Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Erin
“Cavin,” Caitlin calls. “Come here, son.”
My breath catches. Actually catches, like I’ve been punched.
His shoulders fill the doorway. There’s ink crawling up his neck now, disappearing under his collar. His jaw is sharper, harder.
He’s in a dark suit that fits him too well and shows every line of muscle underneath.
My mouth goes dry.
No. Absolutely not.
I will not be attracted to Cavin fucking McCarthy.
But my body doesn’t seem to care what I will or won’t do.
Heat floods my face. My thighs. Lower.
His eyes find mine across the room—they’re dark, unreadable, dangerous.
For a second, just a second, his gaze drops… down my body, slow and deliberate, like he’s taking inventory. Doesn’t anyone else see this, or are they all too busy chatting?
My nipples tighten under the thin fabric of my dress.
Traitor body.
When his eyes meet mine again, something flickers in them. Or maybe I’m imagining it?
Maybe I’m losing my fucking mind.
Cavin McCarthy is gorgeous. Yeah, I said it.
All the McCarthys are, which is probably half the reason Ballyhock worships them so.
I try not to stare, and wish Bridget were here because I want her to see this guy.
Am I staring?
God, I hope I’m not staring.
But when his gaze meets mine a second time, I take an involuntary step back. There’s a coldness in his eyes that wasn’t there at St. Albert’s, a rough edge etched into the bone of his face. I suddenly wish I could hide.
My gaze drops, too, to the powerful column of his neck and masculine collarbone. He left one tiny button undone… and still, the heat beneath his shirt pulses.
My gaze drops further. Thick arms. Tanned skin. Veins like cables.
Hands that look strong enough to crush or cradle.
I feel… small.
Oh Jesus, help me.
Even my mother’s eyes widen, probably half expecting to see the boy from St. Albert’s, and not this man who takes up half the room.
My father straightens, recovering fast. “Cavin. Pleased to meet you, son,” he says, extending a hand.
This boy—no, man, takes up too much of my brain space rent-free because of how he treated me, and my own father’s never even met him.
Cavin doesn’t smile, just nods and shakes my father’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
His voice is deeper, rougher than it was in school. We barely talked at the cemetery. I didn’t notice.
Then he turns to me and takes in a deep breath again.
“Mam says you’d like a tour of the estate,” he says gruffly.
His eyes find mine, and for a second, just one, something wild and feral flashes across his face.
Recognition.
Hunger.
Rage.
My breath catches. Didn’t anyone else see that?
He crosses the room in three strides. Doesn’t stop until he’s in my space—close enough, I can feel the heat coming off him.
“Erin.” He says my name like a curse. Like a promise.
I can’t move. Can’t breathe.
Up close, he's even worse. The tattoos crawling up his neck, the brutal line of his jaw, and shoulders broad enough to block out the rest of the room. And fuck, he smells good—expensive and male and wrong for how much I want to lean in.
My mother stares at me, silently begging, and I don’t know why.
I swallow hard.
God, I hate playing by these rules. Of all the people in all the places in the world…
“That would be lovely,” I lie.
“Excellent,” he says, also lying. He looks as thrilled as I feel.
“I’ll walk you through the estate.” He turns and starts walking fast, without bothering to see if I’m following.
I am, of course.
“Da used to let people come through for a tour,” Cavin says over his shoulder. “But he stopped. They made a mockery of it.” A beat. “Thought it was some kind of circus or the like.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate.”
Unfortunate? That’s unfortunate?
He doesn’t answer, just leads me down a marble corridor that looks like you could ice-skate on it.
“You’ve grown up,” he says after a beat. “Didn’t think the world’d let you.”
My chest tightens. Oh, he’s still the same, that lazy cruelty—half compliment, half dagger.
“And you’ve grown predictable,” I say lightly. “Still mistaking cruelty for charm.”
He glances over with a faint smirk. “Still mistaking honesty for cruelty?”
Come again?
“Well, I see you haven’t lost that scowl,” I mutter. “Charming.”
“Not charming,” he replies. “Familiar.”
Silence… hot and sticky with history. Old wounds wrapped in heat neither of us asked for. And why is he standing so close to me?
Did I move, or did he?
I try to focus on the estate. It’s beautiful, yeah. Majestic even. But none of it matters because I’ve never been good at pretending.
And right now? All I can think is—I’m alone. With Cavin McCarthy.
And I hate him.
I hate him so much.
I hate that his family holds more power than mine.
I hate that he’s so fucking handsome.
I hate that he knows it.
And I hate that no matter how hard I try, I can’t rewrite our past.
