“I assumed Roarke would collect me,” I say as I step out and lock the door.
“I wanted to,” he replies.
I almost blush.
We walk down the corridor together without speaking, and when we reach the courtyard, his car is already waiting. He opens the passenger door himself. I pause for half a second, then get in.
He slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.
The city thins quickly once we head north. Brick gives way to stone. Shops give way to terraces and then to wider roads lined with trees that bend slightly toward the coast. I watch the skyline fall behind us in the rearview mirror. “Do they know about me?” I ask.
“My mother knows I’m bringing someone,” he says, eyes on the road. “That’s enough.”
“And your sister?”
“She’ll pretend not to analyze you. She will anyway.”
“And your uncle?”
“He’ll decide in ten minutes whether he likes you.”
I glance out the window as the road curves upward, the sea appearing in flashes between buildings.
Howth rises ahead of us slowly, cliffs cutting against the sky, houses scattered along the slopes. The harbor comes into view, boats rocking gently in their berths, the water bright under the afternoon light. It’s beautiful in the way old romance novels are. “You grew up here,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t feel like the rest of your world.”
“It isn’t.”
We pass through the village center, small cafés and shops lining the street, then turn onto a narrower road that climbs higher. The houses grow larger but not extravagant. Solid. Weathered. Built to last.
He slows as we approach a stone house set back slightly from the road, ivy creeping along one wall, a low fence marking the boundary. Behind it I can see a small yard that slopes toward the water, the harbor visible in the distance.
“That’s it,” he says.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
It’s not intimidating. That’s what makes it worse.
It looks like somewhere real. He pulls into the gravel drive and kills the engine. For a moment, neither of us moves. “You nervous?” he asks.
“Should I be?”
He turns to look at me fully now. “No,” he says. “Just be yourself.”
I hold his gaze. “You’re sure that’s what you want?” I ask.
He studies me for a long beat, then reaches over and brushes his thumb lightly along my collarbone, just once.
“Yes.”
The front door opens before either of us steps out.
A woman stands there, watching us from the threshold. Cillian opens his door. “Ready?” he asks.
I swallow once and nod. “Yes.”
