Chapter 28
It’s been four days since New York.
Five days since the bridge, since her lips on mine, since the sound of her breath catching in her throat.
Christ, it’s torture.
The flat’s too quiet. Always is after practice. Just the hum of the fridge and the echo of her laugh stuck in my head.
I’ve gone through every distraction known to man—training, gym, even paperwork—but none of it’s worked. Every time I close my eyes, she’s there. The sound of her laugh. The way her hair brushed my jaw when she leaned in. The feel of her—warm, alive, and soft.
I was already drawn to her before. But now? Now it’s worse. Now it’s wanting her in ways I shouldn’t. Wanting her in ways that make staying away a punishment.
I open the fridge, hoping for something edible. Half a carton of eggs, an expired yogurt, and a questionable takeout container stare back at me. Grand. Real chef material here.
The phone rings, breaking the silence. I answer without checking, and Cormac’s face pops up on screen, all grin and mischief.
“Hey, Cormac,” I say, propping the phone against the kettle while I rummage through the fridge.
His voice booms through the kitchen. “What are you up to, mate?”
“Trying to figure out dinner,” I mutter, holding up a piece of bread that looks like it’s seen better decades.
“That’s a late dinner,” he says.
“Let me be. I’ve had a long day.”
He snorts. “You should have someone making your food for you.”
“You know I don’t like having people in my house,” I say, shutting the fridge with my hip.
“Yeah, yeah,” he drawls, clearly not buying it. “Anyway, I’m calling about Miss Arismendi.”
I stop mid-step, glancing at the screen. “What about her?”
“I spoke to her yesterday,” he says, too casually.
My brow furrows. “You what?”
“Well, Liam met with her earlier this week,” Cormac continues, like he hasn’t just dropped a bloody bomb. “They had a video call, and the lad was raving. Said she had a plan mapped out for him, gave him pointers, even offered to help with edits until he gets the hang of it.”
I lean back against the counter, arms crossed, listening.
“So when he came to me with all that, I thought I’d call her and thank her myself.”
He says it like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just tied two parts of my life neatly together without my knowing.
“I hope that’s all right,” he adds.
“Aye,” I say slowly. “Serious?”
Cormac laughs, because of course he hears it in my voice. “Wait, do you not like this lass, or do you like her too much?”
I groan. “Cormac—”
“Aisling!” he shouts over his shoulder. “Come here! Rogue’s in love.”
“Oh, for feck’s sake,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face.
Aisling’s voice floats in before she even appears. “He’s what?”
“She’s lovely,” Cormac says. “The girl from the club, the media one.”
Aisling appears on the screen beside him, hair tied back, face bright with mischief. “You mean Catalina? Oh, she is lovely. I talked to her too.”
I blink. “You what?”
“Of course. She’s been helping us sort a few promo ideas for Liam. I wanted to thank her properly. And now,” she says, eyes narrowing with a grin, “I’d like to know what’s happening between you two.”
“Nothing,” I say too quickly. “Not really.”
“Not really,” she repeats, amused. “That’s not a no.”
Cormac folds his arms, settling in for a show. “Well?”
I sigh. There’s no escaping the pair of them. “She’s …” I pause, the words catching. “She’s something else. Strong, sharp, kind, and so damn beautiful it’s almost unfair.”
Aisling beams. “Oh, he’s gone.”
“I’m not gone,” I protest.
Cormac grins. “You’re absolutely gone, mate.”
Aisling leans closer to the camera, voice softening. “Then don’t waste it, Rog. Don’t let her slip through your fingers. You’re both adults, you can figure the rest out.”
Cormac nods. “Exactly. Feelings like that don’t come around often, and from the way she spoke about you, I’d say she’s already halfway there.”
That catches me off guard. “She said that?”
He winks. “Didn’t have to. You should’ve heard the tone.”
I can’t help the small smile that creeps in, even as I shake my head. “You two are a menace.”
“Maybe,” Aisling says. “But we’re right.”
They’re beaming, and I can’t even argue. Because for all my stubbornness, for all the reasons I should keep my distance, they’re absolutely right.
I end the call and stare at the black screen for a moment longer than I should. They make it sound simple, but nothing about wanting her is simple. Not when every instinct I have is at war with the world around me.
Still, simple or not, I can’t stop the ache settled in my chest.
I start pacing circles around the kitchen. I’ve been trying to play it cool, give her her space. Not crowd her.
I see her every day at work. I check on her every afternoon. We talk plenty through text—more than I should probably admit—but it’s never enough.
She’s got her own life. Her sister’s in town. She’s young, bright, full of fire. The last thing I want is to barge in and take over, but every time my phone buzzes, I hope it’s her, and every time it isn’t, I want the ground to open up beneath my feet.
