11. Aisling
ELEVEN
Aisling
PRESENT
Surprisingly, when Drunk Me chose to apply for a random job in the middle of the night, there were a shit ton of things she didn’t consider when it came to moving to a foreign country.
Shocking, I know.
After I sobered up, I quickly realized that moving to Ireland was going to be a huge undertaking and that I only had weeks to tackle it. At twenty-five, I had lived in my fair share of apartments, but moving across town was a hell of a lot different than moving across an ocean. Luckily, I had people like Nora at O’Connell to help with some of it. She walked me through all the paperwork, gave me advice on housing, and even helped me find private insurance.
Yeah, insurance. I hadn’t even thought about that. Considering I’d spent the better part of a year thinking about nothing but insurance and medical shit, it just goes to show you how far I’d shoved down that particular part of my life.
And now I am suffering the consequences.
I wince as I brace an arm on either side of the tub and try to push myself up. It’s a sobering moment because, a week ago, I could do this with hardly any effort. Now every damn joint in my body aches.
Thanks, stress.
The Epsom salt seems to have taken the edge off, but I still eye the pill bottle on the counter, wondering if I’ll have to resort to a pain pill next. Although they’re not the habit-forming kind, they still make me feel drowsy, so I avoid taking them. I’m already tired enough, thank you.
I step out of the bathroom and walk toward the bed, where I’ve set out a pair of jeans and a chunky sweater. It’s embarrassing to admit how long it took me to choose those two items of clothing.
But I can’t help it.
Finn makes me nervous. He always has.
Knowing that I’ll be seeing him today, outside of work, has my heart racing. Logically, I understand he’s just doing me a favor by offering this apartment, and this meet-up is nothing more than that. Emotionally, I can’t help but think of all the times our lives have intersected. That has to mean something, right? It can’t just be a coincidence.
But then I think back to the moment I stepped out of that cab Friday night. It was easy to slip back into our friendly banter. Almost effortless. It had always been that way with Finn. That’s one of the many reasons I fell for him. As much as I tried to ignore him in those early days of the tour, it was hopeless. We were drawn together.
As we sat in the back of that cab, I couldn’t shake the dark directions my thoughts took. Why did he do it? Why had he promised one thing and done another? So, when the cab pulled up to the curb, I realized my lighthearted mood had vanished, and instead, I was just flat-out mad. I got out and turned around. He smiled, ready to say goodbye, but I cut him off and said, “On Sunday, I don’t know where to go. I don’t have your address.”
“I can give it to you.”
I knew he would have to, so I asked. “Can you text it to me? You do still have my number, right?” The challenging tone was clear in my voice.
“I deleted it, ” he’d answered with a hint of remorse. He could barely look me in the eyes.
He deleted it.
I had my answer.
It didn’t matter if the universe kept throwing us together.
We weren’t meant to be.
He’d made that abundantly clear.
* * *
Finn
I haven’t pulled the “Money talks” card in quite some time. When I was younger, I used to flaunt my family name and the bank account tied to it as if it were my job.
It wasn’t as if I was doing my real one, after all.
I only went to the best clubs and drank the more expensive whiskey. If the clothes weren’t designer, they didn’t belong on my body. I was an absolute arsehole, and when I put all that behind me, I swore I’d never use my family name or money to my advantage again.
Until today.
All because of a girl.
But to be fair, Aisling Farrell was never just a girl, and the lie I told was for a good reason. So, on Saturday morning, I woke up at the crack of dawn, prepared to do whatever it took to furnish the empty flat that I had assured Aisling was filled with furniture.
It’s not.
In fact, since the contractors completely renovated the top floor of the building, no one has lived up here but me. I had the option to occupy the entire space, keeping the penthouse my father had when he owned the building, but I chose to divide it into two instead. At the time, I thought having a space for guests sounded like a good plan. Maybe even my mam could come and stay.
But you actually needed free time for shit like that. So the extra flat had remained empty.
Until now.
