Chapter 37
OUR FIRST DATE
Caitríona
After the warm glow of the sleeper car, Glasgow Central greets us like a punch. The glass roof roars with rain, voices ricocheting off an iron skeleton. The arrivals board barks with chaos, quickly throwing the peace of the last few hours into the past tense.
And I’m not ready to leave it yet. I want to bask in that quiet, in that rare moment of honesty between us. Not to mention the amazing sex. We indulged in each other twice before the train rattled into the station.
I tug my cap lower, inch closer to Matteo and let the crowd carry us toward the concourse. His fingers entwine with mine, eyes meeting my own beneath the shadow of the oversized bill.
A faint, tired smile curls his lips and that dimple pops.
I’m almost too mesmerized by him to notice. But I feel their eyes before I see them.
Two men in dark coats plant themselves by the exit barriers. One is wiry with a Belfast nose, and the other is built like a door. They don’t look at the departures board. They search faces. Then they stop at my face. A third shadow peels off near the WHSmith, hand to his ear.
Tiernan’s men. Damn it.
“Left,” Matteo murmurs, breath a ribbon at my ear. We veer and suddenly the station’s a chessboard, and we’re the piece that isn’t supposed to exist.
The big guy clocks the move and cuts across the flow, fast for his size. Belfast Nose ghosts the other way, trying to snatch us at the barrier. Matteo’s palm presses the small of my back.
“Tickets,” the guard calls out, cheerfully oblivious.
“Smile,” Matteo whispers, and I do, baring my teeth like a promise as we lift our paper tickets. The gate chirps, and the doors part. We slide through on a breath.
They’re right behind us now.
I don’t need to look back.
We drop down the iron stairs toward the lower-level platforms, boots drumming alongside the hundred others fleeing the morning, and duck into a bookshop.
Matteo takes the back aisle, I take the front, and we meet at the postcard rack.
The big one barges in the entrance at a run and trips over a suitcase full-on.
A woman yelps and paperbacks avalanche off a rack.
Belfast Nose darts in next and blunders into a strategically placed tower of shortbread tins.
A tartan explosion buys us four more seconds.
We take them. We race through the café, past the steam, and into a service corridor that smells like old sweatshirts and bleach. Darting out the fire door into a side lane, we find the city and an icy chill.
Matteo tugs on my hand, weaving us through the morning hustle at a clipped pace. Not fast enough to attract attention but not dawdling. Only when we’re under a dripping stone arch does he finally stop. He’s not winded. He looks annoyed.
“They shouldn’t have been that ready for us.” His eyes go razor-sharp. “Maybe they tracked the jet to London. But Euston? And again here? No. It doesn’t make sense.”
“How then?” My voice is too harsh, already knowing I won’t like the answer.
He draws me closer, fingers careful. “Hold still.”
“What are you—”
Matteo’s hands slide up and down my clothes.
It takes all my restraint not to squirm as my body remembers the feel of him.
Then he lifts my hood and pinches the hem.
His thumbs work the seam, and a string of curses streak out.
When he brings his hand down, there’s a flat, coin-thin disk on his palm.
There’s no logo, just matte black, the size of a button. Its center glows a bored red.
I instantly go cold. “What is that?” But I already know the answer.
“An active tracker. It’s a short-range beacon tied to someone’s long-range net.” His jaw tightens. “That bastard must have tagged you at the hangar.”
“No…”
Images hit like a hailstorm. Donal’s thumb checking my jaw, his coat brushing my shoulder, his breath hot with fury and worry. Heat surges up, and my eyes sting before I can stop them.
“My own brother sold me out,” I hiss, and it tastes like rust. “To Tiernan.”
“Or he panicked and reached for the only leash he knew.” Matteo’s voice is soft but not excusing. “Either way, it’s off you now.”
I want to throw the little devil as hard as I can into the River Clyde. I want to call my brother and burn what’s left. But worst of all, I want to cry and that makes me angrier than anything.
Matteo must see all of it. He closes his fist around the tag, then steps to the mouth of the lane, scanning traffic. A delivery van rattles past, headed south. He flicks the disk, and it lands like a fly under the lip of the bumper, magnet kissing metal.
“Let Tiernan chase sandwiches to Dumfries,” he mutters, then turns back to me.
