What was that thing? Occam’s Razor. The simplest explanation is usually the right one. And in this case,the simplest explanation was that Jax was not part of my world.
“You don’t believe that gobshite, do you, Dee?” Ronan came up to me and put a hand on my shoulder.
I forced a shaky laugh, trying to brush it off. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”
“It doesn’t look like you’re fine.” He stepped closer. “What exactly did he say?”
I shook my head, turning away. “Just drop it, Ronan.”
“Dee,” he said firmly, his voice gentler this time. “Talk to me.”
I bit my lip, my hands gripping the edge of the bar as I tried to keep my emotions in check. “Like Liam and Seamus said, he showed me some photos,” I whispered. “Of Jax. With the developers.”
Ronan frowned. “And you believed him? Cillian? Come on, Dee. That man couldn’t tell the truth if it bit him on the arse.”
“But the photos….” I trailed off, my voice breaking. “They were real, Ronan. And it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why else would Jax be here? Why else would someone like him care about a place like this? It’s not his world.”
“You’re letting Cillian get into your head,” Ronan said gently. “Jax isn’t like him.”
I wanted to believe him.
God, I did!
But the doubt had already taken root, wrapping itself around every insecurity I’d ever had.
“Why would someone like Jax want me, Ronan?” I asked, my voice trembling. “I’m not a glamorous supermodel or jet-setting celebrity. I’m just…me. A woman with a crumbling pub and a pile of debt. What could I possibly offer him?”
Ronan’s jaw clenched. “Dee, don’t do this. Don’t let Cillian win,” he warned.
But it was too late. The cracks in my heart had already started to widen, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop the flood of doubt and pain that poured through them.
“I need some air,” I muttered, grabbing my coat and heading for the door before Ronan could stop me.
As I stepped outside into the cold, I wrapped my arms around myself.
Cillian was probably lying. That’s what he did. Jax wasn’t involved with the developers.But what if he was?
CHAPTER 27
Jax
Two weeks.
That’s how long I’d been gone. Fourteen days that felt like a damn eternity.
I’d barely made it through the endorsement meetings in London, let alone the nightmare, which was the Dublin event where Francia showed up. Talk about drama. Give me honest-to-God snake versus puppy theater any day over Francia pretending to be hurt because I cheated on her.
“Maybe just talk to the press,” Brad suggested.
“I will not discuss my personal life with the media,” I gave him my canned response.
The thing was that if you did it once, they expected you to do it again. If you just didn’t talk about your life and only stuck to golf, no matter what, they couldn’t hold you hostage. Also, I didn’t give a flying fuck ifpeople thought I cheated on Francia. Could not care less.
By the time I got to Cork, all I could think about was driving up to Ballybeg—and her.
I’d left Nikolai’s Porsche in Cork on my way to London and had arranged to have it delivered to him in Copenhagen.
For the winding, narrow roads of County Clare, I’d rented something more practical—a Land Rover Defender. It wasn’t flashy, but it could handle the rugged countryside and unpredictable weather better than any sports car ever could.
