Chapter 1 #2
He shrugs, but it's a careful shrug, the kind that's doing a lot of work. “Cavin and Erin are married. You're family, more or less. Seemed like the right thing.”
I look at him. Declan McCarthy does not do things by half measure, and I'd bet everything I have that he doesn't make casual hospital visits unless there's a reason. “But that’s not why you’re here, is it?”
He holds my gaze. “I thought we were friends.”
“Is that what we are?”
“You're sick,” he says. “And after that night at the club, I couldn't stop thinking about you walking back in there and making a decision you'd regret. Some fucking choice you'd make alone, without—” He stops, setting down his drink. “I didn't like the thought of it.”
“Right. So you came to check on me.”
“I came,” he says slowly, leaning forward, “because you said something that night that I haven't been able to let go of. And because there are some things—” He exhales. “I feel an obligation to… I dunno, watch over you.”
So not friends. An obligation. “What exactly does that mean?” I'm trying not to be offended, but I’m doing a piss-poor job of it because a part of me is hurt. Crushed really.
“I'm not a kid who needs watching over.”
“I know,” he says. “But I don't want you going to The Craic alone, and something tells me if I don't… make sure you understand that, that's exactly what you're going to do. So I'm proposing that if you go, you call me. I’ll make sure you get home in one piece.”
I sit up straighter and cross my arms on my chest. “I didn't sign up for a bodyguard.”
His jaw flexes. “Maybe you ought to.”
My whole body makes a decision my brain immediately vetoes. I try to hide the pounding of my heartbeat and look away.
“That's my club,” he goes on. “And you don’t just waltz in alone.”
“Thought it was Cavin's. And I'm not yours to boss around.”
Why did I just say that? When his eyes darken, I push on nervously. “Listen, Declan. Everywhere I go, every damn day, someone's telling me what to do. Drink this. Take this. No strenuous exercise. And now you're walking in here, trying to take the one thing that's mine and monitor it.”
He sighs and leans back in his chair. “It's not like that.”
“It's exactly like that.”
“Right then. Alright.” He runs a hand through his hair, which makes him look instantly younger, almost innocent. “I just think you deserve better.”
“Deserve better? And what do you think I deserve?”
“To kick this disease straight in the bollocks. To be…”—he leans back, thinking—“you know, spoiled and treated well, taken to fancy dinners and shopping and…”
“I’m more of a picnic girl,” I say quickly. Maybe too quickly. Was it too quick?
“Aye,” he says, warming to the subject. He leans in closer, and he smells so damn good. I love it when his eyes light up. “Then you deserve that. Picnics in pretty baskets, with good food and flowers in your hair.” My heart is racing, and this time I don’t think it’s the medication.
I want to ask if he’s volunteering, but I hold myself back. “You’re a secret romantic, Declan McCarthy.”
He smiles and shrugs, a little bashful. “So let's say, hypothetically, that someday, when you're better, you walk back into The Craic.” He tilts his head. “What do you think happens?”
I sip the soup to cover an involuntary choking noise.
“Hypothetically,” I say carefully, when I can speak again. He’s just making conversation, that’s all.
“Purely.”
“I imagine I'd have a very nice evening.”
“Mm.” He considers this with the gravity of a man reviewing a court case. “And what if—hypothetically—I happened to be there.”
“Also hypothetically.”
“Obviously.”
“Then I imagine,” I say, very slowly, “I'd say hello.”
He gives me that particular look—level, dark, entirely unbothered—that I am quickly learning means he finds me amusing and intends to do nothing about it. “Just hello.”
“It's a very good hello.”
He's quiet for a moment, still watching me. Then the corner of his mouth pulls just slightly. “You'd better get better, then. So we can test that theory.”
I tell myself he’s just distracting me, that he doesn’t really care, that I’m just a girl who’s amusing him for a moment. But hell, I’m enjoying this moment.
I push the soup aside, no longer hungry, but not from nausea this time. “I suppose I'd better.”
I don’t know what else to say then because Declan McCarthy is sitting in a hospital chair like he owns it, even as it bows under his weight, because he probably sits that way in every room he's ever been in.
I have exactly zero experience with men who look like that, with men who talk like that, with men who bring four quarts of soup because they want to be sure you have something you like.
The most sensible thing to do is thank him politely and tell him I'll be fine. That I'll behave. That I'm not going to do anything stupid at the club, much less with a man like him.
God above, am I tired of doing the sensible thing.
“Get better, Bridget.” His voice has dropped, the humor underneath it still there but lower, like something banked. “I insist on it.”
“Is that right…” I say, which is not quite a question.
“Aye.” His eyes hold mine a beat longer than necessary before he looks away, easy and unhurried, like he didn't just say something with two meanings. “Finish your soup.”
Something shifts in his expression. Not surprise exactly, but it kind of looks like a door closing in a room where he left it ajar. He leans closer and tugs at the sheet to smooth it out. “And you'll get better, lass. That's an order.”
Why does it feel so warm in here?
“Is that right?” I whisper, trying to be brave, but my voice is all husky, and I'm trembling.
“Aye.”
I fold my hands in my lap with as much dignity as a girl in a hospital bed, with a bruised arm and an IV, can manage.
“Listen.” I draw in a deep breath. I’m shaking, but I have to stand my ground. “I want you to know I’m not a—” I pause, searching for the word. “I'm not a project. I don't want to be handled. If I tell you I'm fine, you have to believe me. Or at least pretend to.”
“Deal,” he says, though his eyes are wide and he looks a little… frightened? Yes. Definitely scared.
I've scared the most dangerous man I've ever personally met. Why do I suddenly feel six feet tall?
“And if I tell you I'm not fine—” I stop again, trying to find the right words. “Don't make it a whole thing. Don't treat me like I'm… breakable.”
“Right,” he says. But then he leans forward in his chair, and he's too close, and he smells too good, and he is too fucking much of everything. “But listen, alright?”
I nod.
“I know sisters tell each other everything. But I don’t want you telling Erin about this. I have no interest in fighting for my life because your brother-in-law decides to fucking murder me because I decided to bring you soup.”
“Of course. My god. I'm not telling Erin anything—are you kidding me? She would lecture me straight to hell and back.”
“Good.” The corner of his mouth lifts. He gathers the containers I haven't touched, stacks them neatly, wipes down the tray table without being asked, and sets the Coke within easy reach.
I don't know why that's so sweet, but it just is. Bronwyn would say I manifested this.
At the door, he turns back.
“Get some sleep,” he says. Practical, direct, the voice he'd use for any instruction he expected followed without question.
“Yes, sir,” I say teasingly before I can stop myself.
His gaze heats, but he just pulls the door shut behind him with a soft click.
My god, it felt good to say that.
I have to remind myself that he’s not safe. He’s a dangerous criminal. All the McCarthys are.
I can’t help but stare at the ceiling for a long time after he's gone. The room smells like Italian wedding soup and expensive cologne, and something has just happened that I don't entirely have a name for yet.
Because in spite of the IV, the bruising, and the fact that I am almost certainly making a terrible, terrible decision—I feel more alive than I have in months.