Page 62 of Claiming Genevieve

Genevieve comes down nearly two hours later, wearing a pair of dark slim-cut jeans that fit her so perfectly it seems cruel, and a rust-colored silk blouse with sleeves cuffed at the wrists, pearls at her ears and throat. She left her hair loose, freshly washed and so shiny and soft that my palms itch to run my hands through it. She pauses at the doorway of the living room, looking at me as if she’s not quite sure what to say.

“Are you ready to go?” she asks finally. “Mrs. Brady showed me the guest room, and the maid—Clara?—helped me bring in my things. So I think I’m all settled.”

I glance at the time, and push myself up from the sofa. “Let me go upstairs and freshen up a bit as well. Feel free to have a drink or explore. I’ll be back down in about an hour.”

An hour later, I rejoin her, feeling a bit more clearheaded thanks to the time I spent in the shower, fantasizing about Genevieve there while giving myself the release I’ve desperately needed since this morning. All it takes is one look at her, though, and my desire comes roaring back as if I’ve never slaked it once in my life.

“Rory is waiting with the car,” she says, crossing the room to join me. “He let me know a few minutes ago.”

“Let’s go, then.” I want to offer her my arm, but I don’t. Instead, I simply walk out to the car, aware of her following close behind, the salty, herbal scent of her perfume filling my senses as we step out into the cool, windy late afternoon. It mingles with the clean, green scent of the slightly damp outdoors, as if Genevieve were made to be here. As if she’s already a part of these surroundings, just as I’ve always felt I was meant to be.

She’s quiet on the drive into the city. Rory is practically whistling in the driver’s seat, humming along to the music on the radio that he keeps turned low. I can tell he’s pleased to be back as well, and trying not to make it too obvious, given the circumstances. But Genevieve’s blank silence ends as we turn onto one of the roads leading into the city, her eyes widening as she lets out a soft, “Oh.”

I expected that response. I watch her take it in—the cobblestoned streets and brightly colored buildings, the shops a mixture of new and old. She leans closer to the window, and I feel a bright burst of satisfaction at seeing the pleasure she’s taking in her new surroundings. This city is close to my heart, and I love seeing her so enthralled with it already.

Rory drops us off a few blocks in, going to park the car before rejoining us. Genevieve frowns a little as I open her door and she steps out of the car, watching as he pulls away from the curb. “No security?” she asks curiously. “Not that I mind—I don’t like always having others around. I’m just surprised.”

I say nothing, just gesture down the row of traffic. A few cars back, two motorcycles are idling, waiting for the cars to move. Two more are ahead of us, parked to one side of the street. “There’s security,” I tell her, seeing her eyes widen. “They’re just blending in.”

Genevieve gives a small nod. “Oh,” she says softly. “I see.”

“But you won’t notice them. Just like you didn’t until I pointed them out.”

“Aren’t we safe here, though? From—” She hesitates, and I can tell how hard it is for her to sayfrom Chris. She still can’t admit that her ex is the sort of person who would kill her for leaving him and marrying another man. The kind of man who would put a hit out on her.

Part of me empathizes with how she must feel. It can’t be an easy thing to realize that someone wants you dead, especially someone that you once shared a home and a bed with. But I can’t help the frustration that I feel, too. I need her to understand the danger that she’s in and not fight me when precautions need to be taken.

We wander through the shops for a few hours until dinnertime. Genevieve finds a soft wool cardigan that she purchases in a few colors at a shop that sells all handwoven Irish wool goods, as well as a boxy sweater that she instantly falls in love with, and a leather jacket that I can’t wait to see on her. We stop at an old bookstore that she’s enchanted with as soon as she sees it, before finally making our way down to the pub at the end of the street, which is already lively.

The scent of beer and fried food hits my nose the moment we step inside, the sound of live music filling the air around us. The pub is a large two-tiered building, with a large bar in the center of the first floor and tables scattered throughout, the stage and a small dance floor at one end. Upstairs, surrounded by a wood railing a shade darker than the walls and flooring, the second floor has more seating. There’s a large staircase leading up to the second floor, and a fireplace on the first floor, where I see a handful of empty tables. The pretty redheaded hostess who greets us leads us over to one of those, and I can see the flicker of delight in Genevieve’s face.

“Enjoying yourself, lass?” I ask with a bit of amusement, though I can’t pretend I’m not enjoying how charmed she is by all of this. This is my home, the place that I love, and seeing it all through her eyes—the estate, the landscape, the town, this pub that I’ve been to a hundred times, probably—brings with it a fresh appreciation of just how dear all of it is to me. It makes my chest ache, too, because I know I’ll have to leave it again. This is only a reprieve from the life I’ll have to go back to—sooner rather than later, I should hope. The longer we stay here, the longer Genevieve’s life is in danger, which casts a shadow over all of this.

She nods, sinking into one of the chairs as the hostess hands her a menu. “It’s lovely,” she says, glancing at the dancing flames in the fireplace. “I never really thought about visiting Ireland, if I’m being honest, but now I’m realizing I should have. It’s… different.”

I chuckle. “Different how, lass?”

Genevieve raises one shoulder in a shrug. “Fresher. Greener. A bit wilder. I always loved the city, but things have been so chaotic lately that being somewhere a bit quieter is…nice.” She looks at me curiously. “I’m surprised you love it so much, though. With your reputation, I’d think?—”

I raise an eyebrow. “I like drinking in pubs and flirting with beautiful women, both of which I can do plenty of here. Loud clubs and expensive bars have never been my thing,taibhseach. I’d prefer this to New York nightlife.”

“Oh.” She looks at me as if she’s seeing me a bit differently, before dropping her gaze to the menu. “What should I get to drink?” she asks, quickly changing the subject. “A Guinness, right? Since I’m in Ireland?”

I laugh at that. “Get whatever you like, lass. Are you usually a fan of beer?”

“I don’t think I’ve had beer more than once, at a party I ended up at in college,” Genevieve admits.

“You probably won’t like it, then.” I shrug. “But why not try? New experiences. You only get to be a tourist in a new place once, right?”

She laughs at that, and when the waitress comes back, she orders a Guinness, while I order a whiskey and ginger. I see her deliberate over the menu for a little while, before she seems to come to some decision that she’d been debating and orders fish and chips for dinner.

“I haven’t had fried food in—” She presses her lips together, thinking. “I don’t know. Since before college? My parents were pretty poor, so I couldn’t always stick to a ballerina’s diet. Lots of boxed mac n’ cheese and french fries.”

“This will be much better than that,” I assure her with a chuckle. “I can promise you that, lass.”

Our drinks arrive, and Genevieve looks at the heavy, dark beer that she’s handed with suspicion. She takes a small sip of it and makes a face that earns another laugh from me.

“I’ll take it if you don’t want it,” I offer, and she shakes her head.

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