Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“I don’t know,” I say. “I think there’s always room for forgiveness. At least for people who are truly sorry.”
He goes still, head slowly turning my way. “I don’t do apologies. Word of advice, don’t ever ask for one from me.”
There’s no venom behind his words, no bark meant to push me away. Just a quiet, worn-out warning from someone who’s built entire fortresses around his regrets.
I don’t comment. Instead, I study him. Really study him.
Everything about Ronan Barnes says he wants to be the villain in his own story—razor tongue, short fuse, permanent scowl—but the cracks are showing. He says he doesn’t apologize, but I’ve never seen someone look sorrier about a wrong they won’t even say out loud. There’s weight in his silence. In the way his eyes drift back to his glass like he’s trying to bury himself under the next sip.
He paints himself in broad, ugly strokes, but it seems like a defense mechanism more than the truth.
And God help me, I find that kind of sadness beautiful. Not the brokenness itself, but the way he tries so hard to hide it. Like he thinks he has to be bulletproof, or he won’t be able to function.
This is bad for me because I’m not drawn to perfect men. I never have been.
And right now, sitting next to this one—this infuriating, walled-off man who’s maybe the loneliest person I’ve met in years—feelings twist quietly in my chest.
Not sympathy. Something else. Something deeper.
Curiosity. Compassion. And a dangerous spark of want.
Not for the way he looks or moves or how always sounds like he’s challenging, but for what’s underneath all that. The part he clearly thinks no one will ever care enough to look for.
And suddenly, I want to look.
“Okay, I have an idea then,” I say, letting my words hang for a bit. He stares back at me. “You’re down a friend, the whole Lex-and-Posey fallout. I’ll graciously volunteer to be your friend.”
His skepticism is evident. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting Nash and Lex for dinner right now?”
I wave a hand at him. “I canceled when I saw you walking in here. You looked like a better adventure.” That earns me a half smile—barely there, but real. It softens his face, and for a second, I wonder if I imagined it.
“Don’t need a friend,” he says, lifting his glass, “but I do have manners… next beer’s on me.”
I beam a smile at him, the kind that dares him to call me relentless. “Excellent. Tell me about the call you got right before we did the checkout scene today.”
Ronan blinks, then frowns like I’ve handed him a math problem wrapped in barbed wire. “Are all Italians as nosy as you?”
I lean into the bar slightly, nudging his elbow with mine. “I’m not nosy. I’m a concerned friend.”
He doesn’t respond right away, but I see it—his posture shifts, the slight stiffening in his shoulders. I know he heard me say friend. I also know that word is probably like foreign currency in his world.
“It was your mum you were talking to?” I press, gentler now.
It’s a guess, but his tone got me thinking. I expect denial, especially when that “Go to hell” look flashes across his face.
But to my surprise, he doesn’t throw up a wall. Instead, he blows out a breath and mutters, “Yeah… she’s… needy.”
He says needy like it means more than he lets on, like it’s a placeholder for everything he doesn’t want to say aloud.
A couple of locals laugh over by the dartboard, but I don’t let my attention stray. “I heard you tell her she shouldn’t be drinking.”
He exhales again, a tired, hollow sound that tells me more than his words ever could. “Yeah.”
I wait.
Ronan stares at his glass, then finally speaks. “It’s complicated. Has been for a long time.”
“Your entire life?” I ask.
“Actually, no,” he says, his voice clear but distant. “She started drinking and doing pills—prescription stuff—when I was about eight. Before that… all good memories. Beautiful ones, even.”
I feel a painful tug inside. The way he says beautiful—like it’s a ghost that visits sometimes but never stays. My heart clenches, because I can’t even imagine. My parents are stable to the point of boring. Sure, they might argue over wine but always end the night sitting close on the couch.
“It sounds like you take care of her,” I say.
He nods, slowly. “She lives in a house—estate, really—near Woking. My father bought it for her. They’re still married, technically, but he lives in London with his mistress.”
I whistle softly through my teeth. “Wow. That’s some family drama there.”
“Welcome to the Barnes’ legacy,” he says, and though I hear bitterness, it’s resigned.
I let my eyes roam over him. He’s stiff with tension like he’s waiting for me to judge him.
But that won’t ever happen. “Has she ever tried to get sober?” A nosy question, but he seems to think we Italians don’t know how to mind our own business.