by Penny Reid
She wasn’t odd. She was unique.
She wasn’t freaky. She was free-spirited.
She was enchanting.
Breathtaking.
Wonderful.
Perfect.
And if we didn’t stop staring at each other we would soon be drawing more attention than just Bryan Leech’s inebriated opinions.
But Lucy was no longer smiling at me. Her gaze had intensified, grown solemn, almost tortured. She felt the pull—of that I was certain. Now, if only I could arrange for a well-timed push . . .
Bryan snorted inelegantly, interrupting my thoughts. “It doesn’t matter if she looks like Helen of bleedin’ Troy. That bird is off limits—off limits to me, to all these other arsehole wankers here, and most especially off limits to you.”
Bryan’s giant hand circled the air around us then landed on my shoulder—a heavy, meaningful weight. He gave me a little shake to emphasize his point.
Of course, arsehole wankers was both an accurate description of our teammates and a term of endearment. And the rest of his words were true as well. Lucy Fitzpatrick was off limits in the same way Eilish was off limits to those barbarians.
You don’t fuck with family, literally or figuratively. It was against the rules of decent behavior. Then again, I’d purposefully set out to break the rules with Lucy—which, by the way, had backfired quite spectacularly. And I’d never been a poster boy for decency.
I’d always maintained that decency was entirely overrated.
Now frowning and looking decidedly affected, Lucy tore her eyes from mine, her gaze falling to the street. She appeared to be confused, if not overwhelmed by her thoughts. I wanted to go to her.
I straightened from the wall and almost did, but Bryan’s hand held me in place. “No, no, no.” He shook his head, stepping in front of me and pointing a finger in my face. He was one of the few members of our team nearly my size. “No fecking way.”
“Move.”
His grip tightened. “Nope. It’s for your own good, mate. You’re a bloody fuckwit, but you’re a great flanker.”
“Am I to call you Mother Leech now?” I taunted, knowing he of all people would despise the moniker. Tracking Lucy’s movements over Bryan’s head, I watched as she rejoined the wives and girlfriends. I noticed a man in their company. Broderick.
I liked Broderick.
More importantly, Broderick seemed to like me. He harbored no ridiculous prejudices against me, such as my well-deserved title of grand manipulator and malefactor.
“You can call me whatever you like, Cassidy. Just as long as you continue playing nice with Ronan and keep your hands off his sister.”
I wondered how many more pints were required to render Bryan Leech unconscious. I suspected more than several. We rugby players, as a rule, were infuriatingly capable while in our cups.
Lucy was now splitting furtively anxious glances between her brother and me. My gut tightened. Seeing true distress in her expression and how she held herself rigid. Misery—at causing her a moment of anguish—deflated any design I had on a stolen shag.
Two months ago, I might have relished causing anyone associated with Ronan Fitzpatrick any level of discomfort. But now . . .
My attention moved back to Bryan’s grim expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, removing his hand from my shoulder. “It’s getting late. I’d better be off.”
He blinked at me. Confusion and suspicion wrinkled his forehead. “What’s your game, Cassidy? You can’t be giving up so easily, it’s not in your nature.”
“Exactly,” I agreed, though not just with the last statement. I wasn’t giving up, and giving up wasn’t in my nature. Rather, for once, I wanted to be decent, or at least give the appearance of it.
For Lucy.
Allowing myself one final, lingering look of her, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and turned my back on the revelry, slipping away without offering words of congratulations or parting well wishes. I didn’t quite have it in me to be insincere. Insincerity was taxing once you’d breathed the refreshing air of artless candor.
It was a cold night and I zipped my jacket against it. The memory of my week with Lucy had kept me warm for nearly a month. I doubted my actions this evening, no matter how noble, would achieve a similar effect.
***
“I don’t understand why you can’t get one of your women to accompany you to this wedding.” Eilish peered at me through the reflection of the shop mirror. “Don’t you have throngs? I believe I read one article that claimed they fling themselves at you by the dozen.”
