Page 22 of The Celtic Resolution
Her eyes narrow playfully and she brings the lemon wedge to her lips. “I’m not spilling all my secrets.”
“Alright, keep that story,” I reply. “I’ll find out eventually.”
“Oh, really?” She arches one brow.
“Really.”
Saoirse rolls her eyes and then bites into the lemon. Her beautiful face scrunches up immediately like a marshmallow being pressed between two fingers, but the sourness doesn’t deter her and she continues to bite and suckle on the fruit. It’s oddly endearing and I can’t take my eyes off her. The horror on her face when she walked in that room sticks in my mind like a little stone rattling around my head, and her swiftness in helping those women is admirable. I had no idea what to do or who to call, but she did.
She helps people.
And here I was about to kill her.
Now I’m transfixed by her perfect winged eyeliner that hasn’t smudged once, the pink of her lips as they flush and press together against the lemon, and the adorable way her cheeks bunch up like a hamster.
Stop it, Bruno.
I can’t let my thoughts wander, even after two sodas and a whiskey.
“My sister used to do that,” I say once Saoirse is done sucking the life out of her lemon wedge.
“She grow out of it?” She asks while folding the lemon peel up between her fingers.
“Honestly?” The urge for another whiskey rises. “I have no idea. She was eight when I went to prison.”
Saoirse pauses and her head tilts slightly to the left, causing a few stands of her auburn hair to kiss her shoulder. My mouth runs dry.
“Why were you in prison?”
“Drugs.” I can be honest without giving details. “So everything I know about Mary is… old news.”
“Haven’t you been spending time with her?” Saoirse sets her folded up lemon peel down on her napkin. “I’m not judging, but family is important.”
Alcohol warms my blood and Saoirse’s presence is comforting, even with her snarkiness and the evident distrust that lingers between us, so the words come easier than they should. “I want to be, but I don’t get along with my father.”
“Yet here you are risking everything to clear his name.”
“I should say that he doesn’t get along with me. Iwantto be seen by him. But even now, I feel like a little kid grabbing onto his coat trying to get a lick of attention while he wants nothing to do with me. I’m the shameful stain he doesn’t mention while he focuses on Rocky and the family and Mary.”
Her expression doesn’t change but her words are softer. “So you’re trying to prove him wrong by saving him from these rumors.”
“Exactly.”
She chuckles hollowly and picks up her glass. “I know the feeling.”
“Really? You don’t seem to be struggling for any kind of acknowledgement.”
“Not in the way you are.” A slow sip follows her sigh. “My father has Alzheimer’s. It’s pretty severe. He has no idea who I am or what I do, but it’s the same for all of us, so we make do. I know it’s not the same, but I still feel…” She touches her chest and her fingertips linger where her topmost button strains over her breasts. “I still feel like I want him to see me, but he never does. I keep meaning to visit him, but when do people like us get that kind of time?”
She laughs it off and drinks once more, but I hear the sadness echoing in her laughter. That same sadness vibrates in my own heart.
“It seems we understand one another,” I say in a low voice.
“In part,” she agrees. “The charming ex-con with daddy issues trying to kill the Irish assassin with trust issues. It writes itself.”
“You’re an assassin?” My crotch throbs suddenly. “No wonder I felt like I was fighting some kind of wildcat last week. I swear you nearly burst my balls.”
Her eyes narrow. “Good.”