When I showed up to the shops, ready to drop a mint to get same-day delivery, things got sorted relatively quickly. Thankfully, the flat was on the small side, a modest one-bedroom to my three. So, furnishing hadn’t been a huge undertaking, aside from the timing issue, that is.
I did all this, I realized, never knowing if she would actually show.
I deleted it.
Why had I said that to her?
When she turned around that night and asked me if I still had her number, it felt like a punch to my gut. I had noticed her growing quiet during the last few miles of that cab ride, and I hadn’t understood why. As soon as I saw the hurt in her eyes, I knew why.
Any progress we had made, no matter how small, vanished the moment those words left my lips.
I had deleted her number, but that wasn’t the whole story. So, why hadn’t I said that?
Because it didn’t matter.
It didn’t change what I did.
After I delivered the news that I not only ghosted her but also essentially erased her from my life, she said she would be in touch.
She hadn’t deleted my number.
I didn’t expect a response that night. Hell, I wasn’t sure I deserved one at all. But I woke up the next morning and stuck with my plan anyway, making sure the flat was ready when she was.
Last night, I finally got a reply. A one-word text. Noon.
I sent her my address, called to check in on my parents (no updates on either front), and then tried to catch up on work.
Instead, I ended up drinking whiskey and falling asleep at my desk.
I’m fairly certain that the wood grain has a permanent indentation of my face in it by now.
Now, it is nearly noon, and I’m running late, slightly hungover, trying not to think about the fact that Aisling will be here soon.
In my space. Under my roof. Surrounded by my things.
The door chimes. She is early. Of course , she is early.
I barely have my jeans buttoned, and my shirt is dangling over my shoulder. There is a hoodie somewhere…
Fuck, I am not usually this much of a disaster.
I jog over to the door, and just as I’m about to buzz her into the building, there is a hesitant knock. The doorman must have let her up.
I turn the handle, and just as I’m about to say hi, her eyes widen, and her cheeks flame red.
Right, shit. Clothes.
“Sorry. Running a bit late. Give me a moment.” She follows me in as I go to quickly fasten the top button of my jeans. To my surprise, she doesn’t look away, her gaze fixated on my bare chest as I toss my shirt over my head. When she digs her teeth into her bottom lip, I nearly groan. “Did you find the place all right?”
The sound of my voice nearly startles her, and I have to smother a grin. “What?” Her eyes drift up from where she was ogling my six-pack to my eyes. “Oh, um. The cab driver didn’t seem to have a problem with it.”
“Right.” I nod. “I suppose that being in the city doesn’t require much driving.”
“I don’t think I’ll be driving at all while I’m here.”
“What?” I scoff, scanning the room for that hoodie. I swear I grabbed one before I left the bedroom. I notice Ash checking the place, and I can’t decipher her expression—whether she likes it or not. Honestly, I’m not sure what my answer to that question is. Since I’ve been so busy, everything in here was chosen by a designer, and it’s nice—sophisticated, even—but at the same time, it feels sterile. Like you could drop any young, single executive in here, and they’d blend right in. It doesn’t feel special.
Or maybe it doesn’t feel special to me?
“What if you want to go somewhere outside of Dublin? How will you get there?”
She shrugs. “I’m not sure I’ll have time. Work keeps me busy and…” Her voice trails off, and before I can ask her what she was going to say, she bends down and picks up a faded green Trinity hoodie. “Looking for this?”
“Yes, thanks.”
She hands it to me, and her eyes shift to the kitchen as I pull it over my head. “Have you always lived here? I mean, did you?—”
“No,” I answer, knowing what she’s trying to ask. “I bought this building shortly after I took over from my father. Prior to that, I lived in a small flat across town.” If she were to ask anything more, she doesn’t. Instead, she readjusts the purse on her shoulder and looks toward the door. “Shall we?”
“Right, yeah.” She moves ahead of me, and that’s when I notice how she favors her left leg and the slight stiffness in her gait. “We can sit for a minute or two. I can grab us a cola?”
