Page 63 of Claiming Genevieve

“No,” she says firmly. “I’m going to drink it.” She takes another sip, her expression still a little pained, and I can’t help but laugh again.

I love her.It’s the second time I’ve thought it today. The first time I brushed it away as an errant thought, but now, my chest tightens with painful alarm as I realize how true it is—and how little it matters. I watch her struggling to choke down a Guinness, a plate of fried food slid in front of her moments later, doing her best to fit in here and make the best of the situation we’re in—and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I love her.

I’ve never loved any woman before. None of them have ever infuriated or amused or entertained or charmed me as much as Genevieve has. None of them has ever made me feel this way. And it doesn’t fucking matter—because she doesn’t feel the same.

I sit there and watch her, my own meal of shepherd’s pie cooling as she squeezes lemon over her fish, and I wonder how I’m going to live without her when this is all over. How I’m going to live with the fact that I’ll have achildwho will remind me of her, every day, and yet she’ll be gone. I’m suddenly furious with my father, more so than I ever have been before, for engineering this situation—for the fact that he thinks nothing of putting a child as a caveat in a betrothal agreement, like a bargaining chip instead of something to love.

I shouldn’t be surprised, though. It’s not as if he ever loved me.

Genevieve takes a bite of the fish and lets out a hum of pleasure, smiling. “It’s amazing,” she says, reaching for the beer and taking another small sip. “And the beer is better with food, I think.” She glances around the pub, a small smile at the edges of her mouth. “Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all.”

Something twists in my chest at that small admission, and I force a smile, turning my attention to my own food. We eat mostly in silence, other than the crackling of the fire and the bright sound of the music coming from the stage, until we’re partway through dessert—a brown butter apple bread pudding.

Genevieve sets down her fork, taking the last sip of her beer, and I can see that she’s a little tipsy. She smiles, looking over my shoulder toward the band as they pick up a livelier tune and the dance floor begins to fill up. Her expression turns wistful, and I look at her, weighing my words before I speak.

“Do you want to dance?” I press my lips together, looking at her cautiously. “I know it’s not—but?—”

Genevieve sucks in a small breath through her nose. Her tongue sweeps over her bottom lip, and the look in her eyes turns into something more than wistful. There’s a look of yearning in her eyes—longing—andfuck, I wish she’d look at me like that.

“We shouldn’t,” she says finally. “My ankle?—”

“I’m sure it’d be fine for one dance. If you don’t want to, though—” I think she does. And I think it’s not about her ankle at all, but because she’s afraid she won’t be good at it any longer. That she’ll disappoint herself. “It’s not ballet,” I say quietly. “Even if you don’t know the steps, or misstep, you’d be expected to. You don’t know the dance.”

Her head snaps up, and she looks at me with surprise, as if she can’t believe that I picked up on what she was really feeling. “I’m a dancer,” she says, and then quickly corrects herself. “Iwasa dancer. I should be able to dance.”

“You don’t just automatically knoweverydance. Maybe you’re better at picking up on rhythm than others, or it comes more naturally, but—” I look at her, suddenly wanting her to give in. To try this, with me. It seems important, suddenly, that she try. That she not give up on this part of herself completely—and that I can be a part of it. “Let’s try, Genevieve.Milseán.”

She swallows, the long, graceful line of her throat shifting, and she looks uncertain. For a moment, I half think she’s going to bolt out of the pub, leaving me behind, and I’m fully prepared to chase after her if she does. But instead, she stands up, giving me a decisive look. “Alright.”

My heart stutters in my chest. I stand, too, following her to the dance floor, where couples are dancing in lively steps to the quick beat of the music, a circle of women spinning around as they laugh and miss their steps, tripping back to the edge of the floor. I reach for Genevieve as we step onto the dance floor, and when I take her hand, I feel the quick beat of her pulse in her wrist.

“I’ve got you,” I say quietly. “And we can go sit down anytime you like.”

Genevieve swallows hard, nodding, and then she starts to move.

It takes her a moment to catch the rhythm of the music. To my surprise, she lets me lead at first, until her feet catch up to mine, and then suddenly she’s dancing.We’redancing, the sound of the fiddle bright in my ears as I see a smile start to spread over Genevieve’s lips, her pulse quick in her throat as I see her breathing speed up. Happiness fills her face for the first time since the accident, her body falling into something that, for her whole life, has been as natural to her as breathing, and I canfeelit click back into place, feel the moment where she comes home to herself, just like being here feels like coming home to me.

Fuck,I don’t ever want to leave.The ache in my chest grows, mingling with the joy of having Genevieve here with me in this moment, sharing it with her, and the spreading desire that never seems to leave me for long when it comes to her.

She moves closer to me as the music slows a little, and she fills my senses. Her warmth, her scent, the feeling of her body brushing against mine. Desire floods me, but it’s more than just physical need. It digs down into the deepest part of me, and I don’t want to let her go.

But as the music slows and fades, Genevieve pulls back, stepping to the edge of the dance floor. “I shouldn’t push it,” she says quickly, looking away from me. “I haven’t done that in weeks. I’ll hurt my ankle if I’m not careful.”

“Of course.” I glance at her, making sure she’s not limping as we head back to the table. “You should definitely be careful.”

The silence falls between us again as we sit, ordering a second round of drinks, and the music picks back up. I see her watching the dance floor, a soft smile on her face, and I can’t help but think that I’d happily sit here forever like this—if it meant she kept smiling.

If it meant that I could keep her.

23

GENEVIEVE

I’m a mess of emotions by the time we get back to the estate.

Part of me is still buzzing, feeling as if I’m floating from the feeling of having danced again for a little while, even if it was something so completely different from what I’ve spent my whole life learning. The other part of me is aching—missing my life from before so much that for a few minutes in the car on the ride back to the estate, I feel like I’m fighting back tears.

And then there’s Rowan.

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