The media’s always sniffing around, hungry for a glimpse into my life. One photo, one rumor, and they’d tear her apart just for standing next to me. I can’t let that happen. If they catch us together, it’ll be everywhere.
But Christ, I’m losing my mind pretending I don’t miss her.
I pick up my phone, put it down, then pick it up again. Text, delete, type again. Finally, I give in.
Me:
Hey, kitten.
The three dots appear instantly. My heart trips over itself.
Kitten:
Hey :)
A bloody smiley face, and my chest tightens. Christ, what am I—sixteen?
Me:
Are you busy, kitten?
Kitten:
Not really. We just got back from yoga, and I’m about to attempt to find something edible in my fridge.
Yoga.
Jaysus, just the thought of her in those tight pants, that arse … focus, Gallagher.
Me:
I’m trying to do the same, but there’s not much here in my flat. Would you like to have dinner with me? We could order takeout.
The bubbles appear, then vanish, then come back. My pulse keeps time with every bounce.
Kitten:
Are you inviting me over?
Me:
Yes, kitten.
Kitten:
Okay … what are we having?
Good question, you eejit. Should’ve thought that far ahead.
Me:
I hadn’t thought that far. I’m not sure.
Before I can even set the phone down, it starts ringing—not just a call, a video call. From her.
I fumble the damn thing like it’s a live grenade, swipe to answer, and there she is, taking over my whole screen.
Her hair’s loose, messy waves around her shoulders, her cheeks a little flushed.
“Hey,” she says, smiling. “I figured I’d call, it’s easier to figure out dinner this way.”
I nod, trying to look normal while my heart hammers like a drumline. She props her phone against something and starts pacing. I catch glimpses of her space—a bed with rumpled sheets, a laptop on a desk, fairy lights strung along the wall. It’s soft, warm, and so very her.
“What do you mean you’ve got nothing to eat?” she teases, glancing at the screen. “Aren’t you on some kind of meal plan?”
I can’t help but smile. “Technically, I’ve been cooking. But I haven’t ordered groceries since we came back from New York.”
“Shouldn’t you have someone to help with that?” she asks, then without warning, tugs off her T-shirt.
My throat goes dry.
She’s wearing sky-blue tights and a matching sports bra, her skin dewy from yoga. Her curves are soft and strong—hips generous, thighs powerful, waist that begs to be touched. She’s not tiny. She’s real. The kind of beautiful that makes you forget how to breathe.
Before I can even blink, she gasps, eyes wide. “Oh my god, I thought I was out of frame.” She snatches her shirt up, clutching it to her chest.
I find my voice somehow. “No need to cover yourself, kitten. You look … stunning.”
Her cheeks flush a rosy pink. “You’re ridiculous.”
She settles onto the bed, still half hiding behind her shirt. “Rogue … shouldn’t you have people cooking for you? Or doing groceries?”
“I don’t,” I admit. “I don’t like having people here.”
She tilts her head, that small frown she gets when she’s thinking. “You just asked me to come over, though.”
“That’s different, I want you here.”
The words come out rougher than I mean them, but Christ, it’s the truth. I want her here. In my space, in my quiet, in every inch of the life I’ve kept locked up.
Her lips curve into a soft smile. “Then we’ll get your meal prep situation fixed.
I have contacts. They can make you healthy stuff, easy to heat, drop it off once a week.
No one invading your space.” All I can think about is how damn beautiful she is.
She continues. “There’s this spot around the corner that makes amazing quinoa bowls. I could grab some on the way to you.”
“That sounds grand,” I say, still reeling at how easily she slips into caring for me. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“How do you feel about quinoa, salmon, veggies, carrots, zucchini, beet—?”
“Anything sounds good, kitten, as long as dessert is included.”
“Oh, you have a sweet tooth.” She beams. “I’ll find you something yummy. Send me a pin with your location, I’m going to shower, I can be there in about an hour.”
“Aye. I’ll see you soon.”
She hangs up, and for a long second, I just stare at my reflection in the black screen. Then I’m moving, checking the counters, the table, the couch. Not a thing out of place.
I grab my phone again, send her my location.
A moment later, it pings back.
Kitten:
YOU’RE FOUR BUILDINGS AWAY FROM ME?!
Me:
Surprise.
Then I add another message:
Me:
$200 sent - Dinner’s on me.
Kitten:
How much do you think this quinoa bowl costs? I only need about a third of that.
Me:
Keep the rest. Use it to feed that caffeine addiction of yours. Now, hurry up, shower, and come home to me.