Bree

I wake to a heaviness pressing down on my chest. My heart beats wildly until I remember where I am, and whose hulking arm is draped over me like dead weight.

Owen.

He’s lying on his stomach, and has somehow managed to position himself in the middle of the bed, arms and legs sprawled like a starfish. If I shift even one inch, I’ll be rolling onto the floor.

I don’t want to move. I just want to continue to lay here, and breathe in his male scent, revel in the heat of his body, let my imagination roam for just a few minutes longer.

Until I remember that he doesn’t know who I am.

Maybe he doesn’t have to.

I can still leave. My cousins don’t even know I’m here. I can still avoid the humiliation, the anger I know he’ll have when he realizes who I am.

But I didn’t just come here for him. For this. Whatever the hell this was.

My body still aches in disappointed need from his abrupt departure.

Damn. I messed things up good, and I’ve been here for less than twenty-four hours.

I need to run. Maybe not out of Ireland, but at least away from the man beside me. One kiss, and he’s already got me feeling things I have no right feeling.

Adrenaline is my drug of choice. That, and caffeine. A brisk jog always clears my head. Followed by a Starbucks double espresso with half a sugar. It’s my daily routine. Helps me start my day, see things more clearly. Not that my brain has ever been in this type of mental, desire-induced fog before.

Removing his arm from my chest, I slink out of bed, then stand there for a moment, taking him in.

I’m pretty sure he came to bed fully dressed, but at some point, in the middle of the night, his shirt came off. Unlike the ink that marks his arms, his back is clean of tattoos, a blank canvas of tight muscle.

Rock god perfection.

I sigh, then let the hundred what ifs float around in my brain for a few dangerous seconds.

Not going to happen, I remind myself. He’s Owen Gallagher, and I’m…well, I’m me. It’s not that I’m one of those self-deprecating women who can’t see her own beauty and talents. Sure, I had a bit of an ugly duck syndrome during high school, but I got over it pretty quickly when boys started to show interest.

I know exactly what I am. And what I’m not. And I also know when I’m clearly over my head.

Like right now.

But I have no one but myself to blame, since I’m the one who took the plunge.

I unzip my suitcase, and pull out a pair of sneakers, hoodie, and shorts, then change quickly, and sneak one last glance back at Owen, who’s still fast asleep, before leaving.

The streets of Dublin are quiet, peaceful.

Home.

The feel of the uneven cobblestone under my feet brings back memories of an uncomplicated life. I zig zag through the narrow walkways in the Temple Bar area, crossing Wellington Quay so that I’m jogging east along the Liffey River.

The city is clean, the buildings a mix of old and new. So different from cookie-cutter-shaped homes I’ve become used to. The city is vibrant, even when it’s asleep. Colorful buildings, mixed with modern, unique designs that anywhere else would look out of place.

It’s the bridges that fascinate me. Scattered every few blocks down the Liffey, each one is different. Some allow vehicles to pass across, others are just walkways, but each one is unique.

I stop at a white, cast iron bridge to stretch my aching calves, frowning when I see a man with a bucket and a pair of bolt cutters walking towards me. He gives a small nod in my direction before crouching and starting to cut through one of the hundreds of locks that are attached to the bridge’s iron bars. He tosses it into the bucket, then moves on to the next one.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He grunts, not looking up at me. “Some tourists started this custom a few years back, attaching these love-” He sneers on the word, then grumbles as he puts his weight into breaking through the metal. “-locks to the bridge.”

I’d heard something about that. Love lock bridges. The couple attaches the lock to the bridge, then tosses the key into the water, a symbol of their unbreakable love.

“Why are you cutting them off?”

He looks up at me through bushy eyebrows. “Because the metal causes corrosion. They’re ruining the damn bridge.”

I can’t help but frown as he tosses another lock in his bucket. My mom would have loved something like this. Flighty. Romantic. Superstitious. And I wonder if she ever came here with my real father.

I never knew the man. All my mother ever told me about him was that he was from Dublin, and I have his eyes. She called him her one great love. But then, every time she met a new man, she always believed he was her soulmate, her Prince Charming who would eventually give her a happy ever after.

