Chapter 5
Chapter Five
DECLAN
I walk into Seamus's office, and as soon as he sees me, his face breaks into a grin. It's been a while. Christ, but I missed the arsehole.
He pushes away from his desk, walks over, and pulls me into a bear hug, clapping me on the back so hard I’m pretty sure he’s trying to wind me. “Welcome home, brother,” he says, his voice husky. “I missed your feckin' face.”
I laugh and smack his back in return. “You got old,” I tell him, deflecting.
He snorts. “And you got fat.”
I snort. “Like fuck I did.” I pound my chest. “Solid muscle here.” So I’ve been taking the gym a little more seriously these days.
My brothers in the Boston area hit the gym every damn morning before the sun rose, and I can’t say I minded the gains.
I sit down heavily across from him. “You've got news for me.”
“I do, and it's big, but that can wait. Just tell me this: Was it a wild-goose chase?”
I shake my head. “Fuck no.”
He breathes out through his teeth and leans back in his chair. “I knew it. We’ll talk with the lads when we have a proper meeting, aye?”
“Aye. So I hear Ashland's got a girl? The Priest himself?”
Seamus bursts out laughing. “Fell like a lovesick fool. Never saw that coming, but good for him. He's loyal. And it'll be good for all of us.”
I lean back in the chair. I’ve missed being here. I want to know everything. “Why?”
“Keeps him grounded. Solidifies the family.”
Seamus's father, my uncle Keenan, drilled it into all of our heads from the time we were boys—the necessity of marriage. A wife. Not just to have connections to others, but for children, an old-fashioned model our parents held to and expect us to.
I can still hear my father's voice like it was yesterday. Every child we bring into the McCarthy family line is like another root in a tree. Strengthens us.
We'd all known the expectations from the beginning: Stay loyal, get married and have children, and don’t fuck up.
“Ashland was never the same after Donovan…” I trail off. Hell, none of us were. No one wants to see a brother turn. No one wants to be the one to punish him for it. Donovan's betrayal left invisible scars on every one of us.
“Aye.” Were any of us?
“You know Erin's having the baby soon?” Seamus says with a smile.
“Aye, of course.” And just like that, I think of Bridget.
I always think of Bridget.
Beautiful, impossible Bridget—long hair, spitfire eyes, and that laugh she has that makes a room feel warmer without her even trying. The way she never quite fit the mold the world tried to press her into, and never seemed to lose sleep over it either.
And after all this time, I still can't decide whether that's the thing I love most about her or the thing that kept me up at night.
What's she like these days? Is she happy? Is she seeing somebody who deserves her in all the ways I never could?
Did she ever go back to the club? Did she get her wish?
I hope she did. I hope she got every single thing she wanted.
But I can't think of her now.
“Everyone must be happy,” I say noncommittally, not wanting to let a single suggestion of anything to do with Bridget creep into my voice.
“Aye,” he says with a smile.
I lean forward. “Let me tell you about Boston. They've been building for years. Patient. Men, money, planning routes to Dublin that didn't exist eighteen months ago and now do.”
“Aye.”
“And Donovan was the useful idiot. They needed a local face. He provided one.”
“Aye. Padraic Kavanagh likely thought they'd win,” he says. “Looked at everything we'd built. Everything we gave him. Used his daughters.”
“Right. Decided Boston was the safer investment.”
I hate this about Bridget’s parents. She deserves better.
“The Boston contingent’s calling it reparations,” Seamus continues. “Old grievances, old losses, a debt we apparently owe them for something that happened before half of us were born.”
“And we owe them nothing.”
“Not a penny. Not a square meter.” His jaw tightens.
“But they're not asking anymore, Seamus. They're moving men. Into Ireland. This isn't a negotiation. It's an invasion,” I say.
A muscle tics in his jaw. “I know. I need to make some calls. And it’s best if we’re proactive. I have some ideas, but I want your report on my desk by tomorrow morning. Yeah?”
“Aye.” I swallow hard.
He looks at me across the table, his fingers steepled. “You know the time for you to fulfill your promise is imminent. But I have a way that could put all our fears to rest.”
I knew we’d get there eventually. I just hadn't expected it this quickly. But it'll be fine. I'll do what I promised. I’ll fall on the proverbial fucking sword because that’s what we do for the sake of family and loyalty and keeping the people we care about safe.
“Go see Mam,” he says. “She's been dying to get her hands on you. Give you a proper hug and feed you something decent. We’ll have a meeting, all of us, and make our move.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I missed my Aunt Caitlin too. “Thanks, brother.”
I get up from the table.
But I don't go see my aunt straight away. Not yet. I need a little space first.
It's a gorgeous summer day in Ballyhock, with the sun pouring through the windows and warming the interior. I hear laughter outside. Splashing. I wonder if Zoya has the kids out in the pool that Uncle Keenan had put in a few years ago. The moment it gets warm enough, it gets relentless use.
It's been a while since I've been to my own place. My younger brother Colm's been keeping an eye on it, which means the roof is still on, but I'm going to have to scrub it from top to bottom before it feels like mine again.
I check my phone for the hundredth time. No text. What the hell am I expecting? Bridget holding a feckin’ “Welcome Home” sign when I’ve done everything right and good to keep a safe distance?
I slide the phone into my back pocket and wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t sold my damn soul to the devil. It’s too late now though.
I let out a long, slow breath and push open the back door.
I’ve got this. I can compartmentalize with the best of them because I have to. Because I’m Declan McCarthy, and my family’s depending on me. I’ll die before I let them down. Because if I fuck this up, I—
I crash into a bundle of ginger hair and a wet towel. On instinct, I reach out to steady her—and find my hands planted firmly on Bridget’s bare fucking skin.
