Page 11 of Go Luck Yourself (Royals and Romance #2)

“Christ, Kris! There ya are.”

Awareness grabs on to me and the worst headache known to man lodges itself behind my eyes.

Directly after, waltzing through my body like a triggered orchestra of pain, comes an ache in my legs and tremors in my muscles and everywhere, everywhere, I feel the brunt of the physical exertion of yesterday’s run along with my graceful faceplant down the hill.

“Holy shit,” I moan and tug the blanket up over my head.

… did I have a blanket last night?

I crack an eye open. The scratchy library couch is under me, but a thick quilt weighs me down now, warm but smelling of storage mothballs.

Siobhán shakes my arm and my moan devolves into a doleful whine.

“You gonna make a habit of waking up in our castle hanging? It’s getting a wee bit racist, Kris, not gonna lie.”

Hanging? Hang—hungover. Ah.

I sit up, eyes in slits.

She’s fully dressed. And in a coat. And morning light is pouring through the far windows, lighting up the library in a pale haze.

“What time is it?”

“Time to go is what. We’re waiting on your sorry arse. Thought the leprechauns got ya.”

Slowly, I glare at her. “You all need to stop joking about that.”

“Joking?” She crosses herself. “I do na joke about leprechauns.”

I give an unimpressed blink.

Siobhán grins. That grin wavers and she holds up her phone, showing a white screen so fast I don’t catch what it is. “Interesting bit of reading Christmas put out ’bout the race.”

Bit of what?

My contorted face is question enough.

Siobhán stuffs her phone back into her pocket. “The statement Christmas put out over Loch helping you yesterday, and his role in the fight. Shot those bloody speculations right down. Made Loch look real grand in it all.”

The texts I sent Wren. She must’ve polished them up into a press release and sent it out already. Of course she did.

“Oh.” Why am I blushing? “Well.” And I shrug stupidly.

Siobhán beams at me and crinkles her nose. “Ah, don’t hide it, Kris. We’re winning ya over, I know we are.” Her smile softens one last time. “Loch sure as fuck will na thank ya himself, the stubborn prick, but thank you.”

Damn this blush straight to hell. “You’re welcome.”

It’s no big deal. It’s what I’m here for—what they think I’m here for. But that’s all I can get myself to say.

“Now get your arse up and change, you reek of—” She sniffs. “Is that whipped cream vodka? Christ, Loch did this to ya. I shoulda known.”

That blush goes nuclear.

Everything rushes back over me—the kiss, my call with Coal and texting with Iris, passing out here.

The kiss.

The kiss.

The—

My eyes catch on the table next to the couch.

There’s a glass of water. Two pain pills. A bag of crackers.

The heat building in my body floats into my cheeks.

I’m painfully aware of the silence stretching between Siobhán and me, but I feel drunk again for an entirely different reason.

“Give me ten minutes?” I squint up at her.

“Five. And that’s generous.” She swats the side of my head and spins out of the room.

I take the pain pills, down the water, and eat a few crackers before I leave the library. What’s the event today? Pretending to like Loch at these events for the tabloids will be a whole lot easier now that I actually like him, like him like him, and I freeze once I’m in my room.

That effervescence from last night is everywhere, my veins and my gut and my chest as I inhale.

I like Lochlann Patrick.

It’s overtaking all my senses like a megaphone announcer got ahold of my amygdala, I like Lochlann Patrick.

But my rational side remembers, quite vividly, that I don’t know what he’s thinking. I held his hand in the car, but he pulled away. He initiated the kiss, yeah, but he stopped it, too—then he brought me hangover and pain cures in the library, and covered me with a blanket. So what does that mean?

Shit.

I’m in all sorts of trouble.

I ignore the Wren-approved outfit for today—she labeled my sets of clothes, good god—and throw on a T-shirt and jeans. New bandages in place, I make do without a shower, grab my coat, and get down to the foyer in an absolute hurricane of new sensations that a twelve-year-old would be more equipped to handle. As is, I feel half out of my mind.