Bullshit.

It’s darkly humorous that the locks, meant to symbolize eternal love, are being discarded, like most of the promises they represent.

Love, if it even exists, doesn’t last. It fades, or it cracks. Or someone breaks it.

Sure, there’s the high, the lust, the moments of pleasure. Without it, no one would fall for the biggest lie in the world. That there’s a happily-ever-after ending, a soul-consuming love for anyone willing to fight for it.

I watched my mom chase hers straight into the grave.

Turning away from the man, and starting to run again, I realize if I’m not careful that’s exactly what I’ll do with Owen. Because if there was ever a danger of me falling for a man, it’s him.

Stupid twelve-year-old crush.

What I need is to finish what we started last night. Get the man into my bed, and out of my head. But I doubt that will happen now. And it sure as hell won’t happen when he finds out who I am.

The sun is high in the sky when I return to the hotel, and by the time I walk through the large glass doors into the foyer, I’ve decided that it’s best if I get my luggage from Owen’s room and clear out before my cousin Emer or Shane see and recognize me.

If they’d even recognize me.

All these years, and not one letter from either of them.

Out of sight, out of mind, I guess.

But I’m tired of being bitter, tired of wanting acceptance, wanting a family that forgot about me a long time ago. I should never have come. It was a stupid idea. One I made after I lost another waitressing job, because of the damn nerve damage in my hand.

It’s one thing not being able to play the piano anymore; at least, not with the proficiency I used to. But it’s a whole other thing to not be able to keep a job because of the chronic pain that makes my hand spasm at inconvenient times.

One more thing I blame love on.

“Ms. McGrath.” The concierge from last night waves a hand, ushering me to the front desk. “We had an early check-out.” He hands me a small folded package with a room number scribbled on top.

I want to tell him that I won’t need it. That I’ve decided to leave Dublin, to leave this country that holds nothing for me, when a woman’s flittering laugh draws my attention to the elevators.

Two women step off, lost in their conversation.

My heart skips a beat.

Emer.

She walks towards me.

I hesitate, not knowing what to do. I feel like a damn coward as I turn my head away, so that I don’t catch her gaze.

This was why I came here. To see my family. To return to my roots. To see if there was anything here for me, when there seems to be nothing for me anywhere else.

But Owen.

Really, Bree, my brain reprimands. You’re going to give up the possibility of seeing your family for a man? Like mother, like daughter.

I wince inwardly at the last part, but it makes me look up, makes me catch the gaze of the woman that stands a few feet away, now talking with one of the porters.

Fear grips my throat. And I realize why. I’m more afraid that Emer won’t recognize me than if she will.

I take a deep breath, pressing my thumb against the ink on my wrist, something I started doing even before I put the permanent ink there, when I used to draw it with sharpie, reminding me that I wasn’t alone. That I was brave. That no matter how far away I went, I would always have a home.

Except I was alone. Am alone. And I don’t have a home. Not unless you call the dump I live in overtop of Ned’s Mechanic Shop a home.

Emer breaks our gaze, and for a moment my heart sinks into my chest, until her head snaps back in my direction and her brows draw down. Lips purse as she studies me. I know the moment recognition hits her. Her eyes widen, her mouth drops open, and she takes a step towards me.

“Beatrice?” There’s a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

I feign shock, mirroring her own expression. “Emer?”

“Oh my God, it is ye. Look at ye all grown up.” Her arms outstretch as she gets closer, and I’m instantly wrapped in a tight hug.

I try my best not to flinch at the contact. I’m not a hugger. Never have been. But there’s a warmth to her touch, one that makes me relax slightly.

She pulls back, studying me, hands on my cheeks. “I can’t believe it’s really ye.”

“It’s good to see you.”

“And listen to that American accent.” She laughs, letting her hands fall to her stomach. “I hope those Yanks didn’t beat all the Irish out of ye.”

I force a smile, because she has no idea how close to the truth she is.

“Are ye staying here? At the hotel?”

I nod.

The woman behind her lets out a small cough.

