14. Aisling
FOURTEEN
Aisling
PRESENT
Although Finn said I could have the flat immediately, I chose to wait a bit and ended up moving in the following week. I needed time to pack, shop for essentials like bed linens and towels, and go through at least a couple of episodes of panic and regret first.
I mean, right across the hall? What the hell was I thinking?
But, as it turned out, my anxiety about living across from my former crush-slash-almost-boyfriend has so far proven to be somewhat unnecessary. Mainly because, after I settled in, I quickly realized that the guy was hardly ever home.
At first, I didn’t think much of it. He did run a business, right? But after about a week of no-show Finn, I started to get a little pissed. Okay, jealous might be a better word. Because where the hell was he all the time? Maybe he was just trying to spare my feelings and was, in reality, dating a slew of women.
But then, one evening, I happened to stay late at the office and ran into him in the elevator on my way out.
“You’re here late,” I commented.
“I’m always here late,” he replied.
Since then, I’ve caught him coming home around the same time every night, always dressed in his work clothes, takeaway bags dangling on one arm while his laptop rests on the other.
So, while he wasn’t lying about the dating thing, I’m not sure I feel any better because if there was one thing I noticed during my late-night peeping sessions, it’s that Finn was exhausted.
Like burning the candle at both ends, exhausted.
And I know I shouldn’t care because he’s just my boss, and he did kind of screw me over with that whole deleting my number and breaking my heart thing a few years back, but I can’t help it.
Despite all reason, I still care for him, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do about it.
“Is this your mum?” Damien asks as he grabs a beer from my fridge. It’s been two weeks since I moved in, and I’m finally getting around to inviting all my coworkers over for a housewarming party.
“Yeah.” I smile warmly, my gaze drifting to the photo stuck behind the “Welcome to Chicago” magnet. The picture is from our trip to Ireland. The two of us stand on the foggy Cliffs of Moher, our arms tightly wrapped around each other as the wind whips our hair into a frenzy. Our smiles are broad, our eyes shining bright, without a hint of the bleak future ahead. “She loved it here. She was a first-generation American.”
“Yeah? You have family here?”
“Yeah, I mean, I guess so. My mom never really made contact, though. I don’t think my grandfather left on the best of terms. I think she worried she wouldn’t be well received.”
“That’s too bad.” He gives the pic one more glance before turning his brown eyes toward me. He seems contemplative; his expression is full of some emotion I can’t put my finger on. “She might have been surprised. They say time can heal all sorts of wounds.”
“Oh, yeah? Is that coming from experience?” I ask, realizing just how little I know about Damien Kent compared to some of my other coworkers. Shea is practically an open book. Niall doesn’t look like he could keep a secret if his life depended on it. But, Damien? Other than being head over heels for his girlfriend, there isn’t much I know about him.
“You sound like you have firsthand knowledge.”
He gives a half-shrug, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the counter. Everyone else is dressed super casual today, but Damien looks practically regal in fitted jeans and a lavender sweater that perfectly complements his cocoa-brown skin, which he probably knows. “Maybe. It might take a few more years for me, though. My battle wounds are still fresh.”
“What are you guys talking about over here?” Shea walks into the kitchen, throwing an arm around my shoulder. Her girlfriend, a short blond with freckles and a love of anime, steps up next to her. Side by side, they couldn’t be more different. Shea looks like a goth queen with her black lipstick and piercings, while Torey appears sweet in her plaid skirt and Mary Jane shoes.
“Depressing shit,” Damien says before quickly raising his beer in the air. “Let’s do something fun!”
“Oh! Spin the bottle!” Niall shouts from the living room.
Shea whips her head around, a look of horror on her face. “What are you? Twelve?”
“Oh, come on! It’ll be grand!”
Damien approaches the other side of the kitchen counter, an amused expression on his face. “While we don’t have a ‘no fraternization policy’ at O’Connell,” he informs us. Wait, we don’t? That little piece of information shouldn’t make me feel a rush of excitement. No, Ash. He’s still your boss. Still off-limits. Oh, and he’s still a jerk. “Somehow, I think management would frown on the idea of the four of us making out.”
“Yeah, and I have no desire to kiss a guy. Like ever again,” Shea adds.
“Not even me, Shea?” Niall slaps a hand to his chest as if he’s been wounded. “How could you say that?”
Shea smiles, clearly amused by his antics. “It’s like discovering you hate a specific kind of beer. Why would you ever order it again? Gross.”
I snort out a laugh while Torey plants a kiss on Shea’s cheek.
“All right, how about truth or dare?” Niall suggests instead.
“I might be interested in that,” Damien chimes in.
“No dares that involve kissing, though,” Shea adds.
Niall rolls his eyes. “You guys are no fun.” He turns to me because, apparently, Torey doesn’t get a say. She’s just along for the ride.
I let out an exaggerated breath. “Fine.”
Why do I feel like I just made a horrible mistake?
* * *
Finn
I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life.
