by Mia Sheridan
"Why?" he hissed.
I jerked back slightly. "Why what?"
"Why haven't you been with another man in all this time?" He stood suddenly and stuffed his hands in his pockets, turning toward the window.
"Maybe I didn't find the experience particularly pleasant. Maybe I haven't been eager to repeat it."
He didn't turn, didn't react to what I'd said. I wasn’t sure if he really wanted the truth here, or whether it was to satisfy some morbid curiosity. I released a slow breath, biting my lip. "I don't know. I guess I just haven't met anyone it went that far with. Between my dad passing, and the problems with the company . . . I just . . . my focus hasn't really been on dating."
"But before that?" he asked, still not turning. There was a note of something I wasn't sure how to define in his voice. Almost a sad weariness.
I swallowed. Before that . . . I waved my hand around. "Before that, I realized it was much more fun playing games with a whole handful of boys than just one," I lied. "More fun being a tease than actually giving in." It seemed to be what he wanted to believe and he wouldn't get the truth from me. Not under these circumstances. He already had enough leverage against me, plenty to hurt me with. I would not give him more.
He turned after several tense moments, his jaw ticking. "I see."
No, you don't. I nodded, standing and walking to the door where I opened it and then crossed my arms, waiting for him to leave my room. "You shouldn't keep Anna waiting. I'm sure she's wondering where you snuck off to in the middle of the night."
"Anna's gone."
"Well that was . . . fast."
He studied me from where he stood by the window for several tense seconds before tilting his head minutely, his eyes narrowing as he walked toward me. I willed myself to stand still, not to look away as he approached me. When he got within a foot, I dropped my arms and backed up slightly, my back hitting the wall next to the door. I wished he wasn't so tall. Standing this close to me, I was forced to tip my head back and look up at him giving him an unfair advantage. I stiffened my spine. "We took such alternate paths after that day, princess." He stepped right up to me, leaning toward my ear. I felt his warm breath fan my neck and shivered slightly. Unconsciously, I inhaled to catch his scent before I realized what I'd done. I remembered him smelling salty with sweat when I'd known him before. I'd loved it. It had spoken to my body in some primitive way my mind didn't understand completely but thrilled at all the same. He didn't smell like sweat anymore, though. Now, he was a man who looked as if he'd smell like some expensive cologne. But even this close, I could only detect clean skin and soap. But of course, Brogan Ramsay wouldn't wear cologne, would he . . .?
"My family was completely destitute, see. We couldn't even put food on the table after your brother kicked us out." I closed my eyes. Oh God. Oh, Brogan, no.
He leaned back slightly and ran one finger down my cheek as he shrugged. "You ever feel hunger, princess? Real gut-wrenching hunger? The kind that makes you want to pick a fistful of grass and eat it just to stop the incessant painful gnawing in your stomach?" I let out a gasp of anguish and Brogan's lips tipped up. "Oh, I don't want your pity, princess. See, I had a few things going for me. As it turns out, there was a whole slew of rich, married women in New York City willing to pay good money for a vigorous fuck with a young, strong boy." My eyes widened, shock cutting through me like a blade as I stared into the angry, ice-blue depths of his eyes. "I was able to support my family fucking in hot tubs, limos, once on the bar of an exclusive dinner club after hours." He smiled but it didn't come anywhere near his eyes. "In so many delicious positions. You have no idea, princess. Would it shock you to know I loved every minute of it?"
I stared at him, the expression on his face challenging and cold and yet . . . his eyes were filled with . . . stark pain, something I imagined he didn't even realize was there. It prompted me to recall things I'd once noticed about him. I'd been fascinated by the way his senses seemed so . . . acute. I had never asked him about it, but then the one time we were together, when I'd touched him, I'd known I was right. He was lying to me now. I wasn't certain if I should trust my gut on that or not—it'd been so long since I'd spent any time with Brogan. But I didn't think that sort of thing changed. "It must have been very difficult for you," I murmured.
Confusion washed over his features as he took one step back. "Difficult?" He attempted a smirk. "Hardly."
