It’s about them. Not me. I need to get over myself. Fucking Hollywood’s gone to my head after all.
Losing me was probably insignificant to losing them.
‘To Mr and Mrs Sexton. The finest parents I ever met.’
Sasha nods, seemingly satisfied for now. Looks like I’ve just walked in on a ten-year tradition between the remaining Sextons. For the first time since I arrived in Ireland, I get the distinct feeling I probably shouldn’t be here. They should have thrown me out.
‘Come on. Let’s get this party started.’ Victoria pulls me by the arm towards the decorations. ‘Mam and Dad would hate to see us wallowing. Let’s make them proud.’ She fiddles with her phone and two seconds later, Shakin’ Stephens blasts through the suite and the moment’s instantly transformed from subdued to celebratory.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
SASHA
The mulled wine went straight to Victoria’s head. She’s currently face down on the violet velvet couch, decorating it with her drool. Soft gentle snores wheeze through her nose.
Brushing the hair from her face, I gaze at my youngest sister, wondering for the millionth time if I’m doing a good enough job raising her.
She’s less mature than I was at her age. Some might have expected her to go the other way after the crash, but Vic went into herself, cocooning in her own bubble. She barely spoke in the year that followed, surrounding herself with stuffed animals, playing with them long after the other girls her age moved onto make-up and fashion.
Ryan materialises next to me from his position by the tree, the only one of us tall enough to reach the top few branches.
His arm’s so close it brushes mine. As if he can read my mind, he says, ‘You’ve done an absolutely amazing job with her.’
Staring down at the peaceful expression resting on Victoria’s face, I can only hope he’s right.
Hovering close enough that our elbows are touching, his voice drops to a breathy whisper, ‘You know, you’ll make a great mam one day.’
A low sigh whistles from my lips and the palm of my hand instinctively spreads across my stomach.
I came close to finding out once, but it wasn’t to be. Ryan doesn’t need to know that our child would have been nine years old, had I managed to keep him inside of me.
Maybe it was the grief of losing my parents, or the stress of inheriting my sisters and the castle. Or perhaps it just wasn’t meant to be. I’ll never know. And neither will Ryan. I don’t need or want his sympathy, not when he didn’t want me. Didn’t want us. Megan and Conor are my only two confidantes on the matter and that’s the way it’s going to stay.
There’s no denying the explosive attraction’s still there. And I’m not naive enough to miss its reciprocation. The chemistry crackling between us is so powerful it’s painful, especially after that night in the kitchen.
As much as my body begs me to, I’d be a fool to act on it. Apart from the fact he’ll run back to the States as soon as he gets his album done, leaving me pining after him for a second time, there’s a part of me that’s still furious with him, even after all these years.
We were so good together. At least, I thought we were. When he left, I didn’t see it coming. It’s the sole reason I’m terrified to let anyone else get close to me. Even Conor. I can’t be certain it won’t happen again.
Soft snores continue from the couch. There’s no way I can carry her to her room, and I hate waking her when she looks so peaceful, especially today of all days.
‘Will you help me put her to bed?’ I nod towards her bedroom door and watch as a frown flickers across his face.
It takes me a second, but I realise he assumed that was still my room. It was mine, once upon a time. Then again, so was he. Things change.
He nods, places his half-full goblet on the coffee table and sweeps my baby sister up into his arms as if she’s weightless. Slumping against his chest, she barely opens her eyes as he carries her through to her four-poster bed. Smoothing her hair from her face, I place a heavy grey throw over her, switch off the light and close her door.
Ryan’s already back in the kitchen area refilling his glass, and mine. Talk about presumptuous. The way he’s carrying on anyone would think he was the most eligible bachelor in the country. Oh wait… he is.
He swings between being this confident, gorgeous, god-like stranger, to being the sensitive boyfriend I once knew and loved.
‘Thank you.’ I don’t just mean for filling my glass.
The music’s still playing from Victoria’s phone. Christmas songs about love infiltrate the air surrounding us.
We gaze at each other for several seconds without uttering a word. A charged intensity penetrates my pupils from his blackening ones, causing butterflies in my stomach to flutter, swirl and soar. Dark irises beckon. Like the smoothest, silkiest chocolate, I know he’d taste amazing, but he’s so not good for my health.
Muscular arms extend. Fingers tentatively search for mine. Heat pulses through me. I can’t decide if I’m blazing with anger, or lust. Both probably. But I can’t even berate myself for it because the man is not only my first and only love, but he’s a fucking rockstar.
