Page 91 of Wicked Ruin

“I had a biscuit. Another cup of tea,” I say. “Listen, I don't usually have trouble eating, but I am pregnant, and things just don't sit right at the moment.”

“Alright.” He folds his arms across his chest. “What sounds good right now?”

“Fish and chips,” I say with a shrug. “Sounds delicious.”

Fish and chips it is. Thirty minutes later, a steaming plate of greasy fish and chips sits on my kitchen table, and my mouth is watering just looking at it. I douse it liberally with vinegar and a sprinkle of salt as he sits across from me, watching approvingly.

I glance at him over the rim of my mug as I take a sip of tea—this man with scars on his knuckles, looking at me like I am the only one in the world who matters to him. “Stay, Declan.” He nods and drinks his tea.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

So we spend the afternoon doing nothing, which turns out to be magnificent. He sits on my sofa with his long legs stretched out, reading something on his phone, and I tuck myself onto the other end with a book and a blanket. At one point, he absentmindedly reaches over and tucks the blanket more firmly around me. The rain comes back against the window, and neither of us feels the need to fill the silence.

Later, I make cheese toast because it's the only thing that sounds remotely edible, and he eats all of his and half of mine when I can only manage a few bites.

“What's the worst meal you've ever had?” I ask.

“Christ. There was some function room in Boston, and they served this fish. Absolutely disgusting. Nothing like here,” he says.

“Like caviar?”

“Like the kind of fish they bring out that still has the eyeballs and scales on it.”

“Oh god, stop,” I say, grabbing my belly before I get sick—but I'm laughing, and I have to put my head on the table.

“I'm serious,” he says with a grimace. “It looked at me. The fish made eye contact.”

“That's normal in some cultures,” I say.

“So is roasting a pig over an open fire, but you don't see me doing that in my back garden, do you?”

I laugh out loud.

“You're in the Irish mafia, Declan. You've done unspeakable things, and you're frightened of a fish that made eye contact with you?”

“I didn't say I was afraid of it. I just said I didn't want to eat it. There's a difference.”

I shake my head, still smiling. I don't want to examine this too closely, because if I do, I'll want it all the time, and I won't handle it very well when he's not here anymore. But right now, he's sitting across from me at my little table, and it feels right.

“Hey,” he says.

I look up. He's watching me with that steady, unhurried gaze. He reaches across the table for my hand, and I let him take it.

“We're grand, you and I,” he says.

“Grand,” I agree—the word feels hollow, yet still gives me reason to hope.

Later, I fall asleep on the sofa, with my head on his lap and his hand moving through my hair. I can hear his breathing slow and steady above me.

Except I'm not asleep.

And neither is he.

His hand stills, then starts again, slower. Fingers trace the curve of my ear, the line of my jaw, like he's trying to memorize something. The room is quiet in a way that feels deliberate, as if we've both agreed, without words, to stay inside this moment a little longer. To not name what's outside it.

“Is ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine,” he says quietly, more to himself than to me.

I stare at him.