Page 27 of Wicked Ruin

I check my phone for the hundredth time. No text. What the hell am I expecting? Bridget holding a feckin’ “Welcome Home” sign when I’ve done everything right and good to keep a safe distance?

I slide the phone into my back pocket and wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t sold my damn soul to the devil. It’s too late now though.

I let out a long, slow breath and push open the back door.

I’ve got this. I can compartmentalize with the best of them because I have to. Because I’m Declan McCarthy, and my family’s depending on me. I’ll die before I let them down. Because if I fuck this up, I⁠—

I crash into a bundle of ginger hair and a wet towel. On instinct, I reach out to steady her—and find my hands planted firmly on Bridget’s bare fucking skin.

What the actual fuck is this woman wearing? Or, more accurately… not wearing? Now that I've knocked her towel clean off her, she's in a bikini that barely covers anything.

“Declan!” she says, her eyes lighting up. Her cheeks flush a deep pink, and she scrambles for her towel, but it's too late. Too late for me not to notice the way her figure’s filled out, to see the warmth in her face and how she's bloomed into herself since I last saw her.

My fucking god. Bridget Kavanagh has come into her own, and she is goddamn stunning.

“Did I hurt you?” she asks, leaning in close. She smells like chlorine and sun and something sweet and floral.

“I'm fine,” I tell her. I want to say more than that. I want to say a thousand things I've been carrying since I left. Instead, I reach for the only safe thing. My voice breaks. “Christ, woman. It's good to see you.”

And then we're hugging, and she fits in my arms the way she always has, tucked right under my chin, warm, solid, and real.

Mine, something in me says, a word I have no business thinking. We hold on longer than is proper, and when I hear her sniff, I pull back and stare at her.

She's not crying, not exactly, but her eyes have gone misty. “Look at me,” she says, shaking her head and blinking rapidly. “I just didn't know how much I missed you, alright? Everyone's busy, and nobody—nobody hugs me like that.” Now she's laughing and crying at the same time, and I can’t help myself. I lean in, drag her close, and kiss her forehead.

“You ought to be hugged like that daily.”

“Declan—”

Then we both pull away in the same moment, because if anybody saw…

She's barely dressed, and we're too close, and this is wrong on so many levels.

“Hey,” I say, my voice raspy. Her hair is damp and tangled, falling across her face, and before I can stop myself, I reach over and tuck a strand behind her ear. “You've had a rough go?” She needs more than a proper hug. She needs someone to watch over her, to care for her, to listen and protect, to⁠—

No.

“I'm fine,” she says in that wobbly voice that means she is anything but. “Fine.”

I want to kiss her. I want to wrap my arms around her, pull her back into my chest, and show her what a kiss can be—what it should have been years ago. But I don't. Of course I don't. Because it wouldn't be right. Wouldn't be proper.

And I can’t break the fucking promise I made—the one that was meant to save her, even if it destroys me.

She's standing a few feet away, and it feels like too much distance and not nearly enough.

I'd convinced myself it wouldn't be like this. That it’s been long enough to cool whatever I imagined between us, that I could be in the same room as her and still stay in one piece.

I was wrong. So fucking wrong.

I drag a hand across my brow.

“How've you been? Like, health-wise?”

She smiles, and it reaches her eyes before it reaches her mouth. “Nothing’s really changed since the last text. The doc says never been better.” A small pause. “We need to catch up, Dec.”

We both know it would be a terrible idea, but we both still nod like fools.

I should tell her she's looking well and send her on her way.