Attraction was always so soft with other people. With some of them, I’d find myself having to actively remember Oh yeah, I like them.

Which, in retrospect, should’ve been pretty telling.

In my defense, liking people that way was easy and calm, and I wanted easy and calm. I wanted simple and drama-free and steady.

Now, I’m wondering if I ever wanted that, or if I thought it would make me happy as a contrast to how torn up I always am about my other life stressors. I thought the balance to being in a constant state of anxiety was peace; but what if it’s chaos? Not fighting my own chaos or trying to tamp down my emotions, but leaning into it until I’m yelling and he’s yelling and honestly, it’s hot.

Maybe liking someone should be this caustic, a long, slow, silent death.

He’s standing off to the side of the foyer already, going over some papers with Colm, and he’s wearing a black wool coat with the collar popped, the cut of it hugging long lines that feed to his hips, down his legs, and his hair is set in an intentionally messy spray. I can’t hear what he’s saying but his lips move, and I watch those lips, feel their impression on my neck.

This is.

Going to be a problem.

He also doesn’t look even a little bit like he woke up with a hangover.

Dick.

“ Finally, ” Finn drones and stands from a chair. “Let’s go. ”

Loch stiffens.

His back to me, he nods his thanks to Colm, dismissing him.

I give Colm a smile as he passes. Loch said he’s here on his own, since Malachy stopped paying his wages. If Dad had done that to us, would Wren have stayed with Coal and me?

Colm leaves, and I face Loch. “Where is the event today?” What is the event today, I almost ask.

“It’s down in our wee village here,” Siobhán says. “Not a long drive. We volunteer at it every year, a music festival. And dancing, eh, Lochy?”

He gives her an unamused smirk. “Oh yeah, I’m breaking back out my reel shoes, did na I tell you? Headlining today.”

“Reel shoes?”

Loch almost looks at me. Catches himself, his jaw bulging.

Okay, I don’t like this.

He walks out of the castle without another word, the bright light of morning wrapping him up.

Finn follows.

Siobhán rolls her eyes in a huge arch. “What’d I tell ya? He’s a stubborn prick.”

My confusion doesn’t abate. “Huh?”

“He’s ashamed you had to make a statement about the race at all. Does na know how to function when anyone helps him. He treats Finn and me the same when we do anything even a bit nice for him.” She hooks her arm through mine. “Stubborn. Prick.”

Is that the reason? That can’t be it. “Is he really dancing today?”

We walk out to see Loch and Finn already loaded up in the car, Loch driving this time, Finn next to him.

I intentionally ignore the way my stomach sinks with disappointment.

“Ha! No, he has na danced in years,” Siobhán says. “We all used to, though.”

We slide into the car and she pats his shoulder in front of her.

“But Lochy was the best dancer, weren’t you?”

He starts the car. “That wall of trophies in my room did na win themselves.”

Siobhán leans into me. “He’s lying. He was fucking awful.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk,” Finn jeers. “Nearly breaking your ankle every performance.”

“At least Mam and Da dinna have to beg me to stop.”

“Dancing is part of our heritage,” Loch mumbles to the windshield. “I wanted to be good at it.”

“Stick to painting, lovey.” Siobhán pats his shoulder again. “Oh! A few of your paintings will be down in the village, eh? That’ll make a good setup for you two and your whole press nonsense. You’ll show Kris your art, yeah?”

My eyes go to the side of Loch’s head.

I know he knows I’m looking at him. His hand flexes on the steering wheel as he pulls us out of the castle’s drive.

“He’s already seen my art,” Loch says. Definitively.

“I’d like to see more of it.” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to.

Loch’s eyes dip to the side. He refocuses on the road and doesn’t say anything.

Siobhán gives me a shrug, and I sink back against the seat, staring out at the passing scenery, foliage and the occasional tree and stone fence breaking the hilly landscape.

