Chapter 12
Kori
I sit stiffly in the backseat of the rental car, watching the Irish countryside blur past the window. The silence stretches uncomfortably until Wren clears her throat.
“So, Kori,” she says, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror, “are you from Toronto?”
“Point Pelee Island originally. My family has a vineyard there,” I reply, grateful for the mundane question. “I’ve been living in Toronto for the past six years. Since meeting Mark.” His name tastes bitter on my tongue.
“The cheating husband?” Kat asks bluntly from the passenger seat.
Wren shoots her a look. “Subtle, Kat.”
“What? She already told Kane, and he tells us everything when he’s drunk.” Kat turns in her seat to face me. “Men are trash. Present company’s brothers and boyfriend, excluded. Usually.”
I can’t help but laugh at her frankness. “Rory, I take it, is your boyfriend? And yes, the cheating husband. With my sister, of all people.”
“Yes,” Kat nods. “We reluctantly fell in love.”
“That’s cold,” Wren says, navigating a sharp curve in the road. “Family betrayal hits differently.”
“You can say that again,” Kat mutters, and something in her tone makes me wonder what family betrayals she’s experienced.
“Hence the impromptu Irish vacation,” I explain. “I found out right before our anniversary party and just... ran.”
“Smart move,” Kat nods approvingly. “I would’ve stayed long enough to set his car on fire, but your way is probably healthier.”
“Definitely less likely to result in jail time,” Wren agrees.
I find myself relaxing as we chat. There’s something comforting about these women who talk about arson so casually. They don’t offer empty cliches like “everything is going to be okay” or tell me it will all work out. Instead, they validate my feelings.
“So, what’s your plan now?” Wren asks as we turn onto the gravel road leading to Wavecrest.
I stare at the cottage appearing on the horizon. “I don’t have one. Just... exist for a while, I guess. Figure out who I am when I’m not Mark’s wife.”
“That’s a plan,” Kat says firmly. “Sometimes you need to break everything down before you can rebuild.”
We pull up to the cottage, and I hesitate before getting out. “Thanks for the ride. And for not being weird about me finding Kane half-naked, buried in the sand.”
“Trust me,” Wren says with a wry smile, “that barely registers on the MacGallan weird scale.”
“Speaking of Kane,” Kat adds, her expression softening slightly, “he’s going to be a mess after today. Finding out your whole identity is a lie...” She shakes her head. “It’s a lot.”
I think of Kane’s face when they told him about his father, his sister. The shock, the betrayal, the flicker of something that looked like hope before anger replaced it.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I can’t imagine.”
“Take care of yourself, Kori,” Kat says as I step out of the car and grab the metal detector. “Ireland’s good for healing broken hearts. All that rain and beer.”
I wave as they drive away, then turn to face the empty cottage. The silence that greets me when I step inside is deafening after the drama of the day. I stand in the middle of the living room, suddenly feeling like I lost my best friend.
I realize something is different as I walk through the living room, headed towards the kitchen.
A vase of flowers sits on the counter with a note.
Mrs. O’Malley, bless her heart, had brought over a few groceries while I was out—bread, cheese, and some canned soup.
I take down a pot and open the can, placing it on the stovetop.
As I wait for the soup to heat, I replay the day’s events in my mind.
Kane’s hand was gripping mine in that underground chamber, his knuckles white around the photograph of his mother.
The soup bubbles, and I pour it into a bowl, settling at the kitchen table to eat. The cottage creaks around me, old wood shifting in the wind coming off the sea. I’m alone again, just as I planned when I fled Toronto. So why do I feel so empty now?
∞∞∞
For three days, I dusted, vacuumed, and polished everything in the house until it sparkled, and I was exhausted. Not that the place needed such a deep clean, but I had to keep my mind busy. Thoughts of Kane were constantly on my mind, and it was driving me up the wall.
I decided what I needed was a bath for my aching muscles in the old clawfoot tub. Adding some lavender bath salts I found in a cabinet, the scent fills the air. As I sink into the hot water, my muscles finally begin to relax after the tension of the last few days.
