Page 13 of Unrequited

I’ve never wanted to let someone go so badly in my life.

“Would you like a drink, James?” she asks, dragging out my name like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

“I like to stay alert,” I tell her with a wink. “I don’t drink.”

“An Irishman who doesn’t drink?” Her eyes go wide. “Is that for real?”

“Of course it is. I used to like Guinness, used to get plastered. But I like to be in charge of all my senses, my reactions. That gives me the edge. Especially over someone who’s drunk or high.”

She raises a brow, teasing. “Are you telling me you’re drinking soda?” She points a slender finger at my glass, smirking.

“It’s a prop.” I smile. “How old are you again?”

She looks old enough to drink, barely, but I needle her just to see how she reacts.

She doesn’t disappoint.

She sits up straighter, squares her shoulders, and gives me this haughty little look, cheeks flushed pink. And I can already picture how I’d make her whole body flush like that, pink and breathless under me.

The tension between us spikes.

“Twenty,” she repeats. “You?”

“Too old for you,” I say with a sigh, as if it’s her goddamn age that makes her forbidden. “What’syourdrink, lass?”

“I’m not sure yet,” she says with a shrug. “I like lots of things. Beer. Wine. Mixed drinks. You know.”

I do know. And I’m not sure I like her drinking.

“You do realize,” I murmur, “that every time you take a drink, you let your guard down, don’t you? You become a little more vulnerable.”

“Yes,” she says softly. “I do. But it also helps me relax… a little.” She exhales a shaky breath. “My family is… intense.”

“I bet they fucking are,” I mutter. “I know what that’s like.”

“Do you?” She cocks her head to the side with genuine interest.

“Aye. I’m the oldest,” I tell her. “The one with the most to carry. Now that my dad’s getting up there, he looks to me. He’s lost a bit of cognition in recent years, you know? Lived a hard life. It’s taken its toll.”

I run my finger down the side of my glass, gathering condensation. Why am I telling her this?

“I’m going to have to step up. No question about it.”

“And to get away from it?” she asks, tilting her head. “What do you do?”

“Work out. Go for walks. Read.” I look away. “Where I come from, it’s beautiful.”

I can picture the blue-green sea crashing against the rocks. Quaint shops. Flowers lining every path. God, I miss it.

“Where’d you go just now?” she asks gently.

How the fuck does this woman, who barely knows me, see right through me?

“Just imagining being home,” I admit, the nostalgia thick in my voice. “I want to be home.”

Fuck, I really do. But I promised my father I’d scope the Kopolovs.

I guess in some strange way I never planned… I’m doing what I said I would.