Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
He left me aching.
Not this time.
“Is that a cardinal?” I ask, and he actually falls for it. When he’s looking away, I twist, grab a handful of snow, and throw it right in his face.
“You little—”
But I’m already as far from him as I can run.
This time, when he catches me, he lifts me straight up in the air, snow gear, boots, and all.
“We could build a snowman?” I suggest helpfully as he carries me, princess-style, back toward the house.
“You’ll freeze to death with your games, lass,” he says, his eyes twinkling at me. “And it’s time I warm you up.”
When he slides me down his body, my legs are shaking. My throat is tight. My heart still doesn’t know if it wants to run or kneel.
Inside, he peels the coat from my shoulders and untangles my scarf. His hands are warm, even through the gloves.
“How cold is it?”
“Ten degrees. That’s twenty-two degrees below freezing.”
Oh god. Yeah, the bright sun made it look warmer than it really is.
He presses a fresh mug into my hands—hot steaming tea, made with cream and sugar. I sip and watch him.
And all I can think about is that snowball. That look. If I’m honest? At that moment, I knew I was his, even if I didn’t understand it yet.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Owen
The phone buzzes against the counter. Once. Twice.
I ignore it.
Emma’s still curled into the armchair, her knees drawn up beneath one of the wool blankets. Her hair’s still damp where the snow melted around her hairline, her cheeks flushed adorably pink. The fire casts her in gold. She hasn’t said much since we came back in. Just watched me.
I’ve been quiet. I can’t break the feeling that if I say something… I’ll ruin everything. It’s perfect, just like this.
She gives me a thoughtful look, like she knows something’s shifting beneath my skin.
The phone buzzes again, and I turn it over.
Shit. “No cell reception” is a great excuse when you don’t want to hear from your family or your boss, but Seamus McCarthy isn’t a patient man. Neither is my father.
Sure enough.
Two messages. One from my father. The other from Seamus, the man they call The Undertaker.
Da
Call me. We need to talk.
Boss
Kilkenny. Friday. No delays this time. Big job. You in or out?
I stare at the screen. The snow hums outside, the wind brushing the eaves. My lungs go still.
She doesn’t ask what it says. But I know she sees me looking.
I lock the phone and place it face down.
I don’t move… just stand there, my palms braced against the edge of the counter. The warmth of the cabin has nothing to do with what I feel. I’m split open, cold at the edges, burning at the core.
Ireland.
It was always going to come back to this.
Half my life is there. The jobs. The family. Bits of me I’ve left half-buried. I never told Emma how deep that world goes. How long it’s been calling.
And now it’s not just calling. It’s demanding.
Friday.
That’s four days.
Four days to pack up. Fly out. Step back into a version of myself that doesn’t have room for wool blankets and hot cocoa and the sound of her laughter in the snow.
She shifts in the chair, and her eyes find mine.
“Bad news?”
Her voice is soft, careful.
I shake my head. Then stop.
“It’s complicated,” I say. But it’s not.
She waits.
I move toward the fire, dropping into the chair across from her. The distance between us is a breath. A heartbeat. A lifetime.
“My father wants me home.”
She doesn’t flinch. But something in her posture goes tighter, less curled and more alert.
“I didn’t know you still talked to your dad.”
“Aye.” I sigh.
“Something wrong?” she asks curiously.
“No. Just… work.”
“I didn’t know you worked together.”
I shrug. “Yes, and… no.”
She nods slowly. “So you’re… leaving.”
It’s not a question. I hate the way her face falls. I’d do anything to keep her happy, to keep her here with me and erase those worry lines between her brows.
I stare at her. A little bit of snow still clings to the tips of her hair, half-melted now. Her legs are tucked close to her chest like she’s bracing.
“I don’t want to, but I…”
She says nothing.
“I have to,” I add.
Still nothing.
The silence feels worse than shouting. Worse than crying. It’s knowing that she’s retreating into that quiet place where I can’t follow, where her thoughts twist without me.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I always knew this wasn’t forever.”
My stomach turns. “That’s not what I wanted.”
“But it’s what’s happening.”
The fire pops, but she doesn’t look at me. Just stares into the flames like she can find a version of this moment that hurts less.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, my voice low.
“There’s a job in Kilkenny. The McCarthys want me in by Friday.”
Her breath catches. “This Friday?”
“Aye.”
I see it, that tiny flicker of pain behind her eyes. She swallows it down fast, but it’s there.