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I tell myself I’ll remain untouched by any of it.

Then James appears at the far end of the green, and my attention goes to him before I can call it back.

There he is, sleeves rolled, hair already escaping its tie, moving with that infuriating ease that makes everything about him look effortless. He laughs at something Robert says, head tipping back, wholly unguarded. Alex stands with them too, tall and unfairly handsome, gesturing through a story clearly meant to win every eye nearby.

And that’s the extent of what I notice.

It’s only his looks that catch me. The forearms, the hair, the way his mouth curves when he laughs. Anyone would notice. It would be foolish not to. There’s nothing deeper in it than that.

It can’t possibly be the way he always steps in with a hand before anyone has to ask. Nor the steadiness in him, or the softness that slips into his voice when he speaks to folk others overlook.

None of that has anything to do with the way my pulse stumbles when he moves.

It’s merely that he has the unfair advantage of standing in the sunlight.

And I can resist a handsome face. I’m not some lass who goes soft over the gleam in a man’s eye.

Róisín hovers near the women’s cluster, and the way she angles her body tells me she’s listening even before she turns her head. She catches my gaze and her mouth curves, wicked and delighted, as if we share a private jest.

I give her a look that says behave.

She looks back as if to say she’s heard me perfectly, but has no intention whatsoever of listening.

The race is called, and the men line up, boots digging into turf, bare forearms flashing as they stretch and jostle. A ribbon is held aloft at the far end of the green, the prize small enough to be ridiculous—a coin, a kiss, the kind of bragging rights that last until supper and no longer.

They bolt at the shout.

My eyes track James without permission.

He doesn’t sprint like a boy, desperate to prove himself. He runs with an easy confidence, knowing his body, knowing the land under his feet, measuring his breath and pace as if he has already decided the outcome belongs to him. He is not the fastest out of the gate, but he gains, slowly and relentlessly, until there’s no doubt left at all.

When he wins—because of course he does—he slows with control instead of collapsing, hands braced briefly on his thighs as his chest rises and falls. Sweat darkens the open collar of his shirt, and I feel, irrationally, as if I can hear it over the crowd.

His gaze lifts.

Not to the crowd. Not to the men slapping his back.

To me.

It’s brief, barely more than a brush of attention, but it lands like a hand at the small of my back, warm and deliberate. I tighten my arms across my chest and hold my expression steady, refusing to smile, refusing to give him even the smallest acknowledgment.

His mouth curves anyway, as if he’s pleased with himself for reasons that have nothing to do with winning.

Arrogant. Impossible. Undeniably and infuriatingly charming.

A shriek of laughter cuts through the noise, high and breathless. One of the younger Sutherland girls darts forward before anyone can stop her. She’s all ribbons and boldness, cheeks flushed from cheering. James straightens in time for her to rise on her toes and plant a quick, triumphant kiss on his cheek.

He startles, clearly not expecting it, hands half-lifting as if unsure where to put them. The men howl with approval. The girl beams as though she’s claimed a trophy of her own.

Something ugly and uninvited knots low in my stomach. Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous. It means nothing. A child’s prize for a boy’s race.

And yet my blood boils all the same.

Before he can laugh it off, before he can step back, before his eyes can search the crowd and find mine and know that I saw, I turn on my heel and push through the bodies, the music and smoke swallowing me whole.

“Gods above,” Róisín says at my elbow, practically purring with delight. “That was some kiss, wasn’t it?”

I smack her shoulder without breaking stride. “Ye’re insufferable.”