an umbrella and hands it to me. We then start walking toward a black car.
"Wait," I say and hold it up. I hesitate for a moment, but it's not right to let him get soaked. "Here, we can share it."
He comes over and grabs it, raising it higher over us. He then wraps his arm around my waist and guides me forward.
I'm shocked. Not because it's him touching me, but that it's anyone, really. My brothers would murder someone so familiar with me. What I find most interesting right now, however, is the fact that Niko knows that too.
And yet, he's doing it anyway.
The interior of the car is warm and smells like leather and his cologne. In the back is a nicely folded jacket.
Niko pulls away without a word, and while I've only been in the car for seconds in silence, maybe it's the part of me that doesn't want to be there, but I have to break it.
"So you know you're kind of a stalker," I say, glancing at him. "You know that, right?"
He smiles, eyes on the road. "If that's what you need to tell yourself."
"What would you call it?"
"Determined."
I snort. "To do what, exactly?"
He glances at me then, just a flicker of his eyes, but it's enough to send heat blooming across my skin.
"We'll get to that."
I cross my arms and look out the window.
"You just showing up. Your cryptic lines. You're lucky I didn't call my brothers."
He smiles again. I see it out of the corner of my eye. "Then don't."
"Then don't," I repeat, shaking my head feeling flustered.
The drive is short but feels endless. By the time we pull up to the cottage, my thoughts are running wild. The engine cuts off, and in the silence, I hear the sound of the rain tapping on the roof.
I turn to face him. The dim light from the dashboard catches the sharp planes of his face, the intensity in his eyes. Up close now, he's even more devastating than I remember.
"You're not coming in," I say.
He tilts his head. "Didn't ask."
But he's looking at me like he could devour me whole, and part of me, that silly curious part, is, well, it's curious.
I look away to reach for the door handle.
"Thanks for the ride," I say, pushing the door open.
"Calli," he says, and I stop just as I'm about to get out.
"Yeah?"
"I don't plan on leaving without that drink," he says, "and I don't wait long for what I want."
I don't reply. I just step out into the rain and hurry to the cottage, fumbling with my key. I can feel his eyes on me, watching. I don't look back until I'm inside, door shut firmly behind me.
Through the window, I can see the outline of his car, still idling in the dark. I lean against the door, heart beating in my chest, clothes wet and cold against my skin.
But on the inside, I'm burning up.
I need to text Keira.
And maybe ask her what the hell I'm doing.
Because whatever this is, it's not going away.