Page 91 of Ruthless Savior
“The nearest town isn’t Dublin,” Ronan continues, almost apologetically. “It’s nothing all that fancy. But the atmosphere is… authentic."
“That sounds nice, though,” I say quickly, and I see his lips tug up in something approaching a smile. “I think… yes. I’d like that.”
I go upstairs to change and linger far too long in front of my closet, trying to decide between something comfortable and casual, and something more flirty and date-like. The former would send the message that I understand what this is, just a casual night out for fun, without any expectations of it being real, but deep down, that’s not what I want. I want Ronan to look at me andwantit to be more, even if it can’t be. I want him to want me as badly as I want him, even if he never gives in and touches me again.
It’s December, so it’s going to be cold and wet out, but I opt for a knee-length forest green sweater dress with a slightly full skirt. I pull on a black faux leather jacket over it, a pair of Docs sturdy enough to handle any slippery ground or icy cobbles, and spend far too much time fixing my hair before I slap on some mascara and a berry lip stain and call it good.
I look good. I know that. And I can’t wait to see the expression on Ronan’s face when he sees me.
He’s waiting downstairs when I come down—he must have changed in his office. He’s wearing dark jeans and heavy boots with a cable-knit dark blue sweater, and his hair is styled back, his jaw dusted with the slightest bit of stubble. My heart swoopsin my chest as I see him, and when he turns and I see his eyes heat at the sight of me, my stomach does the same.
“Ready to go?” he asks. “I’m driving, although we’ll have security following us, of course. They’ll make themselves as invisible as possible.”
I smile at him, trying not to betray the effect he’s having on me. “Let’s go,” I say brightly, and we head out to the car.
A little over half an hour later, we’re driving through a small Irish town that looks like something out of a postcard. The streets turn to cobbles, lit up by old-fashioned streetlamps as Ronan looks for parking, and the buildings are all brick and stone, pubs and shops lined up next to each other.
“Have you been here often?” I ask as Ronan pulls into a parking space in front of a stone-walled pub with large windows glowing with light and a sign that reads "O'Sullivan's" in Celtic script.
“Not in a long time,” he admits. “I had my first beer here when I was a lad. Drinking age is younger here,” Ronan explains, “and younger still if the bartender looks the other way. But it’s been years.”
It might have been years, but something warms in my chest at the thought of Ronan bringing me to a place that has meaning to him. He comes around and opens my door, and as he takes my hand to help me out, I feel my heart flip in my chest again at the warm, broad touch of his palm.
The pub is exactly what I imagined an Irish pub would be—low ceilings with exposed beams, a long wooden bar polished to a gleaming shine, and a warm, lived-in feeling to all of it. There are booths lining the walls and an open floor with a small stage at one end, a live band playing traditional music that makes me want to dance. A fireplace crackles merrily in a stone hearth, and a Christmas tree twinkles near the door, giving the pub an even more festive atmosphere than it might otherwise have. The airsmells warmly of beer and hot food, and my stomach rumbles as Ronan leads me inside.
The moment we step in and the woman at the bar sees us, her face transforms into a smile, and I remember that Ronan is known here. Hebelongs, and I feel an odd ache that surprises me. I always knew being here would be temporary, but this place feels like somewhere that I want to belong, too. Somewhere that feels warm and homey, like the apartment I grew up in, only more so.
"Ronan O'Malley!" The woman behind the bar is probably in her fifties, with graying red hair and a rapidly broadening smile. She’s dressed in a fisherman’s sweater and jeans, her lined face bright with recognition. "As I live and breathe! It's been too long, you wee rascal."
"Hello, Bridget," Ronan says, and his whole demeanor shifts. The formal mask he usually wears slides away, replaced by something warmer, more genuine. "How's the family?"
"Can't complain. Sean's off at university in Dublin, and Molly's just gotten engaged to that Flanagan boy from the next town over." She eyes me curiously. "And who might this lovely girl be?"
"This is Leila," Ronan says, his hand settling on the small of my back with casual possessiveness. "My wife."
The word still sends a jolt through me, especially when he says it like that—with pride and affection that sounds completely real. I’m shocked that he introduced me that way at all to someone like this, someone he might see in the future and have to explain a divorce to. It would have been easier to simply omit it, but… he didn’t. I try not to give that more meaning than I should.
"Your wife!" Bridget's eyes light up with delight. "Well, isn't that something! Welcome to Ireland, love. And welcome to thefamily, I suppose, though the O'Malleys have always been a complicated bunch."
She winks at Ronan, who actually laughs—a real, genuine laugh that I've never heard from him before.
"Complicated is one word for it," he agrees.
We settle into a booth near the window, and Ronan orders us pints of Guinness and two plates of fish and chips. It comes in baskets filled with grease-soaked newspaper, a side of malt vinegar along with it, and I can tell from a glance that it’s far more food than I could ever manage to eat, even sharing it with someone else. The food looks incredible, though, and I can’t wait to dig in.
The moment I take a bite, I suppress a moan that would be far too inappropriate for the setting. The fish is crispy and flaky, the fries—chips—are clearly hand-cut and perfect, and it’s seasoned just right. The vinegar adds a mouth-watering tang, and I devour an entire piece of fish and a handful of chips before I look up at Ronan and reach for my beer.
“This is amazing,” I declare, and he chuckles, looking pleased.
"Wait until you try Bridget's apple tart," Ronan says. "She won't give anyone the recipe. Says it's a family secret."
"As it should be," Bridget calls from behind the bar, clearly eavesdropping. "Some things are worth keeping sacred."
I watch Ronan as he talks to the other patrons who come over to greet him, interrupting our meal as if it’s commonplace here, and I think it must be. There's an easy camaraderie, a sense of belonging that I've never seen in him before. These people know who he is, what his family does, but they treat him like he's just another local boy who rose high in the world. There's respect but not fear, affection but not the careful deference I've seen back home.
"You're different here," I observe when we have a moment of privacy.
"Different how?" Ronan takes a bite of fish, looking at me curiously. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