“This is the kitchen,” he says, bored. I’m nervous and don’t know how to reply, so the words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Right by the dungeon,” I quip. “Where you keep your prisoners… or maybe it’s where you train your dragons.”
He throws me a look, sly and almost amused.
“I prefer the dungeon at The Craic, to be honest. But yeah… we may have one or two dragons in storage.”
My cheeks flare.
The Craic.
Christ, I'd almost forgotten. The infamous McCarthy club—elite, exclusive, whispered about in the right circles. The kind of place where sin is currency.
“Very funny,” I tell him, deadpan. And why do I hate the idea of him and those—those muscles, and those hands, and that mouth with another woman? Or three?
I don’t. I don’t.
He shrugs, like he doesn’t care whether I believe him or not.
“I’m not joking. Behind the kitchen, there’s a garden.” He’s got that tone now, smooth and detached, like a bored realtor showing off crown molding.
I do glance over, despite myself, and he sees it, that flicker of interest.
He turns, leading the way like he owns the damn world. “If you go this way…” His smile curves, lazy and wicked—the kind that turns my insides to ice and heat all at once. My heart jerks in my chest.
I hate myself for it.
He points to a narrow door, half hidden behind ivy and brick. “This is the one we all used to sneak through… to get to the garden.” His voice drops. “It was my grandmother’s favorite place.”
And for a second, just one, something human ghosts across his face. A memory. A thread of something too raw to name. People speak well of Maeve McCarthy in Ballyhock. She was a bit of a legend.
“This is all well and good, Cavin,” I say sharply. My tone is tight now, controlled. I’m not here to reminisce. “Are we supposed to pretend nothing happened in high school?”
His smirk is instant. Lips tilted, eyes going half lidded in that way that always made me want to slap him or kiss him or both.
“Nothing happened between us in high school, Erin, as much as you hoped it would.”
My jaw drops.
And for a second, I forget how to speak. Forget how to breathe.
“You… ugh!” I clench my fists. Just like that, I’m a teen again, frustrated, buttoned-up, and always one second away from cracking. And he—he’s still the goddamn prince of condescension.
“You bullied me,” I snap. Because I’m not going to rewrite history to make him feel better.
“Bullied?” He shakes his head, scoffing. “We’ve got very different recollections of what went on, don’t we?”
“For fuck’s sake.” I cross my arms over my chest and realize too late that doing so pushes my breasts up, just enough to draw his eyes.
And yes, he notices.
Of course he does.
He blinks, stares, then drags his gaze slowly, deliberately, back up to mine.
“I remember you always tattling on me,” he says, his voice low now. “Making up shite. Getting me in trouble.”
“You were always causing trouble!” I throw my hands up. “What the hell did you expect?”
He shakes his head, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. “Let’s keep walking. We’ve only covered a small portion, and dinner will be served soon.”
But I don’t move.
I don’t want to go. I don’t want to play pretend and sit down at their perfect, gleaming dinner table, making polite small talk while acting like this isn’t the same family that wrecked everything.
My phone buzzes. A text from Bridget.
Hey, how are things going?
And I immediately think of her hand in mine, that trembling grip, and her pale face as I left. “I’ll never forget what you’re doing for me,” she whispered.
What am I doing, really? Just having dinner with the McCarthys, right? Smiling. Using the right fork. Pretending we were all… friends.
It wasn’t that big of a deal.
Was it?
Cavin watches as I shove my phone in my little bag and sling it back over my shoulder. I would kill for a pair of yoga pants and an oversized jumper right now.
He shows me a little prelude to the garden first, lush, secluded, echoing with “You can walk from one room to the next, but this is a shortcut.”
He shows me rooms. Too many rooms. Library. Wine cellar. Some trophy room full of his father’s achievements.
I stop listening halfway through.
All I can think about is the way he stands too close. The way his hand hovers near my lower back but never quite touches, like he wants to. Like it’s natural for him, but he’s stopping himself.
We keep walking, and he shrugs out of his jacket, handing it to me. “Put it on. You’re cold.”
It’s not a question.
I’m freezing, and I’m shaking, but not entirely from the cold.
“I’m fine—”
“Don’t argue with me,” he says, his voice low. “Just wear the fucking jacket.” He drapes it over my shoulders. His hands linger for half a second, just long enough for me to feel the heat of his palms through the fabric.
The jacket smells like him—whiskey, woodsmoke, leather.
I want to bury my face in it.
I want to throw it off and run.
“Better?” he whispers, too close to my ear.
I nod because I don’t trust myself to speak.
His hand is still on my shoulder, his thumb pressing just slightly into the hollow of my collarbone.
“Good,” he says.