She looks back, pursing her lips. I’ve seen that look before. “I’m fine.”
“Ash.”
“Don’t,” she warns.
“Don’t what?” I retort, my tone stripped of all formality. “Ask if you’re okay. Because I can clearly see you’re in pain.”
“It’s just a flare-up.” She waves a dismissive hand. “It happens. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t handle it.” God, she is stubborn.
“Can we just go see the apartment now?” Her hand rests on her hip, and she appears to be only moments away from tapping her foot on the floor in annoyance.
“Will you rest over there?” I fold my arms over my chest. Yeah, I can be pretty fucking stubborn too.
She gives me that death stare, and fucking hell; I must be crazy because, damn, do I think that’s hot. “Fine,” she relents. “But I want a Coke.”
“Coming right up, darlin’.”
* * *
Aisling
Darlin’.
That word bounces around in my brain like a wayward ping-pong ball.
Darlin’.
It rolled off his lips so effortlessly, as if time had no meaning. As if the several hundred days since I last heard him say it had never happened.
Darlin’.
That wasn’t the only term of endearment he’d ever used, though.
No, there was one other.
But I can’t even think about that one. Darlin’ was flirty and innocent. The first time he’d said it, it was in jest, and then it kind of stuck.
But the other one. That one had been intentional. That one, he meant.
Or so I thought…
After he grabs my Coke, we silently step into the hall. He has a set of keys in his hand that jingle as he walks. He doesn’t bother putting on shoes and instead just slips into a pair of slippers that somehow look ridiculously good on him.
It’s honestly unfair how good he looks. There should be a universal rule that when you systematically stomp on someone else’s heart, you automatically turn into a bridge troll.
But no, for some reason, the men in my life only seem to get hotter. When Theo came to my mom’s funeral, I swear he looked taller, like that Spanish heat had made him grow an extra inch or two. That or those endorsement deals he was raking in were just doing wonders for his ego.
Their future wives will thank me, I’m sure.
Future wives.
I eye the back of Finn’s head as he unlocks the door, and now, while I gaze at the strands of his nearly jet-black hair, all I can think about is the faceless woman somewhere out there who will become the future Mrs. Finn Larkin.
Mrs. Finn Larkin-O’Connell?
I’m still not entirely sure which one he goes by. Or it’s both.
Whatever.
My mind starts to spiral. Is he dating anyone? I try to think back to the few minutes I just spent in that apartment. Were there any…girlie things in there?
“Aisling?” I realize he’s unlocked the door and stepped inside, and I’m still standing frozen at the threshold.
I blink in, probably for the first time in a solid minute.
“Yep? What?” Good save.
“Ready?” His lip twitches.
“Yes!” I say with a bit too much enthusiasm. I’m still clutching the Coke in my hand like I’m fucking Gollum from The Hobbit because I’m too proud to admit I can’t open it on my own in my current state.
As if he can read my mind, Finn glances down at the soda and says, “I forgot to offer you a glass. Here, let me take that.”
Before I can protest, the Coke is whisked away from my grasp, and he’s headed to the small kitchen on the left.
“There are glasses?”
“A few,” he answers. He opens a cupboard, and I let out a laugh.
“A few?” The cupboard is packed.
He shrugs. “I doubt you could host a dinner party, but it’s a solid start.”
He walks to the refrigerator and fills the glass with ice. As he pops open the can, I take a moment to look around. The entire place is stunning. It’s similar to his place as far as finishes, but whoever chose the furniture took a vastly different approach. The sofa is deep and plush, with a chaise on one side that looks like it was made for cozy movie nights. There’s an oversized chair in the corner, by a large window, that would be perfect for rainy-day reading.
Whereas style seems to be the ultimate theme in Finn’s flat, comfort is king here. I haven’t even seen the bedroom, and I already love it.
I really didn’t want to love it.
Maybe he’ll quote me some outlandish price, and I’ll be able to justify saying no then.
