Chapter 2
Chapter Two
DECLAN
I shouldn’t be watching her.
That’s the thought I keep coming back to, standing at the edge of the room, with a drink I haven’t touched, wishing it were something stronger.
I lost my battle to pills once, and that was enough for a lifetime. I won’t do it again. And because of that, I’ve made an effort to avoid alcohol now too.
But I’ve never been more tempted.
And why can’t I look away from her?
Bridget’s getting treatment and getting better. Dr. Rosenberg says she’s well on her way to remission. I hate the fucking word remission though. Seems like it implies a temporary lull, and I don’t like temporary. Still, it’s good seeing some color in the lass’s cheeks.
After that first night when Cavin asked me to keep an eye on her, I promised myself I would, in fact, keep an eye on her.
The party rolls on, Erin and Cavin under the spotlight for once, and I’m grateful for it. Hell, the newlyweds deserve a moment where it’s just the two of them.
My cousin, Cavin’s older brother Seamus, is holding court in the corner while his youngest sister, my cousin Bronwyn, steals his drink and takes a long gulp.
He narrows his eyes at her, but she’s been doing this since she was seventeen and shows no signs of stopping.
She still looks like a girl, with her round, bright cheeks and twinkling eyes, but I know she’s an adult now. We all are.
I look across the room, and my eyes land on Bridget Kavanagh, who’s trying very hard to look like she isn’t alone.
She’s not doing a great job of it. And I’m not doing a great job at pretending I don’t care.
She’s got a Coke in her hand, as always, her ginger hair falling loose around her shoulders, and a pretty rose-colored crystal pendant on a gold chain at her throat that catches the light.
She’s watching her sister and Cavin on the dance floor, with an expression she probably thinks is neutral.
It isn’t. I’ve spent enough years reading rooms and the people in them to know I’m looking at someone who’s just had the floor rearranged under her feet and is still deciding whether to stand or fall.
And now that she’s getting better, I’ve got a promise and a club to take her to because I’m a feckin’ eejit who needs his head examined—because fucking around with a woman who’s too young for me, whose parents just fucking betrayed us…
Jesus, her fucking parents.
It’s my fault, in the way that all administrative necessities eventually feel like my fault.
I’m the one who made the case to Seamus—the Kavanaghs betrayed us.
Exile is the mercy option. Here is why you should take the mercy option—and after forty minutes of convincing and one very careful conversation about optics, Seamus agreed. The right call. No question.
But the right call put Bridget Kavanagh in a room full of McCarthys, with the only family left just having taken the McCarthy family name.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t be invested in seeing Bridget’s eyes spark in the way that makes me feel like I handed her the moon. It shouldn’t make me want to do it again.
I cross the room before I’ve made a conscious decision to do it. Someone should. The lass is all alone. Safe for now, but barely.
“Coke again?”
She looks up fast, like she’s been caught at something, then visibly decides she hasn’t. That’s new. Is she more self-conscious now that her parents have been called out? Does she fear repercussions? Does she—
I notice too many things about her. That’s the problem.
“Well.” She holds up the glass. “This one has a bit of rum in it.”
I let myself grin. “Course it does, Trouble.”
And why does that adorable little smirk make me imagine kissing her all over again? I’ve made one mistake after another with her.
I should walk away.
I should clink her glass and wish her the best and go do something infinitely safer, like juggle kitchen knives or play dodgeball through Dublin’s busiest streets.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
She looks better than she did in the hospital. That's the problem. In the hospital, she was pale and small and easy to think of as someone to protect. Tonight, she's got color in her cheeks and something green on that makes her look—Christ.
I make myself stare at the wall just past her shoulder.
“How are you feeling?” I ask. I scrub a hand across the back of my neck. “Sorry, you probably get that question like a hundred times a day, and I—”
“Honestly, I don’t. People have their own lives and all that. And to answer your question, so much better. The numbers are trending upward.” She says it with that little smile I’ve come to love. “Thanks to your family. I’m feeling human again, Declan. It’s… honestly, it’s amazing.”
“I love that.”
Without even thinking about it, I rest my hand briefly at the small of her back and pull her in, just a quick hug. She's warm, and she holds on a half second longer than she needs to, and I am very carefully not thinking about the fact that she fits against me like she’s made to be here.
I wish she hadn’t let go.