My breath hiccups. The betrayal sits under my ribs like shrapnel. “He put it on me like I was… I was property.”
“You’re not,” Matteo growls, low and lethal. His hands hover by my arms, not touching until I nod. When I do, he does, just once, warm and anchoring. “Look at me.”
I do. His eyes are green and furious on my behalf. “You don’t belong on the end of anyone’s leash,” he snarls. “Not him. Not me. Not ever.”
It shouldn’t help, but it does, a little. I swallow, swipe at my cheeks, furious they’re wet again. “I hate that I didn’t feel it. How could I have been so stupid?”
“He’s been doing this a long time,” Matteo whispers, softening. “So have I.” He tips my chin. “Now we know how he’s been an inch ahead all along. But he won’t be again.”
I nod because moving is easier than breaking. “So we go to Ayr?”
“Aye. Ayr.” He smirks, eyes sparkling with mirth, and my own lips tip up. “The car is waiting for us two streets over.”
My head dips because I don’t trust myself to speak. To thank him for all he’s done for me.
We cut through back lanes to a waiting SUV that smells like new upholstery.
Matteo mutters something before checking the mirrors, then the footwell, and the dash.
Then he slides his hand beneath the tire and reveals the FOB.
Good old Gemini paranoia wrapped in courtesy, and we finally slide in.
As we pull away, Glasgow thins to gray and gulls, the motorway gathering us up in its chaotic embrace.
It unwinds like a ribbon ahead, and for a blessed stretch no one is trying to kill us.
We pass a sign for Ayr, and the rain eases to mist. Matteo drives one-handed, the other palm-up on the console like a standing invitation he isn’t pushing.
I finally ease my hand into his, and the tightness in my chest wanes.
Neither of us speaks for a long while, not until the city is far behind us. Then as if the air has suddenly thinned out, we exhale in perfect unison.
“Tell me something not awful,” I blurt. The inside of my head is all sharp edges I can’t seem to tame.
He glances over, corners of his mouth lifting. “Not awful? I’ve got one.” He clears his throat, eyes back on the road. “Our first date.”
I arch a brow. “That wasn’t a date. That was you stalking the bar I worked at like a stray cat.”
“That’s defamation.” He almost sounds wounded. “I was a very charming stray. Also, I left a tip that could feed a village.”
“You left a handful of Euro and a seashell.”
“Exactly.” His smile warms. “Okay, fine. The official first date, not the ‘you refused to answer my texts’ prequel.”
I bite my lip to hide the smile. “Proceed.”
He settles into the story like sliding into warm water. “I showed up at your pensione with a Vespa that started most of the time and a grand plan written on a napkin. You opened the door in that white sundress—”
“It was cream.”
“Semantics,” he murmurs. “The point is, you looked like the good decision I was absolutely not going to make. You folded your arms and said, ‘I’m not a summer mistake, Rossi.’ And I said, ‘Perfect. I’m not a mistake, I’m an itinerary.’”
I snort. “God, you were insufferable.”
“Some say I still am.” He lifts a shoulder. “Rule one on the napkin: No agendas. Rule two: If there’s music, we dance. Rule three: Always stop for granita. Rule four—this is important—steal one lemon.”
“Of course it was.”
“Then we puttered down to the marina. The air smelled like diesel and frying sardines. You pretended you didn’t like the wind in your hair, but you absolutely did.
We stopped at Signora Bellini’s kiosk, and I ordered you lemon granita with a tiny spoon, remember?
” His voice softens. “You ate too fast and got a headache and refused to let me hold your hand while you suffered.”
“I didn’t refuse. I evaluated the risk.” My mind is already lost in the past.
“You allowed contact after the pain subsided,” he corrects, deadpan.
“Then we followed the alleys uphill. Through the endless laundry lines, kids with plastic soccer balls, and a chorus of nonnas eyeing me from their balconies. Then we wandered into that church courtyard where the orange trees drop blossoms like confetti.”
I feel my fingers lift, automatically pressing over the ink beneath my shirt. He doesn’t look, thankfully and just keeps talking.
