She makes me feel like a fucking bear, like she expects me to bite her.
I have no plans to do that.
Not yet, anyway.
I stand up from the table. “Seamus. A word.”
All eyes snap to me. Good. Let me be the awkward one for once.
Seamus rises, dabs his mouth with his napkin, and folds it with military precision. Then he nods toward the exit door that leads to the hallway. We step outside together while my mother picks up the conversation.
“What is it?” Seamus asks, his voice low, calculating. He knows I wouldn’t interrupt dinner unless I had a damn good reason.
“I took Erin on a tour of the estate before dinner like Mam asked, and mentioned our betrothal, like you said. The one that she knowsnothingabout, Seamus.”
“I—” Seamus starts, then stops. His brow creases. “She didn’t know what the fuck you were talking about?”
I nod once, watching his eyes widen as he rakes a hand through his hair.
“Jesusfuckin’ Christ…”
“I know.”
“Why does she think she’s here?” he mutters, more curious than concerned. “Some kind of formal dinner? A get-to-know-you thing, maybe? Friends?” He shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “Oh my god.”
“Don’t bring it up at dinner,” I say.
I don’t know why I say it. I just know that if he does, she’ll unravel, right here, in front of everyone.
“Okay,” Seamus says, nodding. “I can do that. Why?”
“Because I don’t think it’s fair to her, putting her on the spot like that…” I trail off. My jaw tics. “I wouldn’t want that done to me.”
He glances at me, slow and knowing. “A soft spot for your betrothed…”
“No,” I snap. Then quieter, “Yes. Whatever. I just… I don’t think it’s fair. I’d fucking kill you if you did that to me.”
One of his brows rises, and I rein in my tone. He’s the head of the family now. I don’t talk back to him. Not outright.
“I’d want to kill you,” I amend, which isn’t much better, and he actually snorts. “If you sprung a betrothal on me at a goddamndinnerparty.”
“Aye, right. Alright then,” he says. “So… after dinner, I’ll take her father for a smoke. Bit of whiskey. We’ll chat. Then we bring it up.”
“Aye. Sounds good.”
“Back inside before her mother loses her goddamn mind.”
He noticed too, then.
I mutter under my breath, reentering the dining room.
Erin still looks like a deer caught in headlights—eyes wide, frozen—her knife buttering the same piece of bread for what has to be five minutes now.
“Erin,” my mother says, gentle. “What’d you do for work? Remind me.”
“I’m the bookkeeper for—” Erin starts, too fast. Her voice trips over the words, too eager to fill the silence.
Mam’s gaze warms. “Take your time.”