“I’m sorry. Delaney, this is my cousin, Beatrice-”

“Bree,” I correct quickly. “I go by Bree now.”

“Bree,” Emer says, her smile not faltering. “This is Delaney. Cillian Gallagher’s wife. Ye remember Cillian?”

“Of course. It’s nice to meet you.” I shake the woman’s hand, already knowing her from her pictures on the news and in the magazines. She’s even more beautiful in person.

“What part of the US are you from?” Delaney asks.

“Michigan.”

Her already bright smile broadens. “We’re neighbors, then. I’m originally from Chicago.”

I know all the details. Saw all the videos of their epic engagement in front of the Chicago pier. And while I wish her all the best, I have a hard time thinking she’ll find it with Cillian. Unless the guy had a lobotomy in the past ten years, I’m pretty sure he’s still the class-A asshole he always was.

“Ye have to have breakfast with us.” Emer hooks her arm in mine, and before I can protest, she starts leading me towards one of the hotel restaurants.

“I just came from a run. I should shower and change...” And get my luggage from Owen’s room. Not to mention tell him who I am before he sees me with Emer and figures it out himself.

Shit. I’m so screwed.

“I’m not dressed for breakfast.”

“Ye’re fine the way ye are. And I want to hear what ye’ve been up to. It’s so good to see ye.”

A heaviness settles over me, doubting her words. Because if she really cared, she would have tried to contact me at least once in the past ten years. More than just the generic Christmas and birthday cards that her mom sent on occasions when I was younger.

“My life’s pretty boring compared to yours.”

She chuckles and rubs her belly. “Trust me, I’m looking forward to boring. I’m glad to finally be home.”

“The tour’s done now?” I ask, more to make conversation, since I already know it is.

She nods. “Ye’ve been following Wild Irish?”

“A little bit,” I lie. My obsession, mostly with Owen, would rival any fan girl. But hell, if I’ll admit it.

Emer beams at me, pride in her eyes. “Do ye remember them practicing in my father’s shed? I used to take ye to watch them.”

“I remember.” Everything.

“Owen used to let ye play that old keyboard of his. Ye were good. Do ye still play?”

“No.” I try to hide the emotion that tightens my throat, but there’s still a small catch to the word. I flex my hand, the one that still aches, even now, with the damage that was done to it.

“Too bad. Ma always said ye had more talent in your pinky finger than all four of the boys combined. And I won’t even repeat what she said about me. It pretty well broke her heart that I never learned how to play even one instrument.”

“How is your mom?” I ask, wanting to change the topic, not wanting to think about what could have been. What I could have been.

“She’s good. She’ll be happy to see ye, that’s for sure. When she heard about yer mom-” She stops, her face draining of color. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“It’s fine.”

“She was a nice woman.”

Keeping my expression stoic, I reply crisply. “She was.”

But, she was also gullible. And weak. And more concerned about pleasing the asshole she married than she was about protecting herself, or protecting me.

I see the look of pity that passes between Emer and Delaney as we continue to walk through the restaurant, and in that moment, I resent them for it. Them, with their perfect lives. Their perfect families. No understanding of what it feels like to have everything you love ripped away.

My feet falter slightly when I see the large table that’s been reserved at the back of the restaurant, and the three men that sit there.

Aiden Callahan with his life-couldn’t-be-any-better grin. Cillian Gallagher with his dark, brooding look like he’s trying to place me, but can’t quite remember how he tortured me for an entire summer when we were kids. My cousin, Shane, and his usual lazy smile and roaming eyes that he’s often photographed with, seeming troubled, but not troubled enough not to grow wide and be genuinely interested when he sees me.

“Who do we have here?” Shane asks, drawing out the words as he stands and gives me a dimpled smile.

“You remember Beatrice,” Emer says, smacking his arm when he doesn’t stop ogling me. “Yer cousin.”

“Oh shit.” He blinks for a few long seconds, then lets out a hoot of laughter. “Baby Bee. Damn, ye got hot.”

“Smooth,” Aiden snorts, rolling his eyes.

“What? She is.” Shane slings a heavy arm around my shoulder and grins down at me. “And to think I used to tease ye for looking like a boy.”

