Page 22

Róisín wipes at her eyes with the back of her wrist, still grinning like a cat. “Did you, though?”

I fix her with a look. “I did indeed.”

Róisín reaches across the table and nudges my pile of stripped switches into a neater stack, like she’s tidying my thoughts as well as my work.

“Listen,” she says, voice softening. “He is ridiculous. Ye’re right.”

“Thank you.”

“But he’s also not cruel,” she adds. “And he’s not daft, even if he acts it.”

I open my mouth, then close it again, because I can’t argue with that without lying.

Róisín picks up another length of twine and starts binding again, calm as anything. “So, we’ll hang birch and rowan at every door. Fern for the byres. Gorse where it’ll prick the unlucky out. Primrose for happiness.”

I pick up a primrose stem and start sorting the blooms into a neat pile, because there’s work to do, and because if I keep my hands busy, my face might stop feeling hot.

“He’ll be at the games later,” Róisín says, as if it’s an afterthought.

“I ken.”

Róisín’s smile returns, slow and knowing, but kinder now. “Try not to look like you want to strangle him.”

“I dinnae want to strangle him.”

Róisín’s eyes glitter. “Try not to look like you want to do anything else either, then.”

Something in me snaps—pure mortification, and maybe a sliver of spite. I grab a fistful of trimmings and lob it at her before I can think better of it. It thumps her square in the chest and explodes into a ridiculous scatter of green across her tidy table.

Her face is a happy mix of shock and delight, like she’s witnessed a miracle.

Then she bursts out laughing, and the kitchen fills with it, bright as any need-fire.

I busy my hands at once. Anything to keep my face from giving me away. And when Róisín’s laughter tapers into dangerous, knowing silence, I do the only sensible thing.

I change the subject.

“Have you seen the American the fellas brought home with them?” I ask, as casually as I can manage. “I’d never met him properly before this visit. He’s been in and out on short visits, but he’s here to stay for now.”

Róisín snorts. “Why would I care?”

“Because,” I say, lifting a shoulder as if it’s nothing at all, “ye only got back last night. I was curious if ye’d even laid eyes on him yet.” Then I lean in, lowering my voice like I’m sharing gossip worth its weight. “And because he’s tall—with that sun-kissed skin you love. Dark hair that never quite stays where it’s put, like he’s run his hands through it one too many times. Broad-shouldered, well built, but easy with it—not stiff or showy. The sort of man who looks strong without ever needing to prove it.”

I keep my eyes on hers, watching for the smallest slip. “Clear eyes. Always watchin’, always amused. And his accent…” I trail off, then wave a hand. “It makes even nonsense sound worth listenin’ to. Soft where you don’t expect it, warm all the way through.”

Róisín’s mouth stills.

“He smiles constantly,” I add, as if that’s a flaw. “Not the false sort. The kind that pulls people in before they realise it’s happened. He jests without ever tryin’ too hard, and somehow everyone around him feels cleverer for laughin’ along.”

I shrug. “You can tell he kens how to make himself welcome.”

“I said I don’t care,” she replies, but not even she believes that.

I smile to myself. “Róisín,” I say gently, “I’ve kent yer type for many years.”

She shoots me an incredulous look.

“All I’m saying,” I add, “is you might want to turn around you before you start declaring things you don’t mean.”