There was that time when Rian and I released a bunch of sheep in Parliament Square at Trinny. Don’t even ask how or where we got the sheep. Or about the kissing booth we set up on St. Patrick’s Day at a local pub, so tourists could go home saying they kissed a real Irishman.
Father was not pleased when that one made the papers.
It was all in good fun when I was at uni, but when I started working for him and continued to pull that shit? That’s when I found myself sitting on a tour bus instead of in the corporate office. His message was clear—stop fucking around, or this was as far as I’d get in the family business.
I’ve been living on the straight and narrow ever since. Every decision I make is made with the best interests of the company. Everything I do is calculated.
Until she came back into my life.
Nothing I do makes sense when it comes to her.
It’s been weeks since Aisling moved in. Weeks since I gave her the key to the flat across the hall, and I made my life a living hell—because that’s what it felt like to have her so close but so far away.
Fucking hell on earth.
It’s past sunset, and the only light illuminating the room comes from the city outside and my laptop screen. I rub my eyes and glance toward the front door of my flat, something I’ve found myself doing often since she moved in, as if I’m constantly being drawn into her orbit.
That, or I’m a fucking stalker. Either, or.
There was a time in my life when I would have loved nothing more than to have Aisling Farrell living close to me. But that was back when the possibility of “what if” still lingered in the air, and I had convinced myself that I really could have it all. Now, all that exists between us is a broken promise and torturous thoughts like “what could have been.”
I glance at the door again and head to the kitchen, picking up the half-empty bottle of whiskey. I pour a glass and gulp it down in one go before pouring another.
I didn’t think it was possible, but I’ve been working even more over the past few weeks in a futile attempt to avoid my new neighbor. I wake up before sunrise so I can sneak out to the office ahead of her. I make sure I’m the last to leave at night, knowing I won’t have to encounter her in the hall or lobby.
It’s cowardly—especially since I was the one who insisted she take the flat—but it’s the only way I can survive. Seeing her like this, in my life, every day, all the time—it feels like something I could get used to. But I can’t. She deserves more than a man who can’t give her everything, who can’t devote one hundred percent of himself—and I’m not that guy. I thought I could be. Once. But not anymore. It’s why I let her go in the first place.
It’s nearly midnight on a Friday, and I’ve been staring at the same spreadsheet for what feels like hours. As I walk back to the sofa, I shut my laptop and finish the last sip of single malt before placing the glass on the side table. Just as I’m about to carry the computer and files back to my office, I hear a knock at the door.
Well, it’s not so much a knock as it is a thud, followed by a groan.
“Shit,” I hear someone mumble. “Stupid door.”
Is that…?
Walking over to the entryway, I flip the lock and twist the knob just in time to find a very inebriated Aisling standing in front of me. She’s wearing black high-waisted leggings, a cropped T-shirt, and a long cardigan. I’m pretty sure I’ve never cared for leggings until this moment. Now that I am seeing them wrapped around Aisling’s round, perky ass, I’m definitely a fan.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask, a mixture of concern and amusement spreading across my face. I’ve never seen a drunk Aisling before. I didn’t even know she existed.
“Did you know Damien lost his virginity at fourteen? Fourteen!” Her eyes widen, and she sways. I reach out to grab her, but she steadies herself before I get the chance.
“I don’t think I even liked boys at that age. Or did I? I can’t remember. Wait—how old were you?”
“Fifteen, maybe?”
“Maybe?” She gapes.
I shrug because, like much of my teenage years, there was a fair amount of alcohol involved. “It wasn’t very memorable.”
“I didn’t even get my first kiss until I was sixteen.”
An irrational pang of jealousy twists my gut, and I try to ignore it and instead try to focus on the situation at hand. “And exactly why did you decide to come to my flat at nearly midnight to tell me all this?”
If my words seem rude, she doesn’t appear to notice. “We played truth or dare at my housewarming party. Sorry I didn’t invite you,” she says with a sloppy swish of her hand.
I wouldn’t have come if she had, but I don’t say that. “And was your dare to drink all the alcohol in Ireland?”
Her gaze narrows on me. “No.” Her words slur. “That was my own choice. I wanted to have a little fun, so I had a few drinks—” This is her after just a few? “—I never have fun ’cause RA takes the fun out of everything.”
My brows knit together. “What does RA have to do with this?” She drank while she was on the bus tour. Was she not supposed to? And who says she isn’t fun?
“I’m on a new med,” she explains, breezing past me toward my sofa. I guess she’s coming in, then. “And it sucks all the fun out of life.”
I can’t tell if she’s not making any sense because of the alcohol or if I’m just having trouble following…
“When my mom got sick—” She pauses, sounding much more sober than she did a moment ago. “I’m just realizing I don’t know if I actually told you?—”
“You didn’t, but I know.”
“Oh.” She presses her lips together and nods. “Okay.”
