Page 47 of A Trap So Flawless

“I was asking what he recommended,” I say, quirking a brow at Darragh as the server leaves. “You know, the guy who actually works here?”

“How about you eat what I recommend,” Darragh says, pinching my knee. “You know, the guy who spent years here?”

“I know you grew up in Dublin, but-”

“No. Here.” He sweeps his other hand through the air, indicating the entire space. “Callum owned this pub. It was the first business he ever bought. When I wasn’t at school once he got me re-enrolled, or boxing, I was here.”

I look at the pub with new eyes, taking in the beautiful wooden bar, the tables that look handcrafted, the thick, dark beams that run across the ceiling.

“How old is this place?” I ask.

“At least five hundred years old. Maybe more.”

I contemplate the weight of that fact as the server brings our drinks. I take a sip of my red wine. Five hundred years. All that history.

And not just history in a broad sense, but Darragh’s history. From the sounds of it, he spent a good portion of his teenage years here.

This is the sort of thing he’d be losing by marrying me. Not just money, which he’s already got ungodly amounts of. But places like this. Places like that townhouse, with his old bed and his trophies and his memories.

It’s not just about a will. It’s not just about what he feels entitled to as Callum’s heir.

It’s about having every good part of his old life in Ireland ripped away from him. It’s about carving a big, gaping hole in his past and trying to patch up that hole with, what? A marriage to me?

What could I even offer him, what have I ever offered him, besides some toxic combination of my lust and my fury? When he gave me that ring in Toronto, I told him that I hated him.

And then I went and married someone else.

I chug my wine, trying to drown out these feelings. This inadequacy. This grief.

When the shepherd’s pie comes, I eat it because he tells me to.

It’s so good. Warm and filling. I think of Darragh, young and angry and orphaned, eating the exact same thing in the exact same place more than a decade ago. I think of him now, never being able to eat this here again, unless he comes in and orders it as a regular customer, as a stranger…

And I know, in that moment, that I can never keep him.

Chapter 18

Darragh

Valentina’s pretty quiet on the walk back. But she holds my hand. And I guess that’s something.

I’ve never held hands with a woman before. Never held hands with anyone.

“Oh! I recognize this place,” she says as we approach the Fusilier’s Arch of St. Stephen’s Green. “We parked the car around here, right? I want to go get my bag.”

Again with the fucking bag. But we really are close to the car. At this point, I don’t see why not. I don’t think she poses quite as much of a flight risk as she once did. And I can always confiscate her cash and passport and just let her have the rest of the shit she clearly wants so badly.

I lead her to the alley entrance to the underground car park. We take the dingey elevator down to the level where I parked the rented vehicle. We’re the only ones here right now. Valentina’s heels, and my heavier footsteps, echo dully through the concrete building.

“Which one is it?” she asks, scanning the parking spaces. “I can’t tell cars apart to save my life.”

“There,” I say. I don’t bother pointing. We’re still holding hands. So as I walk towards it, she follows. I unlock the vehicle and open the door to the backseat. Valentina audibly sighs with relief at the sight of her shiny black bag. Then, she pulls her fingers from mine so she can grab it with both hands.

And that really fucking bothers me, though I don’t want to admit it. I scowl at the bag like it’s somehow responsible for Valentina disentangling her fingers from mine.

“What the fuck,” I ask pointedly, “is so important in there?”

“Nothing,” she mumbles. But even so, she unzips it, digging around as if to make sure something is still there. And it can’t be the passport, or her wallet, because both of those things were on top and clearly visible. I’m about to press her on it, about to dump the entire collection of the bag’s contents on the fucking floor until she tells me what’s going on, when my phone buzzes in my back pocket.

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