Chapter 24
Istill feel him.
His hands, his mouth, the weight of that kiss humming under my skin. We kept walking after, but I barely remember crossing the rest of the bridge. Every step was dreamlike, half real, half heartbeat.
He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t either.
I didn’t need to. His fingers stayed tangled with mine the whole way across, his thumb tracing slow circles over mine, like he was trying to memorize me.
Each touch sent another current through me, small but sharp, and I swear I could’ve powered the entire city with what he made me feel.
Now we’re back on the Manhattan side, the noise louder, the air different. Faster, busier, less magic and more motion. He’s close enough that our arms brush with every stride, and I have to focus on breathing like a normal person.
I lead him down a side street lined with brownstones and tiny storefronts; the kind of place tourists never find.
A place I’ve come to alone too many times to count.
The neon sign above the door still flickers.
La Prima is a hole-in-the-wall Italian spot I found years ago when I first moved here.
Brick walls, old records spinning behind the bar, pasta that ruins you for anywhere else.
“This is where you bring me after changing my life, is it?” he teases as I stop at the door.
I glance at him, fighting a smile. “You like Italian?”
“I’m Irish, kitten. I’ll eat anything if it comes with bread.”
I laugh and push the door open, the bell above it chimes, and warmth spills out to meet us.
We slide into a corner booth, half hidden behind a row of hanging plants. The place smells of garlic and wine and toasted bread, and I’m suddenly very aware that I’ve never brought anyone here before. Not a friend, not a date. Just me and my laptop and too much thinking.
With him, the space feels smaller.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, the responsible part of me is screaming. The part that knows how bad it could be if this ever got out. But the rest of me—the bigger part—just wants to keep him laughing.
He sits across from me, leaning back against the leather seat, hat still low on his forehead. His jaw is shadowed, lips still a little pink from our kiss, and my stomach does a ridiculous flip. I pick up the menu to give my hands something to do, but my brain can’t seem to form words.
“Is this one of your regular spots?” he asks, voice low and rough in a way that hits somewhere deep in my spine.
I nod. “When I needed quiet.”
He studies me for a second, something unreadable flickering behind those gray eyes. “Guess I ruined that for you, then.”
“You didn’t ruin anything.” My voice comes out softer than I intend. “You just … changed it.”
He doesn’t look away, and neither do I. The silence stretches, not awkward, just charged. The kind that makes it hard to remember how to swallow.
When the waiter finally appears, I order quickly, mostly just to break the spell. He orders the same thing without even glancing at the menu, eyes still on me like I’m the only thing in the room worth studying.
The second the waiter walks away, I exhale, trying to steady myself. The restaurant hums around us. Quiet laughter, the clink of glasses, a love song floating low through the speakers, but it all fades into a blur.
Because all I can think about is that kiss and how badly I want another one.
He leans forward, forearms on the table, and the motion draws my gaze to the veins on his hands, to the way his fingers drum lightly against the surface like he’s holding himself back from touching me again.
I wonder what would happen if I just reached across. If I tangled my fingers in his again. If I leaned over the table and closed the distance.
It’s insane, completely reckless, and all I can think is: I want him.
Before I can pull myself back, his hand slides across the table and finds mine. With that—skin against skin, his thumb brushing the side of my palm—my entire body lights up. Butterflies, static, something dangerously close to hope.
I don’t breathe, I don’t dare. Because one touch from him has me falling, and I’m not sure I ever want to hit the ground.
The rest of dinner passes in a blur of laughter and stories and that impossible ease that only happens with people you’ve known forever, or people you were supposed to find all along.
He tells me about his grandmother’s farm in Galway, about the first time he played keeper for a real crowd and nearly threw up from nerves.
I tell him about growing up in Houston, about long summer evenings when the air felt thick enough to drink, and my dad would grill while I chased fireflies with my little sister until the streetlights came on.
We trade memories like currency, both of us richer by the minute.
By the time we step outside, night has taken the city.
The temperature has dropped, sharp enough to raise goosebumps along my arms, but the streets are still buzzing—cars honking, someone playing saxophone near the corner, neon spilling color onto the pavement.
New York is never quiet, never still, but somehow, with him beside me, it feels softer.
He’s saying something about the tiramisu when the wind cuts through my coat. Before I can react, he wraps his arm around me, hauling me against his chest.
The chill fades instantly, and all I can smell is him.
That warm, clean scent of soap and skin and something darker underneath, like cedar and rain. It hits me deep, and for one dizzying second, I swear I could stay right here forever.
He glances down. “You’re freezin’, lass.”
I shake my head, smiling up at him. “Not anymore.”
His mouth curves, small and knowing. “Should we take a taxi back to the hotel?” I ask.
“Aye, lass,” he says, that low rumble of his accent curling through the night.
I reach for my phone, but before I can pull it out, he’s already holding his out to me. “Here, lass. Use mine.”
The phone is warm from his hand. I don’t argue, just take it and bring up the app, his arm still tight around me as I type.
“Looks like the nearest driver is only a few minutes away.”
A group of people passes close behind us, laughing loudly.
We have to move, pressed toward the nearest wall to make room.
The space is narrow, shadows spilling across the brick.
He turns toward me, closing the last bit of distance until I’m backed against the wall.
I can feel the rough edge of the brick at my back, and the solid, unyielding warmth of Rogue in front of me.
He doesn’t step away—and neither do I.
For a heartbeat, everything slows—the city noise, the air, even time itself. His gaze finds mine, gray and unreadable, his breath ghosting my cheek. Then he lowers his head, and we collide.
