When I hang up, Erin’s on her phone, smiling at a text. Jealousy bubbles up. Who’s she chatting with now?
“That’s sorted,” I tell her. “What kind of takeaway would you like?”
“Oh,” she says, her eyes wide. “I get to pick that too?”
“Aye. Tonight’s about what you want, love.”
Her smile could light up the whole of Dublin.
“I’d half kill for some chicken curry and vegetable samosas,” she says with a grin.
“Me too,” I say, “but only if they season it with garam masala.”
She blinks at me. “You like Indian food?”
“Love it. Had a mate in prison who was from Mumbai. He’d go on about his ma’s cooking for hours. Made me crave it something awful.”
“Prison,” she says quietly. “That’s where you were. In prison.”
“Aye.” I glance at her, waiting for the judgment, the fear.
But she just nods, processing. “What for?”
“Aggravated assault. Put a man in the hospital who deserved it.” I don’t tell her I wasn’t the one who did it, but I took the hit for my da.
“Oh.”
That’s it. Just “Oh.” Like I told her I’d been on holiday.
“Does that bother you?” I ask.
“Well... yeah. 'Course it does. But it's not exactly shocking, is it?"
I reach over and squeeze her hand again. “You’re something else.”
She ducks her head, but I catch her smile.
And for the first time since this engagement started, I think maybe, just maybe, this could actually work.
Maybe we could actually be… happy.
The thought should terrify me.
It doesn’t.
Chapter Seventeen
Erin
I can’t stop lookingat his hands on the steering wheel.
It’s ridiculous, really. They’re just hands. Large, scarred knuckles, a thin white line across his left thumb that looks like an old knife wound. The way his fingers grip the leather, confident and controlled.
But all I can think about is the way those hands felt cupping my face. The gentleness of his thumbs brushing away my tears. The restraint in his touch when I know, Iknow, what those hands are capable of.
I saw him fight. Saw him destroy a man with methodical precision.
And then he touched me like I was something precious.