Deciding that I like Lochlann Patrick is not the hardest thing I’ll have to do, turns out. It’s finding out what he thinks about me.

And now that that’s in question, I’m pinned to the seat in preemptive dread.

What if he pulled away because he realized it was a mistake to kiss me? Or what if everything that happened yesterday was a byproduct of his stress over his uncle and his Holiday and had nothing to do with the way he feels about me?

Or what if he is the one stealing from Christmas, and he pulled away because he feels guilty for it?

I close my eyes, dropping back into my self-disgust like an old friend.

The rest of the drive passes in silence, made awkward by the way Loch is actively not talking, and even Finn gives him occasional weird glances at the way he takes corners too aggressively.

The village is quite a bit smaller than Cork, but decked out in the same orange, white, and green decorations, banners, and pennants and people wearing all manner of vibrant scarves and hats. Green Hills Distillery ads are similarly plastered everywhere. Booths are set up along the main street, with larger tents off between clusters of trees, all of it in the sleepy stretch of a festival starting to get going.

“We’re home by one.” Loch parks in a lot off the main strip.

“One?” Siobhán echoes. “We usually stay far longer.”

“I got work to do at the castle,” Loch says too quickly. “I canna be arsed to spend a whole day down here. This festival is a quarter of the size it once was, anyway.” He glowers at it through the windshield, and his anger peels back, goes to sadness. “We will na need all day.”

She leans forward. “That does na make it less worthy of our support. We know this. We’ve talked about it.”

Finn grunts. “He’s being a donkey’s arse to pout. Heap of good that’ll do us.”

Siobhán glares at her. “Do na be insensitive to—”

“I’m not insensitive. ” Finn spins in her seat, facing Loch. “This isn’t any different from our usual shite situation, is it? Unless your stance’s changing on what we can do.”

Loch’s jaw is clamped so tight it bulges by his ears. Through gritted teeth, he says, “You know it’s not that simple.”

“I know you think that. I know you’re na gonna capitalize on the wee bit of good press you’ve finally gotten.” Finn snaps her scowl from Loch to me, and I gape at her when she looks at me with something like appreciation.

But Loch stays quiet, unreactive, and she grumbles at him.

“Fine then. But do na discount what little we can do. We can help out the organizers like usual. The musicians you recruited—they’re here too, yeah?”

He doesn’t respond.

“They’ll wanna see you,” Finn continues. “They’ll wanna thank you for getting them in. We know you’ve got work to do at the castle, but you’ve got work here too.”

“She’s right,” Siobhán says. “We know you do na want to anger Malachy, but start at least taking credit for what you do.”

Loch drops his eyes to his lap. “I will, yeah,” he says with no inflection.

“You’re a stubborn bloody arsehole,” Finn retorts, and Siobhán gives me a look like See? “Some of our friends from school are gonna be here, so if I’m na back by one, I’m having this concept called fun that you should look into. Our Holiday needs to bring joy and I’m gonna make sure it does.”

She climbs out, and Loch rubs his fingers across his forehead with a defeated sigh.

I linger, lips parting.

Siobhán gives me an imploring look and juts her head at the car park around us.

Would he listen to anything I say anyway? All it’d be is a reiteration of what his sisters said.

I relent and open the door.

Finn is jogging off for the booths, waving at someone, and I watch a group cluster around her. I could join her; but I lean on the trunk while Siobhán and Loch talk.

The car doors open and shut a few minutes later.

Siobhán’s smile is bright as she rushes to join Finn and the group.

Which leaves Loch standing beside me.

“You should invite your brother to the event tomorrow,” Loch says without preamble.

I twist to him. “Why?”

“It’s an evening up in Belfast. Pub hopping, mostly. Invite him. And his boyfriend, yeah?”

I study him. His face is too calm.

“None of that answers why ?”

