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I was going to pack up every part of my life that was portable, collect my cat, drive up to Latham, and throw myself on Liam’s mercy.
And a couple of other choice body parts, if I got lucky.
Doubt clutched at me. No way could it work. Not in the long run. A guy like him, with his mellow country lifestyle, his earth mother ideal. A busy, citified madwoman like me. I would drive him nuts. We would crash and burn. Probably sooner rather than later.
Maybe we already had. He’d been so angry at me this morning. And there were the armed abductors, the angry burglars. Add all the other crazy elements, and it looked like having Nancy D’Onofrio for a girlfriend, or hell, even just a casual fuckbuddy, was way too risky.
But at least I no longer felt like I would disappoint him in bed. Oh, no. All my doubts were gone in that regard. I knew exactly what I wanted to do to that big, strong body. I thought about the look in his eyes when he gave me that gorgeous schtick about the beauty of the flower. Sneaky, seductive bastard. He’d just reached right inside my chest, grabbed my heart, and squeezed it. I had felt so seen. So real, and present.
I was going to Latham. And if I got my poor tender crushed-out heart squished into jelly, well. It wouldn’t be the first time.
But it would definitely be the worst.
Chapter Eighteen
Liam
Eoin shuffled up the driveway to my house at two in the afternoon, red-eyed and shamefaced, like any guy would who’d guzzled Guinness all night and had faced the new day without sleep or a shower.
I looked up from the chopping block when I saw him. I’d been trying to unload excess adrenaline and misery by chopping wood, so far with no success.
“Well, hell. Look who the cat dragged in,” I commented.
Eoin flushed. “I was playing tunes with the lads at this pub in Sheepshead Bay, and I lost track of the time.”
I grunted. “Hear you’ve got a new job.”
“Uh, yes. I’m going on tour with this band, Mandrake. Next week.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Don’t think I don’t appreciate—all you’ve done for me?—”
I held up my hand, and Eoin choked off whatever he was about to say. “It’s okay, Eoin,” I said wearily. “You should be making music. You’re doing the right thing.”
Hope dawned on Eoin’s pallid face. “So you’re not mad?”
“Nah. Do you want to work on Matigan’s crew until you leave, or don’t you? If you’re too busy, I need to let him know right now.”
Eoin straightened his thin shoulders. “I’d be glad to work,” he said with dignity. “I start rehearsing Sunday. I can work until then.”
“Go get some rest, then,” I told him. “You look like hammered shit.”
Eoin hesitated.
“So. Ah. Is, ah, something happening between you and Mrs. D’Onofrio’s daughter?”
The look on my face made him take off like a shot.
Inviting her to the seisiún had been my first mistake.
Taking her home was the second—though I’d paid for that in full already, by getting my ass pounded by the masked assholes.
But the crowning stupidity? Fucking her.
Now I knew what it felt like. And I could think of nothing else.
I was begging for exactly the trouble I’d spent the first eleven years of my life watching up close. The kind of bitterness that ate away at love until it was all gone.