Page 32 of Her Irish Savage

“Except the tax assessor. The real estate clerk. The utility companies and all your neighbors.”

“Everything’s hidden, six layers down. Aunt S took care of it before she died. My name is a million miles away from any of this.”

“And you live here.” His voice twists with disbelief.

I correct him. “I visit. When I can’t stand being in thedúnfor one more minute.” When there are too many men. Too much testosterone. When I can’t stand my father’s lies and his rules and his double-crossing?—

Da’s gone. It’s time for me to claim what’s mine.

Moran still looks skeptical.

“You have to trust me,” I say.

“I don’t trust anyone.”

“I’m good at what I do.” It’s important that he understands that. “Very, very good.”

He looks at the photo again. “I can see that,” he says. My nipples get hard at the tone of his voice, and I’m glad he can’t see beneath my blue jacket.

“Now you really can fuck off.”

“The mouth on you,” he says evenly.

For about ten seconds, my response echoes inside my head:Want to fuck it, Daddy?

But I wait too long.

He takes my large suitcase and rolls it down the hall to the bedroom. I hear him open the closet door. Shuffle through the hangers, presumably making sure no Crew enforcer is hiding among my shoes. He goes into the bathroom and checks the linen closet there.

He comes out with one of my extra pillows and a blanket. Kicking aside his duffel bag, he deposits his makeshift bedroll on the couch. “Are you washing up first, or am I?”

I don’t trust any of the things I want to say.

Don’t sleep out here.

Let’s take a shower together.

How the hell did you do that to my body, make me come while you were inside me, and why haven’t you done it again?

“You go ahead,” I say.

I pretend not to see him shrug out of his black jacket. I don’t watch as he takes his well-worn Dopp kit out of his duffel. I tell myself not to think about the chain of foil-wrapped condoms I know are inside.

He heads back down the hall and closes himself into the bathroom. I ignore the running water, forcing myself to sort the mail I took out of the box downstairs.

It’s junk, all of it. Bills are paid through the complicated system Aunt S set up, and no one knows to reach me here.

But I read all the ads for pizza delivery like they’re the world’s finest literature—which only makes me starving for anextra-large pie with pepperoni, sausage, and mushrooms. I study the flyers from real estate agents like every one is a museum masterpiece. I stack everything neatly, then sort recyclable paper from shiny cardstock.

Finally, centuries later, Moran’s back. I catch a whiff of mint as he crosses to the couch; he’s brushed his teeth. The light flashes on the gray in his hair as he picks up his pillow in both hands. “Goodnight,” he says, staring at me levelly.

“Hey,” I answer. “Thank you for what you did back at thedún.” I brave his gaze. “It didn’t go exactly the way I thought it would.”

No shit.

He’d be justified in saying that. But instead, he just nods.

So I say, “Oíche mhaith.” Goodnight. Just like he said last night.

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