“There was a wedding…” He pauses dramatically. “You said we should leave, that it would be rude to stay. Then I reminded you that in Sicily if you pass a wedding, you’re legally obligated to steal a cannolo. A nonna smacked my arm when I did but gave us two anyway.”
A chuckle slips out before I can tame it. “She gave me two. She told you to pull your shirt straight.”
He grins at the windshield. “We sat on the low wall and ate them in front of the sea. Powdered sugar speckled down your shirt. You tried to wipe it away with your palm but only made it worse, then you declared you were a disaster. I told you it looked like a constellation. You rolled your eyes but didn’t move when I—” He stops, voice dropping.
“When I leaned in and brushed the sugar off your lip with my thumb. That was the first time I thought: okay, I’m done for. ”
Silence fills the car, soft as wool. The wipers tick once, then rest.
“After that we followed the music…” His voice sounds rougher somehow.
“Some kid with a busted speaker had turned the piazza into a dance floor. Rule two invoked. You said you don’t dance.
I said you don’t not dance in Sicily. You finally agreed, but if I stepped on your toes you vowed to push me into the fountain. ”
His smiling, mischievous eyes push to the forefront of my mind. “I stand by that.”
“You put your palm right here—” He taps the spot on his chest where my hand fits, like muscle memory.
“And you let me lead. You were stiff for three steps, then the laugh happened. You know, the one that knocks your head back just a little, and I swear the lights strung across the square got jealous.”
I stare out at the slate water, cheeks hot and throat tight.
“We walked down to the sea after,” he whispers now. “Past the gelateria and the shop with the postcards no one buys. I ‘borrowed’ a lemon from the old tree that hangs over the wall by the stairs.”
“You leapt like a criminal and tore your shirt open doing it.”
“I’ve never looked better.” He’s laughing under his breath now.
“You said it was the dumbest thing you’d ever seen, and then you tucked the lemon into your bag like it was treasure.
We climbed down to the little cove with the broken steps.
You took off your sandals and swore the hot sand had a personal vendetta.
We sat with our feet in the water and made a pact we didn’t say out loud. ”
“What pact?” I ask, even though my heart already knows.
“That if the night made us brave, we wouldn’t tell the morning.” His expression is calm and determined. “So we kissed right there with the sea over our ankles, and for once I didn’t think about my father’s name or anybody’s grudges. I only thought: don’t forget this. Don’t you dare forget this.”
The road narrows, but I barely notice. For a few breaths I can see it, the ribbon lights, his ridiculous grin, and the taste of sugar and salt.
He clears his throat, smile tilting. “End of itinerary: I walked you back. You stood at the door and said, ‘Thank you for the granita, not for the thievery.’ Then I said, ‘I’ll return the lemon in my will.’ You said, ‘You’re impossible.’ And I—”
“—said, ‘You’ll learn to like impossible,’” I finish, because I was there too. And I still remember every second of it. Despite trying to forget for so long.
We don’t speak for a while. The car hums, and the sea keeps pace alongside us. Something unclenches in my chest I didn’t know I’d knotted.
Finally he whispers, soft as rain, “It was a good date, Kitty Cat. Even if you pretended it wasn’t.”
I turn my face to the window, so he won’t see what’s in my eyes. “It was,” I admit in a whisper.
We crest a rise, and the ferry terminal comes into view. Matteo’s hand slides back to the wheel, jaw setting for the next fight, but the warmth from the story lingers like sun on skin long after dusk.
“Rule five,” he adds, almost to himself.
I glance over. “There was a rule five?”
“Yeah.” He smiles, a private thing. “If there’s a chance, take it.”
“Dangerous rule.”
“The only kind that ever mattered.”
Cairnryan’s ferry terminal rises out of scrub and spray like a promise we don’t deserve. We park in the queue between lorries wearing different countries. Rain needles the windscreen.
Matteo glances at me. “You ready?”
“No.”
He nods like that’s the correct password. “Me neither.”
The gates open, and engines growl forward. When our turn comes, he rolls down the window and hands over the tickets in a name that isn’t ours. The attendant barely looks at us.
“Welcome aboard,” she says.
We follow the line up the ramp into the mouth of the ferry. The rain swallows the world behind us. Ahead is wind and a strip of sea, and Ireland beyond that, and a man who thinks he can decide the shape of my life.
Let him try.