“Let me go!” she roars, raindrops dripping from the edge of her nose, her eyelashes, the corners of her pretty, sad mouth. “Please, leave me alone. It hurts. Everything hurts so bad.” She breaks down in tears, falling to her knees, her head bowed in defeat.

I put my hand on her head, somehow knowing she needs to be touched. I don’t know how. With Rory, I just do.

When I saw her in New York, my first instinct was to put my coat on her, because I knew she was always so cold. I do the same now. I strip out of my waxed hunting jacket and wrap it around her shoulders, pushing her wet hair back because it must be bothering her.

“How did things get so screwed up?” Her voice cracks. “You’re a widower. My sister is dead. She hated my guts, and I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life. And I can’t even listen to my father’s voice without breaking out in hives. There’s death everywhere we look. Even the day I met you, I was in a cemetery. It’s like we’re bound by pain or something. Every minute under your roof rips me to shreds, and I’m tired of feeling tattered.”

I lift her up by the arms, even though she resists, sagging back to the ground. The rain keeps pounding our faces. I’m wearing nothing but a V-neck shirt, and I know I’m going to pay for this tomorrow morning, but right now, I don’t care.

“Don’t say that.” I wipe her hot tears with my fingers, like it matters in the rain. But it does. To me, it does.

“Why not?”

Because you’re the only thing that makes me feel alive.

“There’s death everywhere you look, yes. But there’s life, too. You just need to notice it.”

“Suddenly you care about that? You told me she was in Dublin,” she accuses, trying to pull back.

“She is,” I grunt, feeling my ears get hot. “Buried in the same cemetery you just talked about. Right next to your da.”

“Mal, Mal, Mal.”

She is taking this all in, and it’s a lot.

She’s drowning in it, and I can’t pull her back up. Only time can do that.

“Don’t. It’s been eight years. Life goes on.”

“I need to leave here.” She looks around frantically, nibbling on her lip.

I lift her chin up so she looks at me. “You’re seeing this through, Princess.”

“Now I’m Princess? What is happening here? This is…this is wrong. It’s not fair to Callum.”

“Giving this up will not be fair to you.”

“Promise me you’ll behave,” she says. “Tell me you’ll stop being so hateful. But also…” She scrunches her nose. “But also promise you won’t be too not-hateful, either. Tell me you realize the whole napkin pact was a juvenile mistake, and don’t try to pursue me. Callum doesn’t deserve this.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t add that I can’t—or I won’t—agree to any of that, or that Callum simply doesn’t look like the right guy for her. She’s too imperfect for him.

But I’ll never say that to her face. And not imperfect in a bad way. He needs a Barbie he can play house with. Rory is too much to handle.

“We need to go back now.”

“Why?” she shrieks.

“Because we have two more months of babysitting Richards, and falling apart is not an option. Especially if it’s because your no-show, mediocrely talented late father popped on the radio for no good reason other than the station couldn’t figure out Christmas is over.”

She looks up at me now, the entire weight of the world’s misery swimming in her green eyes.

“Why am I here?” she asks. Quietly. Darkly. Like a dame.

There’s threat laced in her voice, and I want to suck it out of her mouth and scoop up the rest of her venom with my tongue. But kissing her will have to wait. If I do it now, I won’t stop, and I have an early morning tomorrow. I made a promise I intend to keep—Rory, Ashton, Ryner, and the rest of the world be damned.

“What kind of question is that?” I run my thumb down her cheek to the corner of her mouth.

She lets me. Though she doesn’t realize she lets me.

Goodbye, Shiny Boyfriend.

“I mean, why did you let this happen? Why did you think it was a good idea to work with each other when you spotted me in that ballroom? And why are you so angry at me? What do you want from me, Malachy?” She pounds her fists against my chest, pushing me away and kicking a puddle between us.

It’s still pouring, but neither of us cares. She’s shuddering again, and this time not from the cold. Her back curves and her mouth slacks and everything about her screams sex, sex, sex. I stand there, absorbing her little fists as she launches at me again.