"All those women . . ." I tilted my head sucking on my bottom lip for a moment as I watched him closely. His eyes leapt to my mouth and then quickly back to my eyes. "All the smells, the textures, the way they must have clawed at you . . . It must have been very difficult for you."
He froze, his expression arrested as he took another step backward like I was a venomous snake who had struck out at him. I felt no satisfaction in the wound I knew I'd just inflicted, only sorrow.
"Ya know nothin' about me," he said, but his voice was raspy, his accent suddenly appearing and betraying some emotion I wasn't sure I could put my finger on.
"Don't I, Brogan? I did once. Once, we were friends," I said softly. And for me, more. Much more.
He laughed. "Ya were a spoiled little princess who thought slummin' it with the gardener's son a time or two made us friends? Is that what ya thought? We were never friends. We fucked once and that's it. And as ya said, it wasn't even very satisfyin'."
"Don't make it dirty, Brogan. Please don't do that," I said, a hitch in my voice that I couldn't hide.
"Why not? Isn't that what ya did by settin' me up? It was dirty before it ever began, Lydia, wasn't it? A dirty trick."
I shook my head. "I know but I—"
Brogan stepped forward, swearing softly. "I promised myself I wasn't gona discuss this with ya." He stepped closer, staring me down. "You're an employee of mine now, nothin' more."
I lifted my chin. I would not cry. I had survived worse than this. Brogan thought I was still a self-serving princess. And yes, perhaps I had been. Once. Perhaps I had been petty and maybe even unknowingly cruel, an insatiable flirt who didn't always consider the feelings of others. A princess who played games instead of being honest about my feelings. But I had been a teenager. He was a full-grown man now, and if treating me this way was going to give him something he needed, then let him have it, whatever it was. Suddenly I was too drained and weary to care.
Our gazes held for long moments and I swore I saw something intense—yearning—in his eyes, and it made my heart clench.
I opened my mouth to say something, to try to make some sort of peace between us. But then Brogan's expression went carefully blank, and he stepped back once more. "I'm having a cocktail party this weekend," he said evenly, enunciating every word. I blinked as my mind struggled to catch up to the change in topic. "A housewarming of sorts. I'll need you to work it. The caterers will be here Saturday morning to begin setting up, along with the band and the florist. I won't be back until then."
"O-okay. And what should I do until Saturday?"
"I'm sure you'll come up with something." With that he turned and walked out the door.
I fell back against the wall, tilting my head up as tears filled my eyes and blurred the high ceilings above me. I'd known what happened that day must have hurt his pride deeply, had understood the overwhelming anger it must have caused. But I hadn't known he'd suffered the way he'd just described. All these years, when I thought of him, I hadn't imagined he still carried such raw pain. God, Brogan, I didn't know. I didn't know it still hurt so much.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lydia – Sixteen Years Old
The rain beat against the library window. I tilted my head, leaning my cheek against the cool glass as I snuggled into the plush cushions of the window seat. I ran my finger down the pane, following the trail of a lone raindrop. I loved rainstorms, loved being inside while it beat down on the roof and wind whipped at the trees outside the window.
A small sound caught my attention, and I turned my head to see Brogan standing
in the doorway. He looked surprised to have been caught and took a step back. "Sorry," he mumbled.
I stood quickly, running my hand over my hair and giving him a big smile as I tilted my head in the way Ginny did when she talked to men she found attractive. "It's okay," I said, my heart rate increasing slightly the way it always did when Brogan was near. I walked toward him, trying to put a little extra sway in my hips. Brogan's eyes moved quickly down my body, and I felt a little thrill of delight run up and down my spine. "What are you doing here?"
"I was just pickin' up me dad's paycheck," he mumbled, holding out the envelope in his hand as proof. "I should get back. It's really lashing." He nodded his head toward the window indicating the rain and I grinned, and I could feel that it was the dumb, wonky grin that showed too much of my eye teeth.
I straightened my mouth before he looked back at me. "I like it when you talk like that," I said, smiling and tilting my head.
