Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
There are two wide windows above the sink. The view is breathtaking, the Irish coastline bathed in morning light. It looks like something from a dream. Nothing Seamus ever described to me did it justice.
And then, movement.
My eyes catch on him outside. Running shirtless, sweat gleaming on his skin. He’s just finished lifting, probably, and now he’s sprinting toward the house like he’s chasing something.
Like he’s chasing me.
God, he’s beautiful. He always is, but when he runs, when he’s wild and free and open like this, it’s almost unbearable to watch. My heart thunders. My pulse flutters.
For a moment, I let myself believe.
Maybe this is real. Maybe this is my husband.
And then he's inside, windblown and flushed, his chest heaving as he brushes the sweat from his brow. His longish dark hair is damp and messy.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he says, his voice low, roughened by exertion.
I’m already walking toward him, tea in hand. Ready to serve him. Ready to love him. Ready to fight every part of me that still doesn’t know if she belongs here.
But maybe… maybe I do.
“You told me you like cream in your tea, no sugar, right?”
“Aye,” he says. “Thank you, lass.” He takes the tea, lifts it to his mouth, and takes a long sip. Exhales like the weight of the whole world is leaving his lungs.
His breathing begins to slow.
“You don’t know what it’s like to wake up and not be alone here anymore,” he says quietly. There’s something so raw in the way he says it, like he's afraid to name it, like saying it out loud will make it too real.
I don’t say anything. Just reach for his hand.
It's maybe the first time I’ve initiated touching him, at least since we came here. My fingers curl gently around his, and I feel him still under my touch. Time feels suspended, hung in the air like dust in sunlight.
Two heartbeats.
“Any word from your family?” I ask softly as we sit on the stone steps outside.
The waves crash on the distant shore, and the scent of salt clings thick in the air. It’s all wind and sea and salt air.
“Aye,” he says, but doesn’t offer any details. Just that one word, like it’s enough. “And yours?”
“Yes.” I nod. “They just want to make sure I’m okay. That I’m not here against my will.”
He sets his cup down beside him, turns to me, and reaches for my hand again.
“And are you, Zoya?”
I let out a breath, long and shaky, like I’m about to hand him a piece of me I’ve kept tucked away.
“You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted, Seamus. Things haven’t gone the way I would’ve chosen… but maybe I can hope a little anyway.”
Because it’s true. All of it.
“I’m here because I want to be,” I tell him. “With you.”
He doesn’t hesitate. His hand tightens around mine.
“And I will have you fall in love with me, Zoya.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. His arm curls around my waist, drawing me into him like a secret he wants to keep close.
“You know, I used to want a bakery,” I say, curled into his warmth. One foot is tucked under me, the other brushing against his leg like it’s accidental. It’s not.
He looks at me like he’s waiting for the punchline.
“You? A bakery?”
I nod, smiling. “I liked the smell of baked things. Bread. Cinnamon. Sugar. Things that prove something soft can survive heat.”
His eyes sharpen. There’s something about that that gets to him.
“Aye. You can have that, if you want.”
“Do you have one here, in Ballyhock?”
“No.”
He starts listing the places they do have. His voice goes soft with familiarity; he knows every corner, every person behind every counter. It draws something from me.
“Aye, well, there’s a place called the Ice Cream Shoppe,” he starts. “Self-explanatory. And there’s coffee… let’s see. Let me tell you about Ballyhock.”
Time halts again, a little.
“I’m eager to get to the actual city,” I tell him.
“So we have a place called the Cottage Brew, right? Cozy coffee. Soda bread. Then there’s The Blimey Pub, which kinda speaks for itself. Do you like Guinness?” he asks.
“I’m not sure. I’ve never had one.”
“Wait, what? You’ve never had a fucking Guinness?” he says, utterly baffled, like I’ve just confessed a mortal sin.
I laugh softly.
“We’ll fix that, love, we will.”
“My brothers didn’t really like me drinking,” I confess.
He laughs, shakes his head like he can’t believe it. “They practically wean us on Guinness in our bottles.”
I laugh as he continues.
“There’s ice cream there now. Gelato. We’re getting fancy, thanks to the Italians. D’Agostino owns the Italian shop. And there’s this place called The Cheeky Mackerel Coastal Eatery. But no bakery. Not yet.” He pauses.
“Do you want to open one?” he asks. “Like Anya.”
The mention of her hits strange… two worlds colliding.
I think about Anya’s bakery, the one that’s nearly caused war between rival factions, because location is everything.