He’s staring off at the festival. “You’ll enjoy Belfast more with him. And today, even—the three of us volunteer at this festival, but you are na expected to do that with us. You should meet Siobhán and Finn’s friends. They’ll show you a real grand—”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

He hesitates a tad too long, now forcibly keeping his eyes on the booths and waving banners. “No.”

Ah, okay, I can still get mad at him, that’s good. “Is this because of the statement I had Christmas release, or us making out in your kitchen?”

His face sets on fire. Embarrassment—and anger. His jaw locks in hard and his eyes stay fixed to a spot in the distance like he’s in a trance.

He says nothing.

My lip curls, and I huff and shove my hands into my pockets. “Great. That’s great. Really classy. So what do you need me for today? We find the paparazzi even though you don’t plan on using your repaired reputation at all, then we part ways so you can go off acting like last night didn’t happen?”

Loch stomps away. Fully leaves the conversation.

“You son of a—” I rush after him but he whirls around and I come up short, nearly slamming into his chest.

“Do na talk to me about last night,” he growls. Finally looking at me. Furious, cheeks scarlet and eyes aflame, but looking at me.

“What if I want to talk about last night?” I ask.

He huffs, breath hot on my face, a contrast to the cold air wrapping around us. “There’s nothing to talk about. I told you, I should na have done that. It was a mistake.”

There’s a rip in my chest. An abrupt, jagged hole.

I cling to anger to stop that rip from pulling me in half. “A mistake?”

“Yeah.”

“It was a mistake ?”

“Are you thick? Yes. ”

“Bullshit.” I fight hard not to sound anxious. “You can’t have said the things you did on a spur of the moment fuckup. You thought about doing that. You wanted to do that to me. You—”

“It was drunken weakness,” he cuts me off. “I canna handle another mess right now and I should na have opened the door to take on you. ”

From the moment we met, we’ve been picking at each other. Insults, jabs, even some too-direct accidental hits where I’ve noticed us both immediately backing off in unspoken agreement.

This is decidedly not that.

He thinks I’m a mess?

That word attracts others and piles them in an immovable blockade. Mess. Selfish. Disappointment. Why can’t you do anything right?

I gape at him, feeling the blood drain from my face, fingertips numb.

Loch must realize his own words in seeing my reaction.

His eyelids pulse. “Shite. Kris—”

I walk away, not even sure where I’m going, but I duck around Siobhán and Finn’s group and head into the main strip of festival booths.

Some are prepping food, roasted potatoes and fried pretty much everything, and it makes the air cloyingly decadent. I walk, and walk, until I come to a small green space nestled in an alleyway.

I canna handle another mess right now.

I should na have opened the door to take on you.

My heart races, aching with each too-fast thud, and I rub at my chest but nothing eases.

That’s exactly what I’m always terrified everyone in my life will see.

That I’m a mess.

That I have nothing to offer.

There’s a bench nestled under an arching tree and I scramble to sit—

—and look up at one of his paintings.

It’s been printed on a massive poster that covers the whole side of the building opposite me, complete with info for the festival highlighted over the bottom. This one is two people dancing, done in the same style as the painting in his studio, showing them from the shoulders up, twisted to some mute melody. They’re smiling, a captured, fleeting joy.

I stare up at the wash of colors, purples with pops of red, every stroke in motion.

He really is a talented jerk.

The ache in my chest throbs and a wheeze rattles in.

Fuck Loch. Fuck Ireland. Fuck all of this.

But I can’t. Not yet.

I pull out my phone, vision blurring until I blink enough to clear it. My drunken text to the group chat is the last one in the thread. I delete it, then start again.

PEEP, MINI CANDY CANE, AND THE BEST CLAUS

You are all cordially invited to come rough it with me tomorrow. Party it down, Belfast-style.

COAL

i’m always up for a party.

to what do we owe the honor of gracing you with our presences?

i assume by all you meant that I can bring hex too

I would never dare part you from your emotional support boyfriend. Of course, bring him.