Poor Kane. At least when my life fell apart, I knew who I was. My husband might be a cheating bastard and my sister a backstabbing bitch, but my fundamental identity remains intact. I’m still Kori Blake, marketing executive turned housewife, now soon-to-be-divorcée.
But Kane? His very existence has been rewritten. The father who raised him wasn’t his father. The uncle he looked up to is actually his biological dad. The cousins he grew up with are his half-siblings. And somewhere out there, he has a sister he never knew about.
No wonder he drinks.
I sink deeper into the tub, letting the water cover my shoulders. My situation suddenly seems manageable in comparison.
The chirp of my phone startles me, breaking the silence of the bathroom. I sit up so quickly that water sloshes over the edge of the tub, reaching for where I left it on the small stool beside me. It’s Jen calling. I hesitate for a moment, then swipe to answer.
“Kori! Thank God,” Jen’s voice floods through the speaker. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, adjusting to sit more comfortably in the cooling water. “Just taking a bath. The cottage is amazing. Thank you for letting me stay here.”
“You’re welcome, but that’s not why I’m calling. Mark’s been blowing up my phone. He showed up at my apartment looking for you.”
I feel a momentary twist in my stomach, but it’s duller than I expected. “What did you tell him?”
“That I had no idea where you were, which was true at the time. He looked awful, if that helps.”
“It doesn’t,” I say, though part of me is grimly satisfied. “I don’t care how he looks.”
“Good for you,” Jen says approvingly. “So, how’s Ireland? Drowning your sorrows in Guinness and handsome locals?”
I laugh, thinking of Kane buried in the sand with the nose and earplugs. “Actually, I met someone, but not like that. Someone from the plane, travelling with his family,” I add quickly. “And then I ran into him on the beach. It was... complicated.”
“Complicated how?” Her voice perks up with interest.
“I was using that metal detector on the beach, you know, the one your brother left here.” When she hesitated, I continued, “Anyway, it doesn’t matter; what matters is I found this guy buried in the sand. It was him.”
“WHAT?!” Jen shrieks so loudly that I have to hold the phone away from my ear. “Like, dead buried?”
“No, alive buried. His family did it to him as some weird intervention for his drinking problem.”
There’s a long pause. “Kori Blake, you'd better start from the beginning.”
So, I do. I tell her about finding Kane, about his family, about going to the castle ruins with them (though I leave out the part about Russians and hidden sisters—that feels like crossing a line).
“Wait, wait,” Jen interrupts. “What does he look like, this sand man of yours?”
I feel my cheeks warm inexplicably. “Tall. Muscular, but not in that gym-rat way. More like someone who’s naturally strong.
He has these tattoos all up his arms—Celtic designs mixed with other stuff.
Longish dark hair that falls in his eyes.
And these blue eyes that just... I don’t know. They see right through you.”
“Honey,” Jen says, amusement clear in her voice, “you sound like you’re describing the cover model for ‘Hot Irish Rogues Monthly.’”
“It’s not like that,” I protest. “But my breath did catch in my throat when he came out of the car dressed in jeans and a grey Henley shirt.”
“And how exactly does he look in these clothes? Or out of them, since you found him half-naked?”
“Sinful,” I admit before I can stop myself. “He looks sinful as hell, Jen. Like trouble wrapped in a perfect package.”
She laughs delightedly. “Oh my God, you’re into him! This is fantastic!”
“I am not ‘into him,’” I insist, sinking lower in the now-tepid bathwater. “I literally just met him four days ago. And I’m still technically married.”
“To a cheating asshole,” Jen reminds me. “Look, I’m not saying marry the guy. But maybe a little Irish fling is exactly what you need right now.”
“Jen!”
“What? You’re in a foreign country, you’ve met a hot guy with family issues who clearly thinks you’re special enough, even with that chopped hairdo you gave yourself, to drag into his drama—go for it!”
“You’re impossible,” I groan, but I can’t help smiling. “Besides, he’s dealing with some heavy stuff right now. Family stuff. I doubt he’s thinking about me at all.”
