Chapter 5
Maeve
Espy (v) to suddenly see or notice something
What am I doing?
Why did I even speak to him?
I’d told myself I wouldn’t, and here I am, taken in by mere seconds of looking into his eyes. I can’t believe he still owns this much of me. Almost a decade later, he’s still the only one who can completely throw me off kilter. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.
I attempt to focus on the side conversations happening around me.
The table is large and round, reserved only for family occasions.
Never business. I was initially shocked when my father told me we’d be in here, but the way things are unfolding—so quickly, so unexpectedly—I realize it’s pointless to try and rationalize them.
The staunch, decade-long rift between our families has apparently melted to nothing in no time.
Things are clearly not what they appear to be.
But I’ll have to mull that over later. Right now, I need to keep my wits about me.
To my left, Callum is swirling his whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass.
Ronan is sitting on Callum’s left, reclining casually in his seat.
Then Eoin, Aisling, Niall, and Cian around the other side of the table.
On my right, Orin listens to my father telling stories I'm sure he has heard a thousand times. I stare past Orin and my father at the chair that remains empty. My mother’s seat.
On the other side of it is Cian, listening intently.
I look back to my father, his plate already cleared of the first course, his face bright with joviality.
“Have we heard anything from Liam recently?” Niall asks my father as he takes a sip of his drink.
“No. It’s not surprising, though. We haven’t sent him much… business recently,” my father answers, a tight expression on his face.
Niall nods knowingly. It's a seemingly innocuous exchange, only a brief mention of Nessa’s father. But something significant underlies it, I can tell. I glance back and forth between the two men, searching their expressions.
“And of the Costas?” Niall asks my father, and he goes to answer, but Aisling interrupts his answer.
“Maeve,” Aisling asks loudly from my left. “Would you like to go to lunch with me this week?”
I glance around the table. Everyone has gone momentarily still, looking at me expectantly. Callum is like a statue beside me, holding his gaze down at his now-empty plate.
“Uhhh, sure,” I say awkwardly. “That’d be great.”
As if on cue, the clicks of silverware on plates and the soft murmur of conversation resume. Aisling is beaming at me.
“What day would be best for you?”
“Let me double-check and make sure I don’t have plans with Nessa,” I say. “But I’m sure whatever it is could be rescheduled.”
I feel Callum tense up again.
He grabs his glass of whiskey and tosses it back like water. I chance a quick look at his face. His brows are slightly furrowed, and his blue eyes are narrowed as he stares at a painting on the opposite wall. The lightning tattoo on the side of his neck ripples.
He obviously didn’t like that. Well, too damn bad.
He liked her well enough back then; he could deal with her now.
It seems we’re all going to be around each other again, so he might as well make nice.
Just like I’m doing. But my stomach turns at the thought of them both in front of me at the same time.
I finish off my glass of wine in a single gulp.
I’ll need about four more of those, I think as I slam my glass down a little more forcefully than I’d intended. I feel his gaze roving, but I can't stop wondering what all they aren't telling me.
When the servers emerge from the kitchen with the dessert plates, a wave of gratitude washes over me.
I can’t wait for this dinner to be over, finally.
They set the dishes in front of us, and a pang of nostalgia washes over me: strawberry shortcake, my mother’s recipe.
I could tell by the slight aroma of almonds.
It was my favorite. I hadn’t had it in years, of course, and my diet plan didn’t exactly include sugar.
Lorcan rode my arse about eating plenty of protein.
Said sugar makes you weak and slows your reflexes.
Fuck it.
I grab my dessert fork and carve out an embarrassingly large bite for myself, then I shovel it in. A soft groan of pleasure sounds in my throat before I can stop it.
I hear Callum and Ronan chuckle. I snap my head in their direction. Callum’s eyes widen, and a small smile spreads across his face before he ducks his head. Ronan, however, decides to shove his foot in his mouth.
“Looks like you still haven’t learned to eat dessert without acting like it’s going to run off your plate, Evie.”
Yep, Ronan’s still Ronan. Does this fecker not learn?
Everyone at the table laughs, but I just glare at him. Suddenly, I notice Callum punch him in the leg under the table. I stifle the giggle that rises in my throat. It was a brutal hit. Ronan flinches and holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“It was a joke!”
