Page 33 of One Night Only
“Says who?”
“You live in New York.”
“You can live in two places.”
“On two continents?”
“Lots of people do it.”
“Rich people do it.”
“You think I’m secretly rich?” He grins.
“I don’t know what I think,” I say. “What do you do exactly?”
“I’m an entrepreneur,” he says, offering no further detail. “Ah, here we are.” He slows along a nondescript road. It might be pretty on a sunny day but now it’s just gloomy. The hedges are overgrown, the ground dotted with muddy puddles. I pull the zip of my coat up with a scowl.
“Not enjoying the Irish summer?” he asks.
“We’re here?” We’re where exactly? I can’t see anything on either side of the road. Unless he’s brought me to a field in the middle of nowhere to murder me. I’ve listened to enough true crime podcasts to recognize the signs.
“It’s over there.” He nods across the road to a rusty gate. “We’ve got to walk.” He takes out a thick metal flashlight from the glove compartment and gives it a whack to turn it on. Totally about to be murdered.
I look down at my leather boots.
“I’d carry you,” he says, following my gaze. “But my back has been killing me lately and—”
I don’t hear any more as I get out of the car, sidestepping a pile of manure.
Without waiting for him, I march across the road to the gate, which is padlocked shut. I can’t see anything beyond it. The overgrowth is too thick, the path ahead muddy and stopping only a few feet from me before it disappears into the trees. I hear the car door shut and the click of the locks before Declan walks past me and grabs hold of the gate.
“What are you doing?” I exclaim as he climbs over it. “I thought you owned the cottage?”
“I do.”
“Then why don’t you have a key?”
“I don’t own the fence, Sarah.” He looks at me as if I’m being the unreasonable one. “Are you coming?”
I stiffen at the challenge in his voice and bat away his offering hand, climbing as best as I can over the gate. He doesn’t wait to see me safely over before he continues on.
“It’s not far,” he calls.
He’s telling the truth about that at least. Barely twenty seconds through the bushes I see the cottage.
It’s old. Made up of large, gray stones and a thatched roof, exactly like the kind on my postcards. Except those houses are bathed in sunshine, their doors painted brilliant reds and blues, their roofs a warm yellow.
This place is falling apart. You don’t need to work in construction to see that. Half the ceiling is caved in and there’s no glass on the windows. The only door is a boarded-up piece of wood, damp from the rain.
And yet, despite all of that, I can see instantly why he’s chosen this place. It has character. Even if it is hidden under several decades’ worth of grime.
“What do you think?”
I turn to see Declan watching me carefully.
“It sure is a cottage.”
He gives me a look and approaches the door. “You don’t mind spiders, do you?”