He looked confused for a moment and then ran his hand along the back of his neck as he bent his head forward on a smile. My heart flipped. He was so heart-stoppingly handsome, and he had little to no idea. That was the part I liked best about Brogan. He didn't even seem to understand his appeal.
"Stay a minute," I said. "At least wait until the rain lets up a little bit. It's not like you can work outside tonight."
He hesitated, but when I turned and walked back into the library, shooting him a look over my shoulder, he followed. Yes.
I went back to the window seat and sat down, and Brogan took a seat next to me. My gaze moved to his fingers running absentmindedly along the silky tassels of the cushion we were sitting on. He was always touching something in that way, as if memorizing its texture. A gentle heat moved through my veins. I wondered what his fingers would feel like doing that to my skin. I wondered if he'd like the texture of . . . me. I bit my lip, and his eyes moved to my mouth, causing a wave of satisfaction to wash over me. But then his eyes shifted away, out the window, and a fleeting expression of sorrow moved across his face.
"My mam used to say God gave us rainy days to let us know it was okay to take a day off now and then." And even though his eyes remained sad, his lips tipped up in one of his rare, sweet smiles. Butterflies fluttered in my belly.
His mam. I considered him for a moment thinking that perhaps he and I were more similar than different. Maybe that was another reason I was so drawn to him. I missed my mother, too. So much that sometimes it was still hard to believe she was gone. Sometimes in my secret heart of hearts, I pretended she wasn't. I pictured her right upstairs, sitting in her bedroom brushing her long blonde hair and humming softly to herself. I left her there in my mind and it didn't hurt quite as badly as picturing her in the cold, hard ground.
"You miss her very much," I said softly. He had never spoken of his mother before, even during the times I stood and chatted with him as he worked. He leaned back against the wall behind him and I let out a breath, happy he was relaxing in his seat and that he might stay and visit with me for a little while.
"Every day."
I nodded sadly and waited for him to say something more, but he seemed to gather himself. "Did ya know the Irish have hundreds of different ways to talk about the rain?" he asked, obviously changing the subject. I tilted my head, looking at him quizzically.
"Like what?"
"If ya say it's only spittin', it means it's just drizzlin' a bit. Pissin' is a heavier rain that might keep ya inside. Rainin' stair rods is a soakin' rain that will ruin your shoes. Hoorin' will have your windshield wipers set at top speed. Lashin' will wash ya right down the storm drain and hammerin', well, entire towns have been known to disappear in rain like that."
I was laughing as he spoke, and he looked at me with a warm gleam in his light blue eyes, our gazes meeting, lingering, and then parting. I love you, I wanted to say, blinking at my own thought, feeling suddenly insecure and off balance. When I looked back at him, Brogan was watching me, a small, confused frown on his face.
I cleared my throat. "Why so many?" I asked, but my voice sounded breathy.
He shrugged, his smile contemplative. "It rains a lot in Ireland. I guess ya know what's frequent or important in certain places based on the number of words for any specific thing." He paused. "There are also about a hundred ways to describe gettin' drunk." He looked away, his lips thinning and a grim look taking over his expression.
"Do you miss it?" I rushed in to fill the silence, wanting to sway his mood back to playful again. But I also genuinely wanted to know. I wanted to ask him so much about himself. Did he have a lot of friends in Ireland? Did he want to go back someday? How did his mother die? Did she have cancer like mine? I felt a sudden urge to touch him, to let him know I wanted to be his friend. I wanted him to ask about me, to ask me what I felt like inside, and I wanted to tell him, not just because I had no one else to tell—my friends and I didn't discuss things like that—but because I liked him so very much.
My hand lifted to reach toward his when there was suddenly the clicking of heels on the marble floor growing louder in the hallway.
Brogan jerked to a standing position just as Ginny turned the corner. She stopped in the doorway, cocking one slim hip, looking back and forth between Brogan and me. "Why hello, Brogan. How nice of you to come visit us up at the house."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Sometimes the things Ginny said came out sounding so bitchy.
Brogan gave me one last glance and turned toward the door. He nodded at Ginny as he passed her. "Nice to see ya, Mrs. De Havilland."