“He wrote his number on your arm,” Jen points out. “Men don’t do that unless they’re interested.”
The ink has long since washed away in the bath, but I memorized the digits before they disappeared. Not that I’d admit that to Jen.
“I’m hanging up now,” I tell her. “The water’s getting cold.”
“Fine, but promise me you’ll call if anything happens with the sand man. I need details. Explicit ones.”
“Goodbye, Jen,” I say firmly, ending the call before she can embarrass me further.
I step out of the tub and wrap a towel around myself, my skin resembling a prune from soaking too long. As I dry off, I find myself replaying Kane’s crooked smile in my mind, the way his hand felt holding mine in that underground chamber.
No. I didn’t come to Ireland for a fling. I came to heal, to find myself again. The last thing I need is to get tangled up with a man who clearly has more baggage than I do.
Still, as I pull on my pajamas and head to the kitchen to make tea, I can’t help glancing at my phone on the counter. I’ve already memorized his number. What would be the harm in saving it? Just in case.
I pick up the phone and create a new contact. I hesitate over the name field, then type “Kane Murphy” and save it. Just having his number doesn’t mean I’ll use it. It’s just... practical.
The cottage creaks around me as the wind picks up outside. For the first time since arriving in Ireland, I don’t feel quite so alone.
∞∞∞
I curl up on the sofa with a cup of tea, intent on watching a movie, but my mind keeps wandering back to him. What is he doing right now? Did they solve the riddle? Find his sister? Is he drowning his shock in whiskey, or facing it head-on?
I glanced down at my arm, where his phone number was. Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and punch in the digits.
“You okay?” I type, then delete it. Too personal.
“Hope you find your sister,” I try instead, but that sounds too flippant.
Finally, I settled on: “It’s Kori from the beach. Just checking on you.”
My thumb hovers over the send button. This is ridiculous. I barely know the man. We’re not friends. We’re not anything. Just two people whose paths crossed briefly during mutual life crises.
But something about his vulnerability in that moment—the look in his eyes when his world shattered—won’t let me dismiss him so easily.
I hit send before I can change my mind, then toss my phone aside like it’s suddenly burning hot. What am I doing? The last thing I need right now is to get involved with someone else’s family drama when I’m still reeling from my own.
The movie plays on, but I’m not watching. My eyes keep darting to my phone, waiting for it to light up with a response. It doesn’t.
Just as well, I tell myself. He’s probably busy tracking down long-lost relatives or drinking himself into oblivion. Either way, he doesn’t need—
A sharp knock at the door makes me jump, sloshing tea onto my shirt. Who could be here? The cottage is isolated, at least half a mile from the nearest neighbor. Mrs. O’Malley isn’t due to check in until tomorrow, according to her note, and I doubt she makes house calls after dark.
The knocking comes again, more insistent this time. I set my tea down and approached cautiously, wishing the cottage had a peephole.
“Who is it?” I call through the door.
“It’s Kane,” comes the reply, his voice unmistakable even through the thick wood.
My heart does a strange little flip as I undo the chain and pull the door open.
And there he stands, looking simultaneously better and worse than when I last saw him.
His clothes are clean and dry, but his eyes are bloodshot, his hair wild like he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly.
He’s clutching a bottle of whiskey, but it’s still sealed.
“You texted,” he says, holding up his phone with my message displayed.
“I did,” I confirm, suddenly very aware of my wet hair and lack of makeup. “I wasn’t expecting an instant in-person response.”
“Yeah, well.” He shifts his weight, looking almost sheepish. “It just so happened I was in the area.”
“In the area? What for?”
He leans against the door frame and says, “I was on my way to see you. Can I come in?”
I should say no. I should tell him it’s late, that I barely know him, that I came to Ireland to escape drama, not invite more in. But something in his expression—a rawness, a vulnerability that mirrors my own—has me stepping aside.
“Only if that bottle stays sealed on the porch,” I say, nodding toward the whiskey.
He looks down at it like he’d forgotten he was holding it. “Deal,” he agrees, setting it down as he steps past me into the cottage.