“I can’t recall anyone ever flinging themselves—as it were—in my general direction, let alone twelve women at once.” I scratched my chin, examining my cousin’s choice of dress and deciding it was too short.
“That seems like something one would remember with some clarity.”
I ignored her teasing. “Although once, I did have a lady fall down a flight of stairs and land at my feet.”
“But did she fling herself?”
“No. It was more of a stumble. And an ambulance was called. But I did visit her to sign the cast. By the way, that dress is too short.”
Eilish lifted a red eyebrow at me and glanced down at herself. “Sean, you’re being ridiculous. It’s past my knees.”
We were at the back of a fancy women’s boutique on Clarendon Street, in an area meant for trying on clothes. Several curtained stalls lined the back wall and a couch was placed to one side. It was the only place to sit, so it was where I waited, scrolling through the website Lucy took pictures for on my phone. I wasn’t even sure why, because clearly there weren’t going to be any photos of her, or me for that matter, but somehow the practice calmed me, made me feel like I was with her even though I wasn’t. Go psychoanalyze that.
Lucy had sent me several texts since our wordless encounter the night before. I hadn’t answered any of them. Their lack of sentiment irritated me.
Lucy: Did you leave?
Lucy: Thanks for being so nice to Ronan.
Lucy: Finally home, exhausted. Going to sleep.
And that was all she’d sent.
See? Irritating.
Good sense told me nothing had changed. Lucy had offered me nothing. Her behavior had been consistent from our first encounter to our last, and all the text messages in between. I had nothing with which to reproach her.
Still . . . No mention of missing me, wanting to see me. Was a simple I can’t live without you too much to ask?
And yet, though we hadn’t spoken nor had she given voice to the want so evident in her eyes, seeing Lucy last night had cemented something. We weren’t over. Far from it. Our inability to go a day without making contact meant the thing between us wasn’t going away.
Those were my ruminations while Eilish tried on dresses behind her curtain. Every so often, if she liked a frock, she’d emerge and show it to me while she assessed her reflection.
“Then it’s too tight,” I argued. I liked that dress the least so far.
She smirked. “It’s not too tight. It’s just fine.”
I frowned at her smirk and her pacifying tone.
“Wouldn’t you prefer something less revealing?” I asked.
My cousin’s mouth dropped open and her eyes went wide just before she tossed her head back and laughed with gusto, turning around to face me and placing her hands on her hips.
I usually liked shopping, both with my cousin and in general. Most men don’t like to shop. I was not most men. In fact, the only thing I didn’t hate about the farce of a relationship with Brona O’Shea was taking her shopping and dressing her in smart clothes.
Some would call me superficial. I considered myself merely keen on aesthetics.
Of course, I never actually enjoyed shopping with Brona or buying her things. She’d been grateful, but I’d discovered it wasn’t gratitude I wanted.
In fact, I wasn’t sure what I wanted or why buying things for Eilish gave me suc
h a deep sense of satisfaction.
Since I’d left New York, I’d taken Eilish out no less than seven times and bought her all manner of clothes and accessories. I liked spending money on her, and she didn’t argue, just accepted the lavishing like a good girl.
But there were so many things wrong with the current dress, I was having trouble ordering its defects in their entirety.
First of all, it was black, with a bit of lace along the V of the neck. And though it reached past her knees, it was entirely too tight for a girl her age. She’d paired it with spiked heels—which couldn’t have been good for her feet. I worried for her ankles.
Overall, it looked . . . sexy. Wrong. I hated it.
I grimaced at her good cheer and brightened gaze, which only made her laugh harder.
“Ah, Sean,” she wiped at her eyes, “your expression right now is adorable.”
“You can’t wear that.” I sniffed, checking my cufflinks. “You’re too young.”
“I’m nineteen.”
I scowled, with both irritation and confusion.
