Chapter 36
thirty-six
CIAR
Ciar, Imogen, and Tina were installed in the Dublin two-story. That might be overstating things. They had beds to sleep on and were surrounded by what could only be thousands of moving boxes.
Tina was doing her best, in her special, hateful way, but it was clear she needed help. Since being back in Dublin, Ciar had spent hours at Gray Eyes catching up on how things were running.
The numbers were promising. Extremely so. It had fast become “the hangout” for old money and new. He was amazed to see Gray’s vision in real time every time he walked through the pub’s door.
He still worked hours a day for Anders, taking most meetings over video, but traveling was inevitable and often.
None of the details mattered. None of them.
Gray had reached out to meet him. She was due to arrive in minutes.
He’d been a blithering idiot since the moment he’d received her text yesterday. It only said that she would like to discuss something with him.
He didn’t know what she wanted to discuss, but he had at least twenty different things he wanted to explain. He wanted her back so bad. His stomach was cramping, and his sweat glands were working overtime.
Ciar told Tina that, unless there was an emergency, she needed to have everything Imogen could ever imagine wanting in the smaller kitchen upstairs, where Imogen’s room was located, as well as Tina’s small nanny apartment.
He hoped Gray would let him show her around the space. He especially wanted her to see how he’d finished out their downstairs bedroom suite. From their past talks, he believed she would be pleased that her vision had been realized.
After she canceled the contractors, he’d rehired them and given them her house plans. There was no décor or, well, there was nothing really, but he dreamed of Gray making the final touches to their home.
Tina walked out in a gaudy bathrobe wrapped around her stout frame, gunmetal gray hair sticking up in multiple directions, and an empty coffee mug in her hand like she owned the space and everything in it.
“Tina, for fuck’s sake, I’ve company soon. Please stay with Imogen.”
“First, language, young man. My outlets in the upstairs kitchen are on the fritz. Never fear, I put in a work order. Secondly, the wee mite is sleeping, and I want a bloody mug of tea.”
And of course, the bell would ring at that moment. Of course. “Christ, Tina. I’m begging you. Disappear.”
She simply sniffed her snub nose and proceeded to the kitchen. There was nothing for it. He had to answer the door.
Ciar pulled the heavy door open so quickly that he almost took the tips of his booted toes off. And there she was. “Gray,” he spoke her name reverently.
She was dressed in loose jeans, a heavy sweater, and a wool coat. Dublin winters were not a light layering season.
She was stunning. Glorious. Her golden waves were clipped back on the sides, with the rest draped over and about her overcoat.
“Come in. Please,” he stupidly waved her in like a hotel concierge. He asked to take her coat, and in his worst nightmare made reality, he tripped over his own feet and fell into her side, pushing her against the door’s frame.
“Fuck,” he cursed as she let out an “Oof.”
“I’m sorry.” Grasping her upper arms, he gently separated her from the wall and carefully helped slip her coat off her shoulders.
She’d yet to speak a word. Her pinkened cheeks spoke of more than the wintry chill, however, and he wanted to wrap his arms around her so badly he shook with it.
“Would you like to go to the master suite’s sitting room?” He cursed the suggestion as soon as her shoulders stiffened. Presumptuous bastard.
“Or here,” he waved toward the kitchen where his obnoxious nanny stood in all her bed-haired glory, making tea. “I could make tea once the pot is free,” he growled, his wrathful gaze locked on Tina. Never mind that there was a kitchen upstairs.
“Don’t mind me, lad,” the bit—woman, he corrected mentally, snidely commented.
Tina finally vacated the kitchen but stopped before a wide-eyed Gray. “I’m Mrs. March, Miss Imogen’s nanny.” She stuck her hand out for Gray to take, and though she looked horrified, she politely took the outstretched hand and shook it firmly.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. March. I’m Gray MacGregor.”
“And who are you to Mr. Murphy, lassie?” Tina rudely asked.
“No one special, ma’am, I assure you.” Ciar was furious with Tina and gutted by Gray’s answer. She was so far from “no one special,” he wanted to roar his denial.
“That’s enough, Mrs. March. You will retire now or find other accommodations for the night.” His threat widened her eyes, but she managed to sniff arrogantly, twice, before spinning on her heel and finally leaving them.
“I apologize, Gray. She’s—” he hesitated “—horrible.”
“No problem.” Gray sat on one of the barstools lining the center island.
“Tea?”
“No. Thank you.”
She was wringing her hands and biting her lip, so uncomfortable that he wanted to beg to start the meeting over.
“I’m sorry. Tina is an acquired taste.”
“I’m sure she must be good with your daughter, or you wouldn’t keep her. Now,” Gray said with conviction, laying her hands flat against the counter in front of her, “I hoped we might come to an understanding.”
“An understanding?” Ciar sat, too, as he felt his legs start to give way.
“We have mutual friends. I have no wish to make every gathering we have together miserable for everyone. I would like us to wipe the slate clean between us, is what I’m trying to say, I guess.”
“Wipe the slate,” he repeated dumbly.
“Exactly,” she nodded her head as though he’d solved the riddle to algebra. “I have something important to tell you, and I know it will be…a surprise, but—”
“Mr. Murphy,” Tina’s aggravating voice rang out, “Miss Imogen, your sweet daughter,” she emphasized unnecessarily, “is inconsolable. She needs her father’s soothing touch before she can go back to sleep.”
Gray’s face drained of all color, and she stiffly stood, tugging on the hem of her sweater. “I’ve…I’ve taken up too much of your time,” she stuttered, backing away from Tina, who was holding a perfectly content-looking Imogen in her arms.
“No, Gray, please. Please don’t leave.” He could tell that no amount of pleading would make her stay. He took Imogen into his arms. “You wanted to tell me something. Please.”
It was too late.
The opportunity was ruined, and he was too much of a piece of shit to salvage it.
“It’s not,” she took a deep breath before continuing, “important, after all. Have a merry Christmas. I’m flying to Scotland tonight for the holiday.”
She grabbed her coat and ran out the door before another word could be uttered. He sat down heavily, his breath catching on a swallowed sob.
What now? “What now?” he whispered in Imogen’s tiny ear.