And I hate that no matter how hard I try, I can’t rewrite our past.
“This is the kitchen,” he says, bored. I’m nervous and don’t know how to reply, so the words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Right by the dungeon,” I quip. “Where you keep your prisoners… or maybe it’s where you train your dragons.”
He throws me a look, sly and almost amused.
“I prefer the dungeon at The Craic, to be honest. But yeah… we may have one or two dragons in storage.”
My cheeksflare.
The Craic.
Christ, I'd almost forgotten. The infamous McCarthy club—elite, exclusive, whispered about in the right circles. The kind of place where sin is currency.
“Very funny,” I tell him, deadpan. And why do I hate the idea of him and those—thosemuscles,and thosehands,and thatmouthwith another woman? Or three?
I don’t. I don’t.
He shrugs, like he doesn’t care whether I believe him or not.
“I’m not joking. Behind the kitchen, there’s a garden.” He’s got that tone now, smooth and detached, like a bored realtor showing off crown molding.
I do glance over, despite myself, and he sees it, that flicker of interest.
He turns, leading the way like he owns the damn world. “If you go this way…” His smile curves, lazy and wicked—the kind that turns my insides to ice and heat all at once. My heart jerks in my chest.
I hate myself for it.
He points to a narrow door, half hidden behind ivy and brick. “This is the one we all used to sneak through… to get to the garden.” His voice drops. “It was my grandmother’s favorite place.”
And for a second, just one, something human ghosts across his face. A memory. A thread of something too raw to name. People speak well of Maeve McCarthy in Ballyhock. She was a bit of a legend.
“This is all well and good, Cavin,” I say sharply. My tone is tight now, controlled. I’m not here to reminisce. “Are we supposed to pretend nothing happened in high school?”
His smirk is instant. Lips tilted, eyes going half lidded in that way that always made me want to slap him or kiss him or both.
“Nothing happened between us in high school, Erin, as much as you hoped it would.”
My jaw drops.
And for a second, I forget how to speak. Forget how to breathe.
“You… ugh!” I clench my fists. Just like that, I’m a teen again, frustrated, buttoned-up, and always one second away from cracking. Andhe—he’s still the goddamnprinceof condescension.
“You bullied me,” I snap. Because I’m not going to rewrite history to make him feel better.
“Bullied?” He shakes his head, scoffing. “We’ve got very different recollections of what went on, don’t we?”
“Forfuck’ssake.” I cross my arms over my chest and realize too late that doing so pushes my breasts up, just enough to draw his eyes.
And yes, he notices.
Ofcoursehe does.
He blinks, stares, then drags his gaze slowly, deliberately, back up to mine.
“I remember you always tattling on me,” he says, his voice low now. “Making up shite. Getting me in trouble.”
