“Put our family on the fucking map,” he says, shaking his head. “Do you know what it’s going to be like when we own all of the trade routes down the Eastern Seaboard and the West Coast of Ireland? My fuckinggod. It’ll change everything for us.”
I know.
I’m quiet for a long moment.
“She hates me,” I tell him, slamming my fist in frustration on the leather steering wheel cover. “I told you. She fucking blocked my phone number. Couldn’t even get through to her.”
“Ah,” Declan says, his eyes twinkling at me. “Do you mean to tell me there’s a lass in all of Ballyhock who doesn’t fall for every whim of yours?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you going on about?”
“What am I goingonabout? Ever since you were at St. Albert’s, women fall at your fuckin’ feet,” he says, shaking his head. “Cavin McCarthy, the local fighter. ‘Ooh, Cavin the ex-con.’ Did you see that goddamn picture of you they posted when they announced your engagement? Half of Ballyhock’s ovaries cried.”
I roll my eyes.
“Cavin, do you have any idea how many women would kill to have you at the club?”
I shrug.
“You don’t care because you only look at the one in front of you. You go to The Craic, you take a submissive, you have a fun night, and you go home—and you don’t see the half a dozen girls who sit there weeping into their fucking handbags because you didn’t pick them.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“And now,” he says, “of course you haven’t realized this because you never had to. You want a woman—you snap your fingers, and you get a fucking horde ready. You’re rich, you’re attractive, you’ve got those eyes, and you’re muscular and all that. Have you seen the way they fucking post about you on social media from St. Albert’s? Wasn’t just the engagement post.”
“Post about me? What?”
“On the socials,” he says, exasperated. He pulls up his phone. “Look at how many comments you have now on that fucking engagement post. Did you see the picture?”
I slow down at a red light and glance sideways at him.
It’s a damn good picture of me after a fight that I won, sweat glistening on my bare chest. And I swear to Christ, somebody’s touched it up because I don’t normally lookthatgood.
And the picture next to me…
“Oh god,” I say, cringing. “What did they use for her? Her license photo? Looks like a damn mugshot.”
“I think so,” Declan says. “It’s definitely not very becoming of her, is it?”
“Christ, not at all. My god, who runs that fucking account?” I growl.
“No idea.”
“We’ll find out,” I say.
“Is that an order?” Declan asks quietly.
“Aye.”
“Right then,” he says, tapping at his phone.
“All I’m saying is this is probably the first lass in I don’t know how long—since you hit fuckin’puberty—who doesn’t throw herself at ya.” He snorts. “It’s puttin’ a burr under your skin.”
“Aye,” I growl. “Perhaps.”
“Not perhaps,” he says, grinning.
“You’re lucky you’re already injured,” I mutter.