She turned her head and looked back at him moving down the hall toward our front door before looking back to me. She clicked her tongue. "You've really got to stop cavorting with the help. I see you bothering him relentlessly while he's working. Honestly, Lydia, you may as well just pick up a rake and help him out if you're going to be hanging off him so much."
I stood up and crossed my arms. "Cavorting?" I asked. "We were only talking. And I don't bother him." I pouted. "He likes talking to me, too."
"It really can't come to any good." She walked across the library to the liquor cabinet and poured herself a glass of wine. She held the bottle up in my direction, and I shook my head no. I'd shared several glasses with her before and had to drag myself out of bed for school the next morning feeling like death warmed over. Despite our somewhat close age, I'd wanted Ginny to be a mother figure, but Ginny wanted to be my . . . friend. I was beginning to wonder if she'd be of any real use in either role. But she was all I had.
I made a scoffing sound in my throat. "Myles says I'm the prettiest girl in Greenwich," I bragged, frowning immediately at my attempt to impress her. Should I even bother?
Ginny gave me a smirk. "Now Myles is the boy you should be focusing on. A thoroughbred who comes from old money." She winked and I rolled my eyes again. Were we talking about boys or horses? "Now if you want advice about how to catch that one, use your Irish boy toy to make him jealous. Have him catch you kissing Brogan. Force him to claim you before he even has a chance to think about it."
I raised my eyebrows. "Does that really work?"
"As long as he has even the remotest attraction to you, it works every time. Men. They're all such predictable creatures." She took a long swallow of red wine. "You just have to know how to wind them up and then watch them dance."
I turned away from her, considering the plan. The thing was, I had no need to make Myles jealous. Myles was mine for the taking. He was fun to flirt with, fun to have following me around, I supposed. But he wasn't the boy who set my heart on fire. I wondered if I had the nerve to go through with a plan like Ginny's. A powerful thrill shot down my spine. I wanted it to work. I wanted to make him jealous. I wanted to force his hand, to make him claim me. But the him I was referring to was not Myles. It was Brogan I wanted. Brogan Ramsay.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Brogan
Christ, I was so fucking upset I was still shaking. Upset at myself. I had meant to shock her, to un
balance her the way she'd been unbalancing me since the day she'd walked into my office. Instead, I'd merely succeeded in exposing myself and telling her things I hadn't meant to tell her.
"Goddammit," I swore under my breath as I got out of my car and slammed the door behind me, clicking the key fob. I'd left Lydia's room and Greenwich, heading for the Bronx. I needed to put space between us. I just needed to reclaim my emotions and I needed to do it in a place where I held all the power. Despite owning one of the prime pieces of real estate in Greenwich, the location still had this way of making me feel like the gardener's son. Less.
I pushed the door of The Black Dragon Tavern open, the pungent smells of stale beer, grease, and dirty mop water assaulting my senses. I didn't usually come here at night—preferring to sit on the open patio—but it was one in the morning and if I wanted to be around other people, which I did, inside at the bar was my only choice.
"Brogan Ramsay," I heard from a corner and turned to nod at a couple of the regulars. "What's three thousand ninety-nine divided by seven hundred thirty?" Aidan McGonegal called out, holding up his phone, his finger poised on what I knew to be the calculator.
"Four point two four five two zero five," I answered easily. The corner erupted in hoots and hollers, one guy pretending to fall out of his chair. I smiled, turning to the bartender and ordering a whisky.
"Bang on," Aidan yelled, his calculator just a couple seconds behind. More hoots and applause sounded from behind me and I chuckled.
"The lad is wicked good with numbers," I heard someone else say. Yeah, this was a good call, what I needed. I took a sip of the whisky and massaged the back of my neck.
"Brogan Ramsay," I heard to my right.
I looked up and saw an old man, a glass of amber liquid sitting on the bar in front of him. I nodded, frowning slightly. "Do I know ya?" I asked.
He smiled. "Father Donoghue. We haven't had the pleasure. I know ya by name, and I know your friend, Fionn." A priest? I'd never known Fionn to keep company with holy men.