The kiss hits like lightning.
Not tentative this time, it’s hungry, unrestrained, the kind that steals the ground from under you.
His hand slides to my jaw, the other anchoring my hip, and I fist the front of his sweater, drawing him closer.
The world disappears. There’s only heat and the sound of our breaths tangling, only the taste of him, warm and sharp and dizzying.
It’s the kind of kiss that undoes you. The kind that whispers this is what you’ve been waiting for against your skin.
He closes that final inch, heat and muscle and need press closer until the world narrows to his mouth on mine and the sound of my own heartbeat. We don’t come up for air; we just keep falling, hands searching, mouths clinging, worried the moment might vanish if we stop.
Someone whistles as they pass, another voice calling something I can’t catch. The sound breaks the spell enough for us to laugh, breathless, dazed, and still tangled up in each other.
Our foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, his nose brushing mine. The city moves on around us, but I can’t hear it. All I can hear is us. Ragged, uneven, alive.
When his mouth finally leaves mine, I don’t move. I can still taste him—heat and want and something I’m terrified to even consider naming. Then a sharp honk cuts through the night behind him. He glances over his shoulder and I whisper, “He’s here.”
He takes my hand, fingers threading through mine like they belong there, and we head toward the car.
The night air bites at my cheeks, the world coming back into focus, but part of me has been etched into that wall, lost in the feel of his mouth, the weight of his hands, and the dizzy certainty that I’ll never recover from this.
He opens the door for me, eyes lingering long enough to make my pulse stutter.
The cabbie confirms the hotel address, and we drive through the glittering maze of Manhattan. I can’t shake the thought that the spell between us might fade once we’re back, when the city stops spinning and reality comes rushing in.
Rogue drapes his arm around me, and I lean in, my head finding the solid rhythm of his heart. The world outside blurs into streaks of gold and neon. We sit in silence, looking out at the lights of a city that suddenly feels softer, smaller, and absolutely ours.
When we reach the hotel, he steps out first, offering his hand to help me from the cab. The lobby is alive with movement, people coming and going, suitcases rolling across polished marble, voices echoing under chandeliers.
We’re barely through the doors when a group of guys recognizes him.
“Gallagher!” one calls out, grinning wide. “Man, you were a beast last match!”
The shift is immediate. In an instant, Rogue becomes the version of himself the world knows—serious, composed, a little detached.
He thanks them with that deep, easy voice that carries authority, and signs a couple of jerseys, footballs, and even a few gloves.
I hang back, giving him space as he moves through the crowd with ease.
But even while he’s surrounded, I feel his attention on me. He glances over every few seconds, checking, making sure I’m still there.
Then a small boy, maybe eight, pushes through the crowd and runs straight to him, eyes wide and wet.
Without hesitation, Rogue crouches down, meeting him at eye level.
The boy throws his arms around his neck, and Rogue hugs him back, gentle and steady, one big hand resting protectively over the kid’s back.
A young woman hurries up behind him—pretty, with tired eyes and a nervous smile. “Oh, Rogue,” she says breathlessly, “he loves you. You’re his hero.”
Rogue doesn’t look away from the boy. “That right, lad? You play?”
The boy nods, wiping his face. “Goalkeeper.”
“That so?” A hint of pride flickers in his voice. “Then you’ve got the best job in the world.”
He signs the boy’s jersey, right over his heart, and the kid beams, smiling and crying. The mother asks if they can take a picture, and Rogue nods. Then I realize he’s still wearing my hat.
“Roger,” I call, catching his attention.
He turns, every bit of focus snapping to me. I smile and point to my head. “Your hat,” I tease.
He laughs under his breath, takes it off, and flips it backward before settling it back on his head. The move shouldn’t do things to me, but it does. Seeing him grinning at a kid while a city full of strangers watches, hits me somewhere deep.
He finishes taking photos, says his goodbyes, and makes his way back to me. The crowd parts easily for him, and when he reaches me, his shoulders ease.
We head toward the elevators together in shared silence, the air between us humming again. When the doors close, the quiet feels almost intimate.
“Are you stayin’ in the room next to mine?” he asks.
“Eight-twenty-five,” I confirm.
We step out on our floor and walk past his door to mine. I glance at the handle and lower my voice. “June might already be in there. Probably best if we don’t make too much noise.”
He looks at me with a mischievous glint, that half smile that could ruin lives.
The rational part of me claws its way back to the surface. “We’re going to have to talk about this,” I whisper. “Figure out how we’re going to make this work.”
He nods once, steps closer—so close his breath warms my cheek. I should say goodnight. Walk away. Do anything but this. But when he steps closer, every thought I’ve ever had just disappears.
“Roger …” His name has barely left my mouth before his hand finds the small of my back and brings me flush against him. His other hand cradles my face as he kisses me—quick, fierce, breathtaking.
It’s not long, but it steals every ounce of air from my lungs. When he pulls back just enough to look at me, my knees feel weak, the hallway spinning around us.
“We’ll figure it out,” he murmurs, promise threading every word. His thumb brushes my jaw, and then, softly, he says, “You’re mine, kitten. You just don’t know it yet.”
The sound of a door opening breaks the moment.
“Cat?”
I freeze. June stands in the doorway, wide-eyed, taking in the scene—the hallway, the proximity, him.
Rogue’s hand slips away from my face, but his gaze stays on me, unflinching. My pulse is still racing, my lips still tingling, and all I can think is fuck.