Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
He throws me a look, sly and almost amused.
“I prefer the dungeon at The Craic, to be honest. But yeah… we may have one or two dragons in storage.”
My cheeks flare.
The Craic.
Christ, I'd almost forgotten. The infamous McCarthy club—elite, exclusive, whispered about in the right circles. The kind of place where sin is currency.
“Very funny,” I tell him, deadpan. And why do I hate the idea of him and those—those muscles, and those hands, and that mouth with another woman? Or three?
I don’t. I don’t.
He shrugs, like he doesn’t care whether I believe him or not.
“I’m not joking. Behind the kitchen, there’s a garden.” He’s got that tone now, smooth and detached, like a bored realtor showing off crown molding.
I do glance over, despite myself, and he sees it, that flicker of interest.
He turns, leading the way like he owns the damn world. “If you go this way…” His smile curves, lazy and wicked—the kind that turns my insides to ice and heat all at once. My heart jerks in my chest.
I hate myself for it.
He points to a narrow door, half hidden behind ivy and brick. “This is the one we all used to sneak through… to get to the garden.” His voice drops. “It was my grandmother’s favorite place.”
And for a second, just one, something human ghosts across his face. A memory. A thread of something too raw to name. People speak well of Maeve McCarthy in Ballyhock. She was a bit of a legend.
“This is all well and good, Cavin,” I say sharply. My tone is tight now, controlled. I’m not here to reminisce. “Are we supposed to pretend nothing happened in high school?”
His smirk is instant. Lips tilted, eyes going half lidded in that way that always made me want to slap him or kiss him or both.
“Nothing happened between us in high school, Erin, as much as you hoped it would.”
My jaw drops.
And for a second, I forget how to speak. Forget how to breathe.
“You… ugh!” I clench my fists. Just like that, I’m a teen again, frustrated, buttoned-up, and always one second away from cracking. And he—he’s still the goddamn prince of condescension.
“You bullied me,” I snap. Because I’m not going to rewrite history to make him feel better.
“Bullied?” He shakes his head, scoffing. “We’ve got very different recollections of what went on, don’t we?”
“For fuck’s sake.” I cross my arms over my chest and realize too late that doing so pushes my breasts up, just enough to draw his eyes.
And yes, he notices.
Of course he does.
He blinks, stares, then drags his gaze slowly, deliberately, back up to mine.
“I remember you always tattling on me,” he says, his voice low now. “Making up shite. Getting me in trouble.”
“You were always causing trouble!” I throw my hands up. “What the hell did you expect?”
He shakes his head, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. “Let’s keep walking. We’ve only covered a small portion, and dinner will be served soon.”
But I don’t move.
I don’t want to go. I don’t want to play pretend and sit down at their perfect, gleaming dinner table, making polite small talk while acting like this isn’t the same family that wrecked everything.
My phone buzzes. A text from Bridget.
Hey, how are things going?
And I immediately think of her hand in mine, that trembling grip, and her pale face as I left. “I’ll never forget what you’re doing for me,” she whispered.
What am I doing, really? Just having dinner with the McCarthys, right? Smiling. Using the right fork. Pretending we were all… friends.
It wasn’t that big of a deal.
Was it?
Cavin watches as I shove my phone in my little bag and sling it back over my shoulder. I would kill for a pair of yoga pants and an oversized jumper right now.
He shows me a little prelude to the garden first, lush, secluded, echoing with “You can walk from one room to the next, but this is a shortcut.”
He shows me rooms. Too many rooms. Library. Wine cellar. Some trophy room full of his father’s achievements.
I stop listening halfway through.
All I can think about is the way he stands too close. The way his hand hovers near my lower back but never quite touches, like he wants to. Like it’s natural for him, but he’s stopping himself.
We keep walking, and he shrugs out of his jacket, handing it to me. “Put it on. You’re cold.”
It’s not a question.
I’m freezing, and I’m shaking, but not entirely from the cold.
“I’m fine—”
“Don’t argue with me,” he says, his voice low. “Just wear the fucking jacket.” He drapes it over my shoulders. His hands linger for half a second, just long enough for me to feel the heat of his palms through the fabric.
The jacket smells like him—whiskey, woodsmoke, leather.
I want to bury my face in it.
I want to throw it off and run.