Page 9 of Wicked Ruin

“I know,” I say, and somehow the bluntness of it is the most comforting thing anyone has said to me all week. Everyone else tries to look at the positive side of things, remind me of what I should be grateful for, and it’s getting old. Erin’s pragmatic and supportive, but busy these days.

I've polished off the bread without noticing. Mam would be proud. She’s always harping on me to eat more.

He reaches into the bag, pops the top off a Coke, and hands it to me.

“That was your drink at the club, wasn't it?” he says, with a small smile that does crazy things to my heartbeat.

“It was. Thank you.” My heart keeps doing something inconvenient, and I'd rather it didn't because Declan McCarthy might be the most commanding man I've ever had in a room with me, and I know better than to find that comforting.

I gulp the soup. “Right. And why are you… here?”

Well, that was dumb.

He shrugs, but it's a careful shrug, the kind that's doing a lot of work. “Cavin and Erin are married. You're family, more or less. Seemed like the right thing.”

I look at him. Declan McCarthy does not do things by half measure, and I'd bet everything I have that he doesn't make casual hospital visits unless there's a reason. “But that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

He holds my gaze. “I thought we were friends.”

“Is that what we are?”

“You're sick,” he says. “And after that night at the club, I couldn't stop thinking about you walking back in there and making a decision you'd regret. Some fucking choice you'd make alone, without—” He stops, setting down his drink. “I didn't like the thought of it.”

“Right. So you came to check on me.”

“I came,” he says slowly, leaning forward, “because you said something that night that I haven't been able to let go of. And because there are some things—” He exhales. “I feel an obligation to… I dunno, watch over you.”

So not friends. An obligation. “What exactly does that mean?” I'm trying not to be offended, but I’m doing a piss-poor job of it because a part of me is hurt. Crushed really.

“I'm not a kid who needs watching over.”

“I know,” he says. “But I don't want you going to The Craic alone, and something tells me if I don't… make sure you understand that, that's exactly what you're going to do. So I'm proposing that if you go, you call me. I’ll make sure you get home in one piece.”

I sit up straighter and cross my arms on my chest. “I didn't sign up for a bodyguard.”

His jaw flexes. “Maybe you ought to.”

My whole body makes a decision my brain immediately vetoes. I try to hide the pounding of my heartbeat and look away.

“That's my club,” he goes on. “And you don’t just waltz in alone.”

“Thought it was Cavin's. And I'm not yours to boss around.”

Why did I just say that? When his eyes darken, I push on nervously. “Listen, Declan. Everywhere I go, every damn day, someone's telling me what to do. Drink this. Take this. No strenuous exercise. And now you're walking in here, trying to take the one thing that's mine and monitor it.”

He sighs and leans back in his chair. “It's not like that.”

“It's exactly like that.”

“Right then. Alright.” He runs a hand through his hair, which makes him look instantly younger, almost innocent. “I just think you deserve better.”

“Deserve better? And what do you think I deserve?”

“To kick this disease straight in the bollocks. To be…”—he leans back, thinking—“you know, spoiled and treated well, taken to fancy dinners and shopping and…”

“I’m more of a picnic girl,” I say quickly. Maybe too quickly. Was it too quick?

“Aye,” he says, warming to the subject. He leans in closer, and he smells so damn good. I love it when his eyes light up. “Then you deserve that. Picnics in pretty baskets, with good food and flowers in your hair.” My heart is racing, and this time I don’t think it’s the medication.