What can be more outlandish than the cost of living in a luxury hotel?
I almost don’t hear him when he walks up to me and wordlessly hands me the cold glass of soda. “Why don’t you go look around a bit, and then we can sit down and chat?”
He’s going to hold me to my word and make me rest.
As much as the stubborn part of me wants to argue, I nod my head and start to wander down the hallway toward the en suite.
I wish I could say it’s all incredibly awful. I wish I could say that the plush pillowtop mattress and soaking tub fall short, and I absolutely cannot imagine myself sinking into either one.
But I can’t.
This place is perfect. Literally perfect.
It’s like he picked everything out, especially for me.
It is actually kind of annoying.
As I make my way back to the living room, I find him sitting on the sofa, his messy head of hair buried in his phone. The moment he hears my footsteps, he looks up, and our eyes meet. My heart stutters, my feet wobble, and for once, it has nothing to do with my chronic illness.
“Are you okay?” he asks, already rising to his feet.
“Fine. Just tripped.” Total lie, but what else am I going to say? Sometimes, when you look at me, I literally forget how to put one foot in front of the other. Yeah, I don’t think so.
He doesn’t seem to believe me, but he lets it slide as I take a seat near the opposite end of the couch. The space between us might as well be the ocean. That’s how distant I feel from the man I met two years ago and how little I actually know of him now.
It’s exactly why I should say no to this apartment.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“It’s great,” I answer automatically.
“But?” He waits patiently, already seeing the doubt in my eyes.
“But…” I drag the word out, trying to choose the rest carefully. “I don’t know how this could possibly work.”
“What do you mean?” His expression is passive.
My jaw drops. He can’t be serious?
I stand up, anger clouding my judgment. “What I mean is that we can barely operate in the same workspace, Finn. How are we supposed to live across the hall from each other?”
“We work just fine together.”
“Sure,” I agree. “When we hardly see each other. But you almost bit the head off one of your employees the other day when he offered me a place to stay.”
“I—” He pauses. “I was merely concerned for you. I didn’t want you to be taken advantage of.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, please! And when I bring a date home? Will the concern you show be that of a boss or a sort of ex-boyfriend?”
His eyes go wild. Murderous, even. God, that should not be so hot. “Are you planning on bringing home a lot of dates?”
The truth is I haven’t dated in a long time. Not since, well—I attempted a one-night stand in Barcelona when I was traveling with my mom—before she got sick. It was a few months after I’d given up on Finn, and I was angry and miserable and just wanted to move on.
I quickly realized forcing yourself to move on doesn’t work.
After a few drunken kisses on the dance floor in a sweaty club, I left with tears in my eyes and shame in my heart.
“I don’t know, maybe?” I scoff. “Is that something a landlord needs to know? Would you like an advanced schedule? So we can avoid awkward encounters in the hallway?”
“That won’t be necessary. I don’t date,” he says, his voice surprisingly calm compared to the shrill tone I was using.
“What? Why?” A tiny spark of hope flickers in my chest, but it is quickly extinguished when I remind myself that dating doesn’t mean the guy is celibate.
He ended things, remember? He hasn’t been pinning for you this whole time, Ash. Get over yourself.
“I don’t have time, and I—” He lets out a defeated breath, pressing his palm to his forehead. “It doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t matter who you bring here. This is your flat, Aisling.” We’re back to Aisling now. Not Ash. Not darlin’. Aisling, because distance must be maintained. “I offered the flat to you because I want you to have a safe, comfortable place to call home while you work for us.”
Right, of course. Because I’m his employee.
That shouldn’t hurt, but it does.
“But if us living so close to one another makes you uncomfortable, I can help you find something else. But, please. Don’t stay in that hotel for six months.”
His words are genuine. I know, either way, he will help me find a place to stay. The smart decision would be to look elsewhere.
As far from here as possible.
Instead, I do the opposite and say, “When can I move in?”
I never said I was smart.