“Good,” I say, and I mean it more than I intend to. Her smile feels like sunshine, so maybe it was enough.
The music shifts to something slower. On the dance floor, Cavin catches my eye, that calculating look he gets, the one that means he’s already run the numbers on whatever he’s seeing. He does the two-finger point. Eyes to me, eyes to Bridget.
I roll my eyes, casually flip him off, and shake my head. She’s Erin’s sister and completely off-limits. I’m not gonna fuck anything up.
He doesn’t look convinced.
Bridget hasn’t noticed. She’s staring at her glass, working up to saying something.
“I’ve been too sick to come to the club,” she says. “I just wanted to say… I mean, I know you said it was fine and all, but I didn’t want you to think I was… I don’t know, like not grateful for the offer or something.”
“Hey,” I say. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”
She blinks. “I just haven’t heard from you, and I thought…” Color rises in her cheeks as she bites her lip, as if to prevent herself from saying anything else.
“You thought what?”
She looks at me directly, which she does more often than most people.
“I didn’t want you to think I lost interest. I mean, not interest. I know you’re not interested in me like that, but more like…
” She closes her eyes as if she wishes the floor would swallow her whole. “This isn’t coming out the right way.”
“Hey,” I say, my voice gentle in a way that’s foreign to my own ears.
What is it about this girl that makes me want to put my arms around her and shield her from the world?
“It’s alright. I get it. Working on staying alive is more important than spending time with Ballyhock’s finest residents. We all have our priorities.”
She giggles. She has a pretty giggle, because of course she does.
“Yeah,” she says, still smiling, then her eyes grow a little troubled. “And things have been strange, dealing with the aftermath of my parents. I’m sorry, Declan. I’m sorry they did that.”
“You don’t owe me or anyone an apology for what someone else does.”
“But they were my family, and I feel responsible—”
“You’re not.” My tone is sharp enough to cut her off. She bites her lip. Then huskier, “Now, no more of that, alright?”
She nods. “Aye.”
I run a hand through my hair. “That’s on me. Everything with your parents—the logistics of it fell to me, and I let it take over. It sucks, and I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she says too quickly. “It’s not your fault.” She stops, and something behind her eyes shutters briefly. “We shouldn’t apologize for what someone else does.”
“Maybe neither of us should apologize,” I say. “Let’s make a deal. No more apologizing for other people’s bullshit.”
She considers that like it’s an offer on a contract, then nods. “Deal.”
She puts her hand out to shake, and like a fool, I take it.
I should know better. It's her hand, just her hand, and I take it to shake it like a normal person, and then I just—don't let go. She's warm against my palm, and my brain goes very quiet. The next thing I know, I'm drawing her toward the dance floor, and she's following, and I'm not stopping us.
Cavin is twelve feet away, with the eyes of a man who will make my life significantly more difficult if I give him any reason to. And she’s alone, watching her only family member cleave to another family, standing here with a gaping loss in the space where her family used to be.
“Fancy a dance?”
She looks a bit chagrined. “I’m not very good—”
“You’ll be fine. Just follow my lead.”
She’s a liar, for the record. She’s a perfectly good dancer—light on her feet, responsive—the kind of partner who reads movement without needing to be told. I steer us away from Cavin and Erin’s view, and she lets me.
I am acutely aware of every point of contact.
I’m also aware, beneath all of it, of the thing I haven’t said to her. The thing I haven’t said to anyone.
Seamus is going to want her accounted for.
The Kavanaghs betrayed us, and Bridget and Erin are the remaining liabilities. Two young women with no family protection, too close to McCarthy business to be left floating. Erin is Cavin’s now, so that’s sorted. But Bridget…
“What are you doing tonight?” she asks.
I pull back slightly from that train of thought. “I have a shift at the club.”
She tilts her head up at me, entertained by something. “A shift?”
“Aye.”
Cavin and Erin look over. Erin’s face does something soft. Cavin’s does something I’ll have to deal with later. I rotate us another few degrees and sidestep.
“Question. Do they really have dungeon masters? Or is that only in the books?”
I stare at her. “The… books? What books?”
“The romance novels. There’s a whole—” She must see my face because she starts laughing. “You genuinely didn’t know.”
“You’re taking the piss.”
“I am absolutely not taking the piss.” She looks entirely too pleased with herself. “Where did you think women learned about this stuff? There are whole series. Subgenres. It’s very well-documented.”