Iris? Can I pry you away from Easter prep insanity?

IRIS

yes, thank you, fuck i need a break

Easter stress isn’t eating you alive?

IRIS

it’s fine

That’s all she says. For a solid minute.

Scrap Belfast, Coal and I will come kick your court’s ass for you. Who do we need to throw down?

COAL

YESSSSS let me at em

IRIS

is it a good image for santa to beat people up

COAL

oh

IRIS

honestly, it’s the same stress it usually is, and getting sloppy drunk with you fools is exactly what i need. though i appreciate the offer and it would be admittedly hilarious to watch coal try to punch anyone

COAL

excuse you iris i am incredibly intimidating in fights, nay, i am LETHAL

What data points are you basing this conclusion off of?

COAL

have you seen me, i am a badass, no data points needed

Aw, he’s a sweet kid. Let’s keep him.

IRIS

maybe if we give him a stable home we can train the delusions out of him

COAL

why do these text chats always end with you two ganging up on me

Talking with Coal and Iris unleashes the same warm comfort as it did last night.

If these two idiots love me, I can’t be that much of a mess, can I?

A shadow falls over me.

I look up at that painting again.

“They’re coming tomorrow,” I say to the air in front of me. “So you won’t be stuck with me.”

“Kris.” His voice is rough. Supplicating. It’s unnerving. “I should na have—”

I stand, cutting him off. I’ll be damned if I look at him again. Maybe ever. “You had the right idea. We only need to be around each other for press shots. But—”

Now I do round on him. I meet his eyes and yeah, I regret it instantly, but I point at him and try, try, try to shove aside my hurt.

“—you should invite your court to Belfast tomorrow, too.”

It’s not what he was expecting me to say.

Loch flinches. “What?”

“You’re going to be doing the same stuff there that you’ve done at the other events, right? So show them. ”

He sucks his teeth. “It’s na as impressive as you eejits keep making it out to be. I have contacts; I connect people with each other. That’s nothing but—”

“You need to show your court that you’re better than Malachy. You need to start getting them on your side so when I leave and your image is better, you can use that. You’re doing all this stuff for your Holiday, and it’s admirable, but you’re not protecting St. Patrick’s Day, are you? No matter what you do behind the scenes, you aren’t really fighting for it.”

He looks like I slapped him. Hard.

Now we’re even.

He shudders out a breath. “I do na have anything worthwhile to show my court. The things I do are not—”

“For someone who acts like he’s the greatest thing to ever walk this earth, you have no idea how amazing you are, do you? No wonder your sisters are fed up with you. God, you’re so much like Coal, it makes me want to scream.”

Loch’s expression spasms. “Like your brother?”

“Yeah. A dumbass who’s whining about how he doesn’t do enough is just that— whining. He annoys everyone in his life with his refusal to accept the fact that he’s actually capable. So do me a favor, and do your sisters a favor, and stop with this whole act of not being worthy of your court’s support. I know Malachy’s gotten in your head, but fuck, dude. Just. Fuck. ”

Eloquent. Really.

There’s a reason I write, and Coal’s the one who talks.

But I’ve said a lot of nice things to a guy who’s screwing with my emotions, so I duck around him.

Loch grabs my arm.

He’s wearing that spicy cologne again that I know now was an instant turn-on and I hate him so much.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. He sure as hell looks sorry. Brows hooked up. Lips parted. “I should na have said what I did.”

“I don’t care.” I do. Shit fuck, I do.

“And…” He stammers. “Thank you. For what you said, what Christmas said on my behalf. You did na have to make a statement like that.”

“Yeah, I did.” My chest swells, so I throw up this barrier hard and fast. “That’s why I’m here. Speaking of, where are the paparazzi? We should—”

My phone buzzes. I yank it out because it’s easier to deal with texts than him—oh look, other people need me, not just you, you jackass.

But the moment my eyes hit the screen, scalding horror crashes down on me.

My mom’s calling.