Was that true? When had Eilish turned nineteen? Wasn’t she fifteen? Sixteen at the oldest . . .. I counted backward. She’d been sent to a boarding school in the States when she turned ten. Had it already been nine years since I’d consoled her the night before her departure?
My gaze flickered over her body once more and annoyance reignited as I realized she did, in fact, look like a woman. When I met her eyes again, her wide smile was still in place.
“You’re not allowed to be nineteen.”
Her answering chuckle was melodic and tinged with an unmistakable air of affection. “Nevertheless, I am nineteen. I’m in my second year of university at Brown, or had you forgotten?”
“No.” Come to think of it, I did recall something about her going to school in Massachusetts. “I haven’t forgotten . . . precisely.”
“Don’t feel badly about it.” She waved away my regretful expression and something like practiced apathy affixed to her features. “I don’t think my father or my siblings know where I go to school, or my major for that matter. Your disinterest doesn’t bother me.”
Par for the course: pretending little things like life goals and ambitions were unimportant. I didn’t like how easily Eilish was able to pretend. Though, with her family, pretending was far safer than the alternative.
Suddenly, it felt very important that she know I was, and always had been, interested in her wellbeing.
“Get off it, E. I know where you go to school. And I seem to remember your major is something boring—like journalism or some such to do with the letter J.”
Her lips twitched as she met my eyes in the mirror. “Computational Biology.”
“Yes. Exactly.” I nodded, trying valiantly to keep my smile hidden. “That’s what I said.”
She shook her head at me, but I was pleased to see her grin, however small it might be.
I picked up the purple frock I’d favored earlier. It had pink flowers and a turtleneck, and the skirt would entirely hide her legs. “What about this one? Isn’t purple your favorite color?”
She rolled her eyes, huffing, and turned back to her reflection. “I’m not ten, I don’t have a favorite color. And I’m not wearing that.”
“Look, the flowers almost look like little mitochondria. Right up your alley.”
“What do you know about mitochondria?”
“I read. The powerhouse of the cell, correct?” Truth be told, I’d spotted a shower curtain with a model of an animal cell on the pages of SkyMall magazine and ordered it for myself. I liked studying it while I showered. Plus, it looked like abstract art.
Her mouth flattened while she fought her grin. “Correct.”
“So . . . this one? With the pink flowers?” I tried again.
“No. I quite like this one.” She turned to the side, her grin breaking free as she inspected herself.
Ugh.
Disaster.
I’d asked Eilish two weeks ago, as soon as I’d been invited, as I had no desire to pretend with someone else. Any other date would require feigned interest and attention. But my cousin, whose company I honestly enjoyed, would be easy.
Plus, no matter my level of disinterest, the idea of arriving with a date when Lucy would be in attendance made my stomach tighten uncomfortably and my head felt too small for my brain. I rather hoped she and I would be able to steal a few moments at least. Eilish would be a valuable ally, covering for us if need be.
But now I suspected I’d be spending the evening warning away horny rugby players from my too-beautiful and unworldly cousin.
Bested by an impish redhead well under a foot shorter than me, I reluctantly presented my credit card to the salesperson who’d been standing at attention, watching our exchange with practiced indifference. “Anything she wants, even that ghastly dress.”
Eilish laughed again, tossing a curtain of glossy, perfect hair over her shoulder. She resembled my aunt in appearance and gracefulness of her movements, but their manner couldn’t have been more different.
“Do I really look ghastly?”
“No. You’re gorgeous, but that dress is ghastly. I’ll be fending off lascivious rugby-playing perverts all night with you dressed like that.”
Stepping away from the mirror, Eilish crossed to me. I stood and allowed her to place a light kiss on my cheek. Though she rose on her tiptoes, I still had to bend down in order for her to reach my face.
“You’re quite nice, Sean,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone your secret.”
“I’m not really.” I wasn’t, not usually, at any rate.
