Orla
I’d run the bath hoping the blistering heat might give me some clarity. My head was pounding, and not just from the bottle of sauvignon blanc Gwen and I had demolished.
The flat was quiet except for the slow drip of the tap, the rattle of the dodgy extractor fan, and the dull ache pulsing behind my eyes.
Danny was out with the rugby lads, so I was revelling in the silence whilst my brain refused to shut up.
The mirror was fogged over, maybe from the steam, maybe reflecting the chaos in my head.
It was probably for the best. I wasn’t sure I wanted to look at myself right now.
It was torturing me, the thoughts swirling.
Every version of me was clambering for attention.
The professional, the wounded ex fiancée, the woman who should definitely know better.
If I went with him, I’d have to set boundaries.
Clear ones. Professional ones. Keep it clinical and above board.
No blurred lines. No late-night drinks or conversations that might end with almost-kisses.
But it would mean seeing him every day. Hearing that gravelly laugh. Watching him grin when he thought he’d gotten past my guard and pretending it didn’t get to me when it very much did.
The alternative? I didn’t go.
And then he’d be in America, surrounded by adoring fans and women who’d throw themselves at him without hesitation. He’d be free to do whatever the hell he wanted because he wasn’t mine, and he never would be.
Still, the thought of it, him smiling that handsome grin at someone else, giving away those rare, honest pieces of himself to another woman—God, it twisted in my stomach. I could almost feel the bitter taste in my mouth.
I sank lower in the water until it lapped at my chin, heat stinging my skin. I was being ridiculous. Absolutely pathetic. A thirty-one-year-old woman reduced to bathwater and intrusive thoughts about a man who wasn’t even mine to lose.
I couldn’t want him. I didn’t want him. But I hated the thought of anyone else having him either. I shut my eyes trying to clear my thoughts but every time I closed them, the only image I saw was him and those irresistible green ones.
The water had gone lukewarm by the time I sat up, droplets sliding down my arms, water sloshing over the sides. My skin prickled in the chilly air. Somewhere between the last glass of wine and this stupid jealous ache, the decision had already been made.
Wrapped in a towel, I padded barefoot into the living room, the floorboards cool underfoot. My bag sat slumped against the sofa where I’d dumped it earlier. I fished Alan’s card from the side pocket before I could talk myself out of it and dialled. Every reckless part of me taunting, do it.
It rang once. Twice.
“Hi, this is Alan.”
“Oh—hi! Alan, it’s Orla Sheehan. The physio? We met earlier today?”
“Orla! I wasn’t expecting your call so soon. Good news, I’m hoping?”
“Yeah…um, yes. I’ve considered your offer, and I’ve decided to accept.”
“Fantastic,” his American voice boomed through the receiver. “I’ll get the contracts drawn up ASAP and send through the travel details. We leave in a couple of weeks.”
“Great. Thank you so much.”
“I’ll let you give Tyler the good news yourself.”
“Oh…um. Yeah. Great.”
Click.
The line went dead.
I stared down at the phone and adjusted the towel around me, droplets trailing onto the hardwood floor.
This was a great opportunity. An amazing opportunity.
So why did it feel like I’d just signed up for a slow-motion car crash?
My reflection caught in the black of the TV screen. My damp hair, flustered cheeks, a look in my eyes I barely recognised. Was it want? Fear? Maybe both.
I told myself it was just a job. But somewhere deep down, I already knew the truth.
It wasn’t just a job. It was him.