Erin’s staring at me.
“Pick up your glass,” I whisper, irritated that she’s not playing her damn part.
She does, but she fumbles and knocks it over. Red wine spills like blood across the white tablecloth.
“Oh no?—”
“It’s nothing, lass, don’t worry,” my mother says quickly, as Erin’s mother’s eyes blaze, as if Erin’s existence is a personal betrayal.
Even I want to slap her mother for looking at her like that.
Mam waves a hand, and in seconds, staff appear to mop up the mess.
“Could’ve found another way to tell them you don’t drink,” I quip, but it falls flat. Declan’s the only one who snickers, but Erin’s face flushes. She looks like she wants to disappear under the tablecloth.
Maybe she’s not Miss Perfect after all.
I pour her another glass.
“No, thanks. I actuallydon’tdrink. I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“For what?” I whisper back.
“For spilling my glass.”
Great. So we’re pretending that’s what this is about.
“It was an accident. It’s fine,” I say, my voice tight.
The old men are deep in discussion now, throwing around routes and partnerships. Ports in Greece. Western harbors. Talk of linking the Belfast lanes.
Does she know she’s the bridge they’re using to build all of it?
While they negotiate their future, I slide a dish her way. I don’t give a fuck about the routes. I know my role and play it well.
“I’m sorry,” she says again.
“It’s fine,” I mutter. Why’s she still fuckin’ apologizing? “Have some bread.” I pass her the bread basket.
“Oh… thank you,” she says shakily.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her in a whisper so only she can hear. “You’ll learn the rhythm soon. Smile when they drink. Laugh when they boast.”
My fingers brush hers as I refill her water glass, and Christ, there it is again—that dark pull I've no business feeling.
She’s here because she has to be.
Just like me.
We work through salad and appetizers while they finalize the deal. Her coast will become my roots. Our lives signed, sealed, and sold before dessert arrives.
She hates me for it. Good. That’s easier. At least I know where I stand.
Her hand moves under the tablecloth. That counting thing. Tapping, always tapping.
I let her… for now.
Why does she do that? It makes me want to reach over, grab it, and squeeze until she stops. Until she’s still. Until she sees me.
