Page 72 of Wicked Ruin

“You're very cute when you're stern.” I smile at her. “But you're not going to get that way with me, Bridge.”

“Oh, you just wait,” she says, but she's about as terrifying as a small child, and I can hardly school my features into anything resembling gravity. Her brow is furrowed, her chin lifted, the full performance of authority from a woman currently wearing a fitted white tee with an image of six-pack abs and a lacy bra on it.

“If you don't sit down, I'm putting you back in bed,” she says, marrying her words with a look that is meant to be withering but lands somewhere closer to adorable. “If you don’t, I'll call Cavin back.”

I’m biting the inside of my cheek.

I try to scoff, but Cavin, when he gets going, is genuinely difficult to deal with. There's a reason the man runs half of Ballyhock without raising his voice.

“And your father,” she says, laying on one threat after another, pulling them out like cards from a deck. I notice she's got her mobile in her hand. “Cormac is on my recent calls.”

When I don’t comply, she tacks on another. “And Seamus,” she finishes.

Oh, for Christ's sake. Between my father, Cavin, and Seamus, she's assembled the three men most capable of making my life a misery without breaking a sweat. I have to go back to bed.

“Good job,” she says, with a smile and a fucking hair flip. Why does she have to be so cute about it? It feels wrong—relying on her like this, letting her fuss over me when I know the reality of what's between us—knowing what's waiting for me on the other side of this hospital room.

I shouldn't be this glad to have her here. I shouldn't be living for a sliver of her approval, like it's the only light in the room. It's dangerous. All of it.

“Your mother’s sweet,” she says with a smile. “I wouldn’t get her involved with harnessing your arse.”

“My mother? When were you talking to my mother?”

“When you were passed out. I never did get my ice cream, so she bought me some.”

I stare at her. “Really?”

“Really.” She's grinning now—bright and warm and entirely too pleased with herself.

“Ice cream?”

“Aye,” she confirms. “I'll get you some if you behave yourself and stay in bed.”

“Fine.” I wag a finger at her from my very dignified position against the pillows. “But I won't forget you bossin’ me around.”

“You'll forget this,” she says, because she knows me well enough to know I absolutely will not. “Besides, you're not mine to remember things, are you? Friends. Just friends.”

Pushing herself to her feet, she brushes her hands against her legs as if straightening the fabric. “I’ll… go get you something to eat?”

I nod. “Please.” When was the last time I ate?

Just friends. Why have I never hated those words more in my life?

Just friends. Right. Grand.

I don't have long to sit with it. The nurse appears in the doorway a few minutes later, adjusting something at the end of my chart, then looks up with a practiced smile.

“Mr. McCarthy, your fiancée is here.”

I thought by now they knew⁠—

Then Valentina stands in the hallway, reserved and immaculate, holding carnations wrapped in paper so stiff they crinkle when she breathes. She surveys the room the way she surveys most things, with a polite, baffled distance, as though she has wandered into the wrong building and is still deciding whether to mention it.

“I came to check on you.” She steps into the room and sets the carnations on the windowsill. “Seamus said you were getting along just fine, but it was a nasty accident, wasn't it.” Not a question. She says it the way she says most things—like a memo she's been asked to deliver, which has indeed been delivered.

“That was very thoughtful of you,” I tell her. “Thank you for the flowers.” Why does every interaction feel like the inside of a greeting card?

Carnations. She didn't ask. She wouldn't. Silence falls between us.