Even if it kills me.
I drag a hand across the back of my neck.
Sleep didn’t fucking stand a chance against the thoughts that have plagued me for the past month, since that weird bolt of… awareness. I’m still none the wiser, but these things have a way of revealing themselves when a man least expects it.
The Barcelona project felt like a holding prison, not a premium project.
Belle appears beside me with her tablet in her hand, looking polished and unflappable as usual. Her navy suit is crisp, her blonde hair scraped into the sort of bun that could survive a hurricane.
‘We touch down in ten minutes,’ she reports. ‘The car will be waiting on the tarmac. Your Dublin schedule is synced to your phone. We have meetings with your project manager, then the Minister for Planning, and then the city council chair. Then you’re touring the hotel site at four. The house in Skerries is ready for your arrival. The lease is open-ended in case things take longer than expected.’
‘Thank you.’ I nod curtly.
She studies me for a second too long. ‘Is everything all right, sir? You seem… off.’
I shoot her a look. ‘Define off.’
‘Distracted.’ She pats her bun. ‘And you haven’t fired anyone in five days.’
I huff out a sound that almost qualifies as a laugh. ‘That’s because I already got rid of every imbecile who should havebeen on top of the Cannes premises, instead of allowing it to get poached from under our noses.’ Even thinking about it irritates the shit out of me. I might have Barcelona, but it’s a poor consolation.
Belle nods and retreats to her seat as the cabin lights dim for landing. I move towards the window, watching as Dublin blooms beneath us—brick terraces, ribbons of river, the pale curve of Dublin Bay, and the rising steel skeleton of my hotel on the skyline.
My father loved this city.
He used to tell me Ireland was where his roots found oxygen.
Said the land itself felt alive.
I didn’t understand it as a kid.
I do now.
When the wheels finally hit the runway at Dublin Airport, something in my chest loosens.
Ireland.
Grey sky. Drizzling rain. Wind that’s sharp enough to cut a man in half—even in May. None of it should feel inviting, but it does. It always has. Even though I wasn’t raised here, this place has lived in my blood since before I was born.
Even after thirty years in the States, my father always called this place home.
The jet slows, engines whining down. I look out the window at the low clouds and the faint green strip beyond the runway, and for a second I can almost hear his voice.
We’ll take Dublin by storm one day, son. Hartmannwillcome home.
Well, Dad.
Here I am.
The seatbelt sign pings off. Belle is already on her feet, gathering the thick folder of itineraries like a general assembling weapons. My head of security, Gabriel, unbuckles acrossthe aisle, eyes sweeping the cabin, already in protective mode.
‘Welcome to Dublin, sir,’ Belle says, as if I needed the reminder.
‘Let’s hope they’re more hospitable than last time,’ I mutter.
Her mouth quirks. ‘You’re the competition. What do you expect? That the Becketts are going to send you flowers?’
Right. The Becketts. ‘Any word from the sister? Did you manage to move our meeting forward?’ The quicker we get the interior design sorted, the quicker we can show the rest of her family that I’m not their competition. I never was. Because Hartmann Hotels are in a league of their own.
