Page 64 of A Trap So Flawless

I could never ask him to do it again. Give up everything in Ireland just so that I could be his wife. Not after what I’ve done. What my family has done.

So I lock my secret love away and pull out of the hug.

The next day, as I wake up, I become aware of a sticky stiffness in the vicinity of my forehead. When I try to move my eyebrows, something tugs uncomfortably. I open my eyes, only to flinch when my eyelashes collide with… Paper?

My fingers fumbling, I rip it off and hold the bright orange square up to my face. There’s writing on it, messily scrawled slashes of ink.

Don’t panic, pet. I’m in my office downstairs.

It’s a fucking sticky note. He put it on my forehead while I was sleeping.

I don’t know whether to roll my eyes, laugh, or go all googly-eyed over that. I settle on a small smile, putting the sticky note on the bedside table. An interesting method of calming my morning nerves, I’ll give him that.

But… I kind of love it. I can picture him writing the note while I’m snoozing away, then thinking to himself, Yup. Forehead ought to do it. She’ll never miss it there.

I sit up, and a square of hot pink on the blanket immediately catches my eye.

In case the one on your forehead falls off, it reads, I’m downstairs in my office.

This time, I do laugh. And it feels so fucking good to do it.

When was the last time I laughed? Sincerely laughed because something was funny or brought me joy, not out of sarcasm or bitterness? I honestly can’t remember. There were times recently when it seemed like I might never laugh again.

And here I am, laughing at something as small as a sticky note.

Just because he left it there for me.

I put the pink sticky note with the orange one, already thinking of places I can keep them permanently. I don’t have a journal or anything like that. Maybe I should take up scrapbooking. Might be kind of soothing, who knows. I’ll decorate it with ribbons and bows, and spray romantic perfume on the pages. An ode to my memories with Darragh.

I pull on one of Darragh’s T-shirts, which is practically a nightie on me, and go padding through the house. I’ve decided that I really like Darragh’s home. It’s spacious and elegant, with dark wood floors and accents of green that for some reason remind me of Dublin.

Darragh’s office is on the main floor of the house. If he’s in it, he’s probably trying to catch up on business in Toronto, after all his time in Dublin and then in the hospital. I probably shouldn’t disturb him. Papà never let me intrude on him when he was working. I’d have to resort to pressing my ear up against the door whenever I wanted to have an idea of what was going on.

But…

But Darragh’s office door is open.

He told me where he’d be. And then he left the door ajar, as if…

As if he’s quietly inviting me in.

Maybe it’s a trap.

But what if it’s not?

I make my way silently to the door, pausing in the doorway. Darragh is on the phone with his phone up to his ear. His office has a large wall of windows that look out onto the backyard with its gardens and trees. The morning light has a distinctly autumnal quality to it, illuminating the fiery veins of green and yellow and orange leaves.

My appreciative gaze goes from the vivid spray of the leaves on the branches to Darragh’s back. His substantial shoulders are set in a natural position of confidence. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed how excellent his posture is before. His back is broad and straight, his waist taut, his legs slightly apart.

Still listening to whoever’s on the phone, he turns around without warning. Our eyes meet from across the room and dark heat snaps between us.

He doesn’t tell me to come in.

But he doesn’t tell me to leave, either. He just stands there at the window, observing me, waiting to see what I’ll do.

I’ve always been stubborn. Too bold. Going where I shouldn’t. I step fully into the room.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here,” he says. “Tell me more about the tax implications on that move.”

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