My finger thrums on my glass.
Marcus kicks my foot under the table. ‘You’re a resourceful man. You could find your girl again.’
‘She doesn’t want to be found.’
‘So?’ He shrugs. ‘You’re Cole fucking Hartmann. Since when has that stopped you?’
I let out a breath that almost qualifies as a laugh.
He’s fucking right.
For the first time since I left Punta Cana, I let the truth surface, and fully embrace the fact I need to find Irish again. Doesn’t mean I want to marry her. Doesn’t even mean I’m in the market for anything more than closure.
I’ll be in Ireland soon—finalising Hartmann Hotel Dublin, overseeing the interior of the new casino wing, meeting with the minister.
And when I get there?
I’m going to find her.
Hunt her down.
Because this obsession with her hasn’t faded.
If anything, it’s multiplying with every passing day.
Chapter Twenty-One
ZARA
April
With its gleaming white render, clean architectural lines, and windows so wide they practically inhale the Irish Sea, Savannah Kingsley’s house looks like a billionaire Barbie Dreamhouse. We pull into her long driveway and up to the front door. Tate is driving. I’m in the passenger seat. Nico and Felstead are in the back of the SUV. Unfortunately, with Jack O’Connor still on the missing list, security is tight, which means my little red Jaguar F Type is stuck in my apartment’s underground carpark until further notice.
‘Nice pad,’ Tate comments.
‘You know you’re only supposed to bepretendingto be part of my design team.’ My eyes flick sidewards as he kills the engine.
‘It was just an observation.’ He hops out of the vehicle and opens my door.
‘Thanks.’ I take in the well-maintained gardens. The rose bushes. The view from the property is outstanding. Dalkey is showing off today. We’re barely into April, but it feels like May. The sky is a crisp baby blue, the sun sparkles off the water in the distance, and swells roll in like liquid glass.
The front door opens before we have the chance to knock. ‘Oh my God, Zara. Thank you so much for squeezing me in.’ Savannah beams as she opens the door. She’s as blonde and bubbly as the day she coined the phraseSingle Sav, and built an entire lucrative empire on her single mother status. She’s blissfully married now to a former Olympic swimmer, Ronan Rivers. I’ve met them multiple times over the years at various charity social events. They’re every bit as in love now as they were five years ago when news of their relationship broke the gossip columns.
‘Ronan sends his apologies—he’s in Amsterdam for a swimming event. He coaches the kids’ team.’
‘Not a problem.’ I smile as she ushers us inside. ‘Your home is gorgeous. So much to work with. And it’s the perfect time for a refurb now that the kids are older.’
‘Exactly!’ She throws up her hands. ‘They don’t finger-paint on the walls anymore, and I swear if I have to look at these beige sofas for another day, I’ll scream.’
‘This is Nico, my PA.’ He follows behind me, iPad in hand, sleek and efficient.
‘Great to meet you.’ She shakes his hand.
Tate and Felstead bring up the rear, greeting her with a nod and a grunt. They’re dressed in tailored charcoal suits, but there’s no missing their earpieces. Savannah glances at them with a quizzical expression. Honestly, who could blame her? Two ex-military walls of muscle standing guard don’t exactly look qualified to critique wallpaper samples.
We step into the foyer—double-height, polished Calcutta marble floors, and a sweeping staircase that curves like something out of a Hollywood film. I soak it all in. ‘So much space. What are you thinking?’
‘I want the house to feel fresh,’ Savannah says, waving her arms. ‘Sophisticated but still fun. The twins are entering the mood-swing era. I need a sanctuary to hide out in.’