“You just don’t learn, do you?” Callum replies in a low voice.
My thoughts exactly. I’d had enough of Ronan’s shit already.
I feel a slight surge of adrenaline as I realize that I was going to get my shot at him before the end of the night.
Maybe then he’d learn. I smile to myself as I finish off my dessert, savoring the sugar rush and the memories of my mother.
Finley, the sous chef, Rory’s son, peeks his head into the dining room.
“How are we doing out here?” His voice is cheery and warm.
“Seconds?” I say hopefully, then my head turns sharply toward Callum in surprise.
We’d said the same thing at the same time.
He looks at me, too, the corner of his mouth rising in a half-smile.
I’d forgotten that this was his favorite, too.
That he’d probably also been thinking about my mother.
I smile back at him for just a moment before turning away.
Get a grip on yourself, Maeve.
My father is watching us closely, resting his chin in one hand, a knowing smile on his face. I can’t take it.
“Never mind,” I say hurriedly, tossing my napkin onto the table. “I don’t think I could fit it anyway. Excuse me.”
I stand to leave, and the room goes eerily silent once more, but I walk out without looking at anyone.
I cross through the adjoining sitting room and slide the back patio door open, walking swiftly toward my mother’s garden.
The rain has stopped for now, a light breeze stirring the trees with a whisper.
I follow a stone path that my mother had installed many years ago.
The smell of roses floats around me as I approach the garden.
I clinch my hands into fists, my nails bite into my palms, and I breathe in deeply. You’re almost done. It’s almost over.
I drop down unceremoniously on a stone bench underneath a huge live oak tree.
It’s cool and dark out here, and I feel the tension leaving me.
I just want to be alone. Being observed all night like a science experiment is exhausting.
But it’s also quite interesting. Everyone is walking on eggshells with me, but not with each other.
Like I’m the only one who has been on the other side of the rift all these years.
My father is keeping things from me. I can feel it.
I just don’t know what, or why. I lean my head back against the massive tree trunk and let my eyes drift shut.
“I thought I’d find you out here,” a smooth, cool voice says above me.
I hadn’t heard him approach me, but for once this evening, I don’t feel quite as jumpy.
“Well,” I say, not moving or opening my eyes, “it’s not like there are many places to go. So, you don’t get a cookie for finding me.”
He laughs softly.
I open my eyes. He’s standing a few feet away, leaning casually against another tree, his hands in his pockets. I take in his broad shoulders, his muscular chest, the ink on it barely visible in the half-light from the window. My heart is pounding in my chest, but he looks calm and in control.
Fuck. Why did he have to look so good?
He breaks the silence again.
”You doing okay? I mean…” he waves his hand around vaguely, “with all of this?”
I sigh. “It’s not like I have a choice. My father sprung all of this on me at breakfast. I’m taking it in stride. I’ll make it work. Like always.”
He drops his head briefly, looking down at his shoes. Then, he straightens up and strolls over to where I’m sitting. He stands there for a second, hovering over me. I can feel the warmth of his body. He gestures at the spot beside me on the bench.
“May I?”
I move to the other side of the bench, giving him room. He hesitates for a moment, then sits down, leaving plenty of space between us.
“Look, Maeve,” he says, leaning over to rest his elbows on his knees. “I know I’m the last person you want to see—”
“You think?” I say acidly, cutting him off, but I immediately regret it.
He just looks at me for a few moments, half his face illuminated by the warm glow from the window, the other half in shadow.
“I just want you to know that I… I want us to be able to be… friends again. There’s so much I want to tell you.
” A hint of pleading in his voice. It grabs me, pulling at the iron bars around my heart. I meet his gaze.
There’s so much I want to tell you, too. The thought moves no closer to my lips than before. Part of me wants to tell him the truth. Tell him what I felt earlier when we locked eyes, when he touched my arm.
“Look,” he says, the spell breaking for a moment, “this is obviously a… unique situation, and there’s a lot we have to catch up on. Why don’t we go to dinner tomorrow night? Just us?”
I squirm on my end of the bench, torn by indecision. He moves a little closer to me. I can feel the heat of his body again. I can smell him. A cool, faintly spicy scent. Shyte, get it together, Maeve.