What the actual fuck is this woman wearing? Or, more accurately… not wearing? Now that I've knocked her towel clean off her, she's in a bikini that barely covers anything.
“Declan!” she says, her eyes lighting up. Her cheeks flush a deep pink, and she scrambles for her towel, but it's too late. Too late for me not to notice the way her figure’s filled out, to see the warmth in her face and how she's bloomed into herself since I last saw her.
My fucking god. Bridget Kavanagh has come into her own, and she is goddamn stunning.
“Did I hurt you?” she asks, leaning in close. She smells like chlorine and sun and something sweet and floral.
“I'm fine,” I tell her. I want to say more than that. I want to say a thousand things I've been carrying since I left. Instead, I reach for the only safe thing. My voice breaks. “Christ, woman. It's good to see you.”
And then we're hugging, and she fits in my arms the way she always has, tucked right under my chin, warm, solid, and real.
Mine, something in me says, a word I have no business thinking. We hold on longer than is proper, and when I hear her sniff, I pull back and stare at her.
She's not crying, not exactly, but her eyes have gone misty.
“Look at me,” she says, shaking her head and blinking rapidly.
“I just didn't know how much I missed you, alright?
Everyone's busy, and nobody—nobody hugs me like that.” Now she's laughing and crying at the same time, and I can’t help myself.
I lean in, drag her close, and kiss her forehead.
“You ought to be hugged like that daily.”
“Declan—”
Then we both pull away in the same moment, because if anybody saw…
She's barely dressed, and we're too close, and this is wrong on so many levels.
“Hey,” I say, my voice raspy. Her hair is damp and tangled, falling across her face, and before I can stop myself, I reach over and tuck a strand behind her ear.
“You've had a rough go?” She needs more than a proper hug.
She needs someone to watch over her, to care for her, to listen and protect, to—
No.
“I'm fine,” she says in that wobbly voice that means she is anything but. “Fine.”
I want to kiss her. I want to wrap my arms around her, pull her back into my chest, and show her what a kiss can be—what it should have been years ago. But I don't. Of course I don't. Because it wouldn't be right. Wouldn't be proper.
And I can’t break the fucking promise I made—the one that was meant to save her, even if it destroys me.
She's standing a few feet away, and it feels like too much distance and not nearly enough.
I'd convinced myself it wouldn't be like this. That it’s been long enough to cool whatever I imagined between us, that I could be in the same room as her and still stay in one piece.
I was wrong. So fucking wrong.
I drag a hand across my brow.
“How've you been? Like, health-wise?”
She smiles, and it reaches her eyes before it reaches her mouth. “Nothing’s really changed since the last text. The doc says never been better.” A small pause. “We need to catch up, Dec.”
We both know it would be a terrible idea, but we both still nod like fools.
I should tell her she's looking well and send her on her way.
But the time I have left to spend anywhere near Bridget is closing fast, and it feels like sand slipping through my fingers.
Her gaze holds mine. “Erin says they're having a bit of a coming-home party for you tonight. The unofficial one, after the formal family thing. Everyone's going to The Craic?”
Jealousy rises like a rabid beast, threatening to betray me. I tamp it down, close the lid, and lock it.
“You say that very casually.” My voice comes out more accusatory than I intend. “Is that where you go on weekends? You've got friends there? You're going out? Tell me Cavin at least puts a fucking guard on you.”
Christ, listen to me. Lecturing her for living her life, when god knows she's got more life to live than I have any right to comment on.
She smiles, obviously pleased at my reaction, because Bridget’s never known what’s good for her. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”
Neither has she.
She leans in, her voice dropping to a heated whisper. “And the answer is no. I haven’t.” She laughs. “Do you really think I’d frequent a sex club my sister and brother-in-law go to? Gross.” Her nose wrinkles adorably, and she smacks my arm. I’ll admit, I breathe a sigh of relief.
Christ, Declan, get it together.
“Don't listen to me.” I shake my head. “I mean, you could if you—”
“I haven't,” she says. Her gorgeous eyes flash like fire. “Haven't darkened the door of the feckin’ club since you left, you know.”
I shove my hands in my pockets. “Just as well, then.”
She tips her head, something shifting behind her expression. “But since there's a party tonight, I could—you know. Go.”
A beat passes. I don’t respond.
Her cheeks turn pink. “Erin said I should get out a bit. I think she's worried I don't really have much of a social life.” She lifts a shoulder. “I don't care.”
“I could pick you up,” I hear myself say. My voice is still too husky. “If you'd like.”
Her face lights up in that way it does—genuine, unguarded, a little too much for my chest to handle comfortably. But then she shakes her head. “I told Erin I’d go with her.”
Right. Right, of course, and I can’t fucking show up with her like she’s my date.
What am I thinking?
“But maybe you can drive me home?” she offers. “I don’t want to stay too long.” She giggles, and it’s so fucking adorable. “Then I can drink if you're driving.”
“You know me,” I say. “Always the designated driver.”
”Oh, that's right,” she says, eyes sparking as she looks up at me. “Declan McCarthy. Straight as a fucking arrow.”
That's me. I earned that reputation once. Seems I'll be earning it again.
“See you later, then?” she says, tipping her head to the side—and then she does this thing.
My fucking god, she does this thing where she gathers her hair between her fingers and wrings the last of the water from it, then scrubs the ends with her towel so she doesn't soak the floor. Just that. Towel-drying her hair, and it’s the most inadvertently sexual thing I have ever witnessed in my life.
I am embarrassingly hard watching Bridget Kavanagh dry her hair with a goddamn towel, and I have no idea how I'm going to survive tonight.
But I am going to survive it. And I am going to enjoy every second of it—because tonight might be the last time I get to have her close.