“Yes, you are. You’ve always been nice.” She squeezed my arm. “Remember when mother sent me away? I was terrified, and you made me feel better. You helped me be brave.”
“You were only ten, and she was being a bear.”
“You were very kind.”
I shrugged, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the picture Eilish was painting of me. “All I did was hug you.”
“For an hour at least. And then you promised to punch anyone who was mean to me.”
I shrugged again, glancing over her head at nothing in particular. “I didn’t like it when you cried. Plus punching nasty little girls sounded like fun.”
“It worked out though, didn’t it? I was the lucky one.” Her tone had grown introspective and I shifted my attention back to her, found Eilish considering me with a meditative look. “Too bad they didn’t send you away as well.”
The bell to the shop chimed, announcing a new customer. But E and I continued swapping commiserating stares, paragraphs and pages of understanding shared with a single look.
“Have you tried contacting your father?” she whispered, her brow furrowed with concern.
I’d learned the identity of my father after my mother passed some six years ago; he was a German sportsman of some fame. A mountain climber, and more than twenty years older than my mother. Eilish knew because I’d called and told her at the time. Yet I’d taken no action.
I shook my head, deciding I was bored of the subject. “I’m starving, and it looks like rain.”
Food and weather, wonderfully benign as neither required an opinion.
She crossed her arms and glared at me. I could see she wanted to press the issue, but would bide her time. She was devious in that way.
“You just ate an hour ago.”
“I know. I ate a whole hour ago.” I glanced at my watch and gave her a slightly panicked look. “I might die for lack of sustenance. I’m wasting away.”
E took a step away and smiled again, then turned, pulling her hair over her shoulder. “Here, unzip this and I’ll change. I’ll take you to an all-you-can eat buffet. That should tide you over for a bit.”
“I’ve been tossed out of most of those places at least once.” I unhooked the top of the frock and searched for the tiny zipper pull, my large fingers not quite nimble enough. “All you can e
at never really means All Sean Can Eat.”
Eilish snorted an inelegant laugh just as someone said, “Oh! Pardon me.”
The exclamation and apology pulled my attention from the elusive zipper tab. Both Eilish and I glanced at the woman hovering at the entrance to the dressing area. I blinked at her, finding her familiar but not quite able to place her.
“Hello, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.” Eilish nodded politely, doffing her very best South Dublin air of superiority.
Ah, mystery solved.
The older woman inclined her head, now fully composed, in such a way that made me want to give her a recommendation for a good chiropractor, or perhaps someone who could help her remove the rod from her arse.
Lucy’s grandmother.
“Good afternoon, Eilish,” then to me, “Mr. Cassidy,” then back to Eilish, “How is your mother?”
I studied this woman as Eilish and she exchanged meaningless pleasantries. Truth be told, she looked a great deal like Lucy. Their eyes were the same shape and color. Lucy had inherited her grandmother’s ethereal grace and delicate pixie-ish features. Her appearance of fragility.
But this woman was not beautiful. She was cold and aloof. Controlled. Predictable.
Whereas Lucy was unequivocally stunning, warm, and engaging. Carefree. Impulsive.
Lucy was everything gorgeous and good. She may have looked delicate, but she wasn’t. She was steadfast, and loyal, and resilient.
And this woman refused to know her.
“Shopping I take it?” Mrs. Fitzpatrick asked benignly.
“No,” I said, just to be contrary. A ferocious unpleasantness caught me unexpectedly. As such, all my remarks henceforth would be acerbic at best, belligerent at worst.
Eilish gave me an odd look and forced a laugh. “Of course. We’re dress shopping for a wedding this weekend.”
Belligerently, I added, “For your grandson’s wedding, as a matter of fact.”
Mrs. Fitzpatrick blinked, but the empty curve of her lips, meant to be a smile, didn’t waver. “Quite.”
“Yes. Did you know Ronan is getting married?” I pressed. “And to a lovely girl, too. Brilliant, actually.”