Page 28 of Wicked Ruin

But the time I have left to spend anywhere near Bridget is closing fast, and it feels like sand slipping through my fingers.

Her gaze holds mine. “Erin says they're having a bit of a coming-home party for you tonight. The unofficial one, after the formal family thing. Everyone's going to The Craic?”

Jealousy rises like a rabid beast, threatening to betray me. I tamp it down, close the lid, and lock it.

“You say that very casually.” My voice comes out more accusatory than I intend. “Is that where you go on weekends? You've got friends there? You're going out? Tell me Cavin at least puts a fucking guard on you.”

Christ, listen to me. Lecturing her for living her life, when god knows she's got more life to live than I have any right to comment on.

She smiles, obviously pleased at my reaction, because Bridget’s never known what’s good for her. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

Neither has she.

She leans in, her voice dropping to a heated whisper. “And the answer is no. I haven’t.” She laughs. “Do you really think I’d frequent a sex club my sister and brother-in-law go to? Gross.” Her nose wrinkles adorably, and she smacks my arm. I’ll admit, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Christ, Declan, get it together.

“Don't listen to me.” I shake my head. “I mean, you could if you⁠—”

“I haven't,” she says. Her gorgeous eyes flash like fire. “Haven't darkened the door of the feckin’ club since you left, you know.”

I shove my hands in my pockets. “Just as well, then.”

She tips her head, something shifting behind her expression. “But since there's a party tonight, I could—you know. Go.”

A beat passes. I don’t respond.

Her cheeks turn pink. “Erin said I should get out a bit. I think she's worried I don't really have much of a social life.” She lifts a shoulder. “I don't care.”

“I could pick you up,” I hear myself say. My voice is still too husky. “If you'd like.”

Her face lights up in that way it does—genuine, unguarded, a little too much for my chest to handle comfortably. But then she shakes her head. “I told Erin I’d go with her.”

Right. Right, of course, and I can’t fucking show up with her like she’s my date.

What am I thinking?

“But maybe you can drive me home?” she offers. “I don’t want to stay too long.” She giggles, and it’s so fucking adorable. “Then I can drink if you're driving.”

“You know me,” I say. “Always the designated driver.”

”Oh, that's right,” she says, eyes sparking as she looks up at me. “Declan McCarthy. Straight as a fucking arrow.”

That's me. I earned that reputation once. Seems I'll be earning it again.

“See you later, then?” she says, tipping her head to the side—and then she does this thing. My fucking god, she does this thing where she gathers her hair between her fingers and wrings the last of the water from it, then scrubs the ends with her towel so she doesn't soak the floor. Just that. Towel-drying her hair, and it’s the most inadvertently sexual thing I have ever witnessed in my life.

I am embarrassingly hard watching Bridget Kavanagh dry her hair with a goddamn towel, and I have no idea how I'm going to survive tonight.

But I am going to survive it. And I am going to enjoy every second of it—because tonight might be the last time I get to have her close.

Chapter Six

BRIDGET

I can't believe Declan's back. He looks better than ever, and just seeing him—just being near him again—reignites all sorts of things I've worked very, very hard to keep banked.

Goddamn it.