“You weren’t the only one,” I say, my jab directed at Cillian, who at least has the decency to wince as color creeps into his cheeks.

“Ye hit like one, too, if I remember correctly.” Shane continues, pulling out a chair for me to sit down. “Gave Cillian a beauty of a shiner.”

The entire table starts to laugh; everyone but Cillian, who mutters, “It was nothing compared to the beating Owen gave me later for teasing ye.”

“Pretty sure ye deserved it,” Aiden says.

The banter around the table continues, most of the teasing directed at Cillian, who takes it with a few grunts and shakes of his head.

The ease in which they interact slowly pulls down some of my walls, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t help the disconnect I feel from the people I once thought were my friends – my family.

Coffee is poured and orders are taken. I keep glancing over my shoulder, expecting Owen to show up at any moment, not sure what the hell I’m going to say when he does.

“If ye’re still going to be in Dublin next week, ye have to come to my wedding,” Emer says, breaking through my thoughts.

“Your wedding?” I look between her and Aiden, confusion pulling down my brows. “I thought…I mean, I assumed…”

“We are.” Emer says with a chuckle, rubbing her belly. “By Vegas standards.”

“Just not by Agnus Hayes standards,” Shane says.

“Have to make an honest woman of yer cousin before yer aunt has me castrated.” Aiden winks at me.

Emer rolls her eyes. “I’m already yer wife. If ye’d just have told her no, I’d be home right now with my feet up, relaxing. I swear ye’re more scared of my mum than ye are of me.”

Aiden cups her chin, his eyes twinkling. “Trust me, there’s only one woman more stubborn than ye, and that’s yer mother. So, excuse me for wanting to keep my balls intact.”

Emer shakes her head, the banter obviously one that’s been going on for some time.

My heart skips a beat when I see Owen’s tall, muscular form walking towards us. My body reacts instantly, the delicious ache between my thighs returning, despite how much trouble I know I’m going to be in if I don’t excuse myself right at this moment.

Owen’s face is pulled tight in a look of frustration, even though I’m pretty sure he hasn’t seen me yet.

“I should go.” I push my chair back, a little too quickly, causing a few lifted brows.

“Don’t leave yet,” Emer begs. “Ye still haven’t seen Owen. Remember how ye used to follow him around like one of Mr. Murphy’s little lambs?”

“I-”

“Shit,” Shane says, stretching, and giving a lazy grin. “I remember that.”

I know I’ve lost my window of escape, and even though I keep my gaze settled on Emer, I feel the moment Owen’s eyes land on me.

Little prickles skate across my flesh in warning.

Damn, damn, damn.

“What’s going on?” Owen says harshly, and even though I still don’t look over at him, I know the words are directed at me.

Emer frowns at him, before saying, “Ye remember Beatrice?”

“Beatrice?” I hear the confusion in his voice.

“My cousin.”

I chance a look, and when I meet his gaze, I immediately wish I hadn’t. His eyes narrow on me, but his expression remains deadpan.

“Yer cousin?”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“Baby Bee,” Owen mutters past a snort, his eyes turning cold, hard, and filled with suspicion and betrayal. “Yeah, I remember Beatrice.”

“I go by Bree now,” I mutter, physically shrinking at the look he gives me.

The table grows awkwardly silent.

Owen pulls out the chair beside Aiden, sits down, and grabs the half empty coffee cup in front of him, downing it.

No one speaks, but I feel the perplexed glances that dart between Owen and I.

I push my chair back and start to stand. “It was nice seeing you all, but I really should go-”

“Sit,” Owen orders, the word more of a command than a request. He holds out his coffee cup when a server comes by with a pot.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and slowly sink back into my chair.

“Owen,” Emer starts, but she shuts her mouth on whatever reprimand she was going to say, when he pierces her with a look.

“Bree.” There’s ice in the way he says my name, and the fire and passion from the night before is gone. “Did I miss why ye’re back in Ireland?”

I hear the hidden meaning in the question, and see the suspicion in his gaze.

“I…” Licking my lips, I shift in my seat.

“