I turn and look toward the voice to find a stunningly beautiful woman in stilettos, wearing all black and clutching a silver sequined handbag. She waves her hand.
“Erin, you don’t remember me? Naomi? You sat next to me in biology?” She says it as if that’s supposed to trigger a memory.
I remember lots of things, but I forget people quickly. Sadly, it’s because I find most people forgettable.
“Sorry, I don’t,” I say.
“Look at you!” she says, eyeing me up and down. “You’ve had quite the glow-up, huh? Come here.” She gestures for me to lean forward.
My stomach clenches into a tight ball.
“But you have a little…” She reaches out and brushes her thumb across my face.
Everything in me recoils. I don’t like people I know touching me, never mind strangers.
“You just had a little smear of makeup on you. But you look beautiful. And lucky you,” she says, winking at me. “Cavin McCarthy? Wonder what kind of strings you had to pull for that, huh?”
Then she laughs and leaves.
And I’m reeling. I knew some of my cousins would be here, the ones I know and the ones I don’t. I knew my uncles and aunts and all the power players in my father’s family, like Darragh and his mates, would be here too. So why did it not occur to me that the people from St. Albert’s were going to be here? My tormentors. The people I hated.Of coursethey are. It was a finishing school for families just like us.
And then I hear a warm voice behind me. “Youdolook gorgeous, love.”
I turn to see Cavin and breathe out a sigh of relief. I reach for his arm to steady me and swallow hard. “Thank you,” I say with a little bow.
Cameras flash. A photographer, a tall, lanky lad of about twenty, stands blinking. There's something familiar about his profile when he turns, like I've seen him somewhere before. But half of Ballyhock probably looks familiar at this point.
“Put that away,” Cavin snarls.
“Your mother told me?—”
“And I told you to put it away,” he says. “Do not take pictures of my fiancée without permission.”
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” The nervous photographer nods quickly.
Before he can say anything else, one of the cousins I remember from our first dinner approaches. He claps Cavin on the shoulder, firm enough that it's not entirely friendly and smiles. Ah, yes. I remember that smile. Ashland and Lorcan’s older brother, Donovan.
“Ah, ease up there, cuz,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Lad's just doing his job, yeah? Your ma hired him special for tonight.”
“Fuck off, Donovan.” Cavin's jaw tics, but he doesn't shake off Donovan's hand.
Donovan only chuckles.
The photographer shifts his weight, looking between them nervously. Then he glances at me, manages a shaky smile. “May I take your picture, miss?” he asks. Polite. Deferential. “Just yourself, like. For the family album?”
I look at Cavin, who's still glaring at the man like he's considering breaking his camera. Or his face. Maybe both.
He nods to me, terse. “It's up to you, Erin.”
I can't remember the last time someone said that something was actually up to me.
“Um, sure,” I say. “Okay.”
“You too, sir?” the photographer asks cautiously.
“Fine,” Cavin growls.
Donovan steps back, still watching, something unreadable in his expression. “There ye go. Everyone's happy, yeah?” He shoots Cavin a reproachful look, as if Cavin's being unreasonable. “No need to terrorize the help on your engagement night.” He winks at me. He’s as charming as his brother Ashland’s terrifying.
