I want to argue, to tell him it's a terrible idea, that I'll only fuck it up. But the thought of spending time with Maeve, of seeing her smile, of maybe making her happy for once instead of just scaring her or pushing her away, is too tempting to resist.
And I told myself last night I would try. Flynn is right, of course, the bloody bastard—I woke up managing to convince myself that agreeing to any of this last night was a mistake. But now, I’m remembering why I said I’d try in the first place.
"Fine," I say, and Flynn's grin widens.
"That's my boy. Now go wake up your wife and tell her you're taking her out tonight."
I flip him off, but there's no heat in it. He laughs and returns to his laptop, and I stand there for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing.
Taking Maeve on a date. Like we're a normal couple. Like I'm not a killer, and she's not a girl who was forced to marry me.
I finish my coffee and head to the bedroom. Maeve is still asleep, her ginger hair spread across my pillow, and something in my chest tightens at the sight of her. She looks peaceful, every bit as young as her eighteen years, and I feel the familiar guilt creep in. She should be with someone her own age, someone who hasn't spent the last twenty years killing for a living.
But she's not. She's here, in my bed, and Flynn's right. She's already mine.
I sit on the edge of the bed, and the movement makes her stir. Her eyes flutter open, showing a sliver of light blue, and for a moment, she looks confused. Then she sees me, and a faint blush colors her cheeks.
"Morning," she says softly, her voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning." I clear my throat, suddenly feeling like an awkward teenager instead of a man pushing forty. "I wasthinking... would you like to go out tonight? I could show you some of Dublin."
Her eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across her face. "Like... a date?"
The word feels strange on my tongue, but I nod. "Yeah. Like a date."
A slow smile spreads across her face, and it's like watching the sun come out from behind clouds. "I'd like that."
"Good." I stand before I can do something stupid like kiss her again. "We'll leave around six."
I leave her there, feeling her eyes on my back as I go, and try to ignore the way my heart is pounding in my chest like I'm heading into a firefight instead of just taking my wife out for the evening.
—
The restof the day passes in a strange blur of anticipation and dread. I catch myself checking the time more often than I should, watching the hours tick by with an impatience I haven't felt in years. Flynn notices, of course, and spends most of the afternoon giving me shit about it, but I barely hear him.
I'm too busy thinking about Maeve. About the way she smiled this morning. About the kiss last night, the way she felt in my arms, soft and warm and perfect. About all the ways I could fuck this up.
By the time six o'clock rolls around, I'm wound tight as a spring. I've changed my shirt twice, which is ridiculous, and I catch Flynn watching me with barely concealed amusement.
"You look fine," he says. "Stop fussing like a nervous bride."
"Fuck off," I mutter, but there's no real anger in it.
Maeve emerges from the bedroom, and I forget how to breathe.
She’s wearing jeans and a soft-looking sweater in a chocolate brown. Her hair is down in loose waves around her shoulders. She's not wearing much makeup, just enough to highlight those blue eyes, and she looks beautiful. Not in the polished, untouchable way of the women at that gala, but in a way that's softer, more real.
"Is this okay?" she asks, a hint of uncertainty in her voice, and I realize I've been staring.
"You look perfect," I say, and I mean it.
Her cheeks flush pink. She smiles, and I think maybe Flynn was right. Maybe I can do this.
We leave the apartment, Flynn calling out something about not waiting up, and I lead Maeve down to the street. The evening air is cold and wet, carrying the scent of rain and the river, and Dublin is coming alive around us with the energy of a Friday night.
"Where are we going?" Maeve asks as we walk, and I'm acutely aware of how close she is, how easy it would be to reach out and take her hand.
"There's a pub I like," I say. "Nothing fancy. But the food's good, and it's quiet."
