“He's just teaching me how to cook,” she says innocently.
“Is that what we're calling it now?” Bronwyn mutters, grinning.
I press a kiss against Bianca's neck, just because I can. Just because she's here, she's mine, and I'll never let her go.
“If I cut my finger, it's your fault,” she mutters.
I step back, letting her work, but give her one more parting kiss on the shoulder.
I watch as she laughs with Bronwyn, as Aunt Caitlin tells her stories about Seamus and me as boys, as Erin wanders in and starts debating the merits of different potato varieties with the kind of intensity most people reserve for much more serious decisions.
Zoya comes in with a baby on her hip, and two more of her and Seamus’s children sidle up to the table for sweets from Bianca.
This is something I never thought I'd have—a woman who fits into the family likeshe belongs here.
“She's good for you.” Seamus appears beside me, leaning at my elbow with a Guinness, and hands one to me. We clink them together.
“I never thought I'd see the day,” he says.
“I know,” I say quietly. “Remember when you asked me if I liked lads?”
He chuckles under his breath.
“I do.” He takes a long pull of his drink. “You better not break her heart. McCarthys are not in the business of breaking girls' hearts or breaking vows. You know that.”
“I know, Seamus. I know. I'm keeping this girl, if she'll have me.”
“Oh, she'll have you,” he says with a laugh. “She looks at you as if you're the savior himself.”
He takes another swig of his beer. “Just don't fuck it up.”
“Helpful advice, as always.” I sip my drink.
“I'm a helpful man.” He claps me on the shoulder and wanders off to find his wife.
I turn back to watch Bianca. She catches me staring and smiles, that shy, beautiful smile that makes my chest tight.
Keeping her. That's one way to put it.
I takeher to the training room in the basement after we have supper, where Seamus and I spar to work out the tension and rage that come with this life.
“We're going to do a little practice on how to defend yourself,” I tell her. “Just in case I'm ever not there, right?”
“I don't understand,” she says, looking around at the mats, the punching bags, and the weights. “You're always with me. You barely even let anybody look at me sideways.”
“I'm not omnipresent,” I tell her, moving behind her and adjusting her stance.
“Oh, using the big words now, are we?”
I slap her arse hard, and she giggles.
“Now listen. You plant your feet shoulder-width apart. Good. When you throw a punch, you don't just use your arm. Use your whole body. Put everything into it.”
I guide her through the motion, my hands on her hips, turning her into it. She's focused, determined, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“Like this?” She throws a punch at the bag, and it barely moves, dust puffing from the edge.
“Come on, love, you can do better than that. You know you can.”
