Page 59 of Wicked Ruin

Why do I hate that fucking thumbs-up emoji so much?

I find our table at the back. She's frowning at her phone when I arrive, but she puts it face down and smiles when she sees me. It’s a practiced smile. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her caught off guard.

She looks pretty, I guess. Dressed in an expensive gown, long earrings, her hair straight and shiny, not a bit out of place. This is the kind of place with dim lighting, someone playing a violin in the distance, and no prices on the menu.

“Hi,” she says. “How are you?”

I sit across from her. “Fine. Good meeting with Seamus today. We're discussing the details of the visit to your family in New York.”

“Yes, my mother wanted to solidify those plans as well. She's made arrangements. She wants to take you to a few places, have you meet our family. How familiar are you with New York?”

“A little. I was in Boston on and off for a couple of years, made a few trips down to visit friends.”

Our server comes over. Valentina orders some type of tofu dish with roasted vegetables. I have the undeniable desire to order the largest steak on the menu, but I glance at the menu and find there's no steak. In fact, I'm not even sure there's meat, unless venison or kangaroo counts.

Christ. Maybe I will meet Lorcan at the chippy after. I finally settle on a pasta dish and muster up something approaching enthusiasm.

“Would you like a basket of bread?” our server says, smiling.

“Of course,” I say, at the same time Valentina says “No.”

Her brow rises. “You eat bread?”

“I think most civilizations eat bread.”

Bridget

I don't want to go to the doctor.

My chest thumps. I type back without thinking.

This isn't a request anymore, Bridget. For Christ's sake, you ought to know better. Fucking GO

Valentina purses her lips and looks at me. I can't shake the feeling that whenever she's with me, she's somewhere she'd rather not be.

That makes two of us.

“I hear some of your cousins fight,” she says. “Are you into that…”—she waves her hand and makes a small face—“bare-knuckle fighting? It sounds barbaric.”

“I was trained with all the lads at St. Albert's,” I say. “But I'm not as into it as my brothers and cousins.” Which is a diplomatic way of saying Ashland and Cavin can kick my arse at boxing. I can hold my own in other things.

“Do you exercise?” she asks.

What kind of conversation is this? Is she going to ask me if I floss my teeth and take my vitamins next?

“Yeah.” Does she need me to strip off my shirt and demonstrate? I'm a fucking McCarthy. We hold our own. “There's a gym in town.”

“I thought that was a warehouse,” Valentina says.

“They converted it,” I say. “Nice facility now.”

“Mm.” A small, polite sound. “I do Pilates and Bikram Yoga,” she says.

“Okay.” A long, awkward silence stretches between us.

“What about hobbies?” I ask haltingly, unable to shake this strange feeling that we’re two people who both speak English yet don’t speak the same language. “Other than… riding.”

“Cooking. Do you like cooking, Declan?”