Hell, part of mewishedit had been me.
Because I hated her.
Hated the way she made me feel, like I could bust my bollocks all day, graft myself sick, ace every bleedin’ thing they threw at me, and it still wouldn’t count for shite. Not when she sat there smug as fuck, hands folded on a page full of perfect answers. Perfect grades. Perfect fucking everything, teacher’s little fuckin’ pet.
And now?
Now I get tomarryher.
Imagine that. A lifetime ofthatvoice correcting me at dinner. Telling me I’m not doing it “the right way.”
I don’t drink.
Of course she doesn’t. God forbid.
Saint bloody Erin. Miss Perfect lick-arse. Collectin’ gold stars like rosary beads.
Everyone loves a girl who plays by the rules, don’t they?
And does she?
I check my phone again, my jaw tightening.
Still nothing.
She’s myfiancée. My goddamn betrothed. She’s supposed to respond.
I drag the towel over my head, hair sticking up in all directions. I needout.
I need The Craic.
Not gonna fuck some nameless cunt in the back room tonight, but Iwillhave a drink. Iwillsee the boys. Let off some steam and remind myself who the fuck I am.
Because the nerve of her not replying?
The audacity of her parents marrying her off without even telling her? As if I’m some last-minute footnote in her story.
My phone buzzes, and I glance at it.
Not her.
Ofcourseit’s not her.
Shipment moved. No details. Just a location change. Belfast.
Fine.
I’ll go tomorrow.
Another thing for the list: check the shipment, confirm the transfer, prep the route. Once I marry her, I’ll gain access to all of it.
But my house has to be in order first.
The ride to The Craic takes fifteen minutes. I know every turn and light as I ruminate over Erin Kavanagh.
I hate that.
I hate that I can’t control it, controlher.
