Page 92 of Go Luck Yourself
The car doors open and shut a few minutes later.
Siobhán’s smile is bright as she rushes to join Finn and the group.
Which leaves Loch standing beside me.
“You should invite your brother to the event tomorrow,” Loch says without preamble.
I twist to him. “Why?”
“It’s an evening up in Belfast. Pub hopping, mostly. Invite him. And his boyfriend, yeah?”
I study him. His face is too calm.
“None of that answerswhy?”
He’s staring off at the festival. “You’ll enjoy Belfast more with him. And today, even—the three of us volunteer at this festival, but you are na expected to do that with us. You should meet Siobhán and Finn’s friends. They’ll show you a real grand—”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
He hesitates a tad too long, now forcibly keeping his eyes on the booths and waving banners. “No.”
Ah, okay, I can still get mad at him, that’s good. “Is this because of the statement I had Christmas release, or us making out in your kitchen?”
His face sets on fire. Embarrassment—and anger. His jaw locks in hard and his eyes stay fixed to a spot in the distance like he’s in a trance.
He says nothing.
My lip curls, and I huff and shove my hands into my pockets. “Great. That’s great. Really classy. So what do you need me for today? We find the paparazzi even though you don’t plan on using your repaired reputation at all, then we part ways so you can go off acting like last night didn’t happen?”
Loch stomps away. Fully leaves the conversation.
“You son of a—” I rush after him but he whirls around and I come up short, nearly slamming into his chest.
“Do na talk to me about last night,” he growls. Finally looking at me. Furious, cheeks scarlet and eyes aflame, but looking at me.
“What if Iwantto talk about last night?” I ask.
He huffs, breath hot on my face, a contrast to the cold air wrapping around us. “There’s nothing to talk about. I told you, I should na have done that. It was a mistake.”
There’s a rip in my chest. An abrupt, jagged hole.
I cling to anger to stop that rip from pulling me in half. “A mistake?”
“Yeah.”
“It was amistake?”
“Are you thick?Yes.”
“Bullshit.” I fight hard not to sound anxious. “You can’t have said the things you did on a spur of the moment fuckup. You thought about doing that. Youwantedto do that to me. You—”
“It was drunken weakness,” he cuts me off. “I canna handle another mess right now and I should na have opened the door to take onyou.”
From the moment we met, we’ve been picking at each other. Insults, jabs, even some too-direct accidental hits where I’ve noticed us both immediately backing off in unspoken agreement.
This is decidedlynotthat.
He thinks I’m a mess?