She doesn’t ask for any explanation and just continues with her explanation. I gather she doesn’t want to linger on the specifics of her death for too long, which I can understand. “Anyway, I didn’t take care of myself the way I should have throughout everything. I often forgot to take my meds because of all I was dealing with. The missed meds and the stress caused my RA to flare. Badly. And then the drug I’d been on for several years failed.”
“Failed?”
“Stopped working.” She throws a flippant hand in the air.
“They do that?” I had no idea.
“Yeah.” She flops onto the sofa, kicking off her shoes so she can tuck her feet underneath her. I should feel annoyed by how she just waltzed in here and made herself at home, but I’m not. Not even a little.
I like seeing her in my space far too much.
“You can be on a medication for a long time, and then, for whatever reason, your body just stops responding to it. Anyway, that’s what happened a few months ago, and the med they put me on is doing decent, but I’ve just moved halfway across the world, so the stress isn’t helping things.”
“And what does that have to do with drinking?” I ask ’cause she seems to have lost the plot a little along the way.
“Oh! This medication can seriously fuck up your kidneys.” She gives an overexaggerated shrug. “So, adding alcohol to the mix is baaad.” The fact that she hiccups after saying this truly is a testament to her inebriated state. “But, the doctor said I could have a drink here and there. Guess I’m tapped out for a while.” She giggles and then hiccups again.
Jesus.
“Yes, I think you’ve definitely had your fair share. We should get you to bed.”
“Trying to get me into bed, Mr. Larkin?” She waggles her eyebrow and chuckles to herself.
I know she’s teasing, but the question still deserves an answer.
“I don’t need tricks or games. If I were trying to get you into bed, darlin’, you’d know it,” I assure her, moving closer to the sofa. “And I certainly wouldn’t be attempting it while you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.” She pouts with those pretty pink lips as her brows furrow. So fucking cute.
“Sure.” I laugh, finally deciding to take the spot next to her, though I do myself a favor by leaving a decent amount of space between us. It’s already torture having her here. I don’t need blue balls too.
Her eyes move slowly over me as she focuses on the low-slung black sweatpants, the white T-shirt, and the tattoos that cover my arms. Every single second I feel her heated gaze on me is torture.
“Niall told me tonight that O’Connell doesn’t have a ’no fraternization policy.’”
That was a sharp left turn. “What the hell were you talking about? Why would he bring that up with you?”
She laughs. Fucking laughs. “Are you always going to be this jealous?”
I let out an exasperated huff through my nose, ready to refute her accusation but stopping myself. “Yes,” I say instead, meeting her gaze. “Yes, okay? I will always be jealous at the thought of anyone looking at you or touching you that isn’t me. And yeah, I know I don’t have any right, and I know it isn’t fair, but well…you asked.”
Her eyes widen in shock at my bold honesty before her expression hardens. “Why?” She shakes her head. “You’re the one who promised we weren’t over, who said you wanted more, and then shut me out. I called. I texted. I fucking poured my heart out in voicemails, Finn.”
“I know.” I swallow the guilt that’s burning a hole in my throat. “I know.”
“Then why? If you didn’t want me then?—”
“I never said I didn’t want you.” I fix my gaze on her. “I never stopped wanting you.”
The air feels like a live wire between us as she stares back at me. It’s electric. I want to reach out and touch her so badly that it takes effort to keep my hands at my sides.
“None of this makes sense,” she whispers.
“Life rarely does.”
“I should go,” she says, suddenly looking around as if she’s just now realizing where she is. For the first time since she stumbled in, she looks embarrassed. “It’s late, and I?—”
“You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
“What?” She quickly stands up from the sofa, and any clarity she might have briefly possessed disappears as her body sways.
“You’re still drunk,” I tell her.
“Okay, Captain Obvious,” she snorts, rolling her eyes. “But I think I’ll be okay walking the few steps to my door. Unless you think I might get pulled over? Do the Gardai regularly patrol the…hallway?”
“You get pretty mouthy when you’re drunk.”
She begins to walk away. “All the more reason to let me get going.”
I reach for her hand and drag her back. She lets out a small gasp as her body collides with mine. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” I say, my voice low as I look down at her. “Quite the opposite, actually. I’ve always enjoyed our sparring matches.”
“I hardly remember them.”
My grin widens. “Liar.”
“I really don’t need any help. I can take care of myself,” she assures me.
“I know you can, but tonight, you can let me help you—considering you so rudely interrupted my evening. Plus, I won’t be able to sleep knowing you’re over there, possibly dying in a pool of your own vomit.”
She grimaces. “Gross.”
“Exactly. Now, come on, let’s go to bed.” The thrill I get saying that is far too big, and as I pull her toward my en suite, I have to remind myself this isn’t real.
This doesn’t mean anything.
And I can’t think that it does.
A few minutes later, after we argued about sleep arrangements and she finally relented, caving to my demand to sleep next to me (fully clothed, of course), so I can check on her throughout the night, I can’t shake the feeling that something is clicking into place.
Like the missing puzzle piece in my life has been found.
It’s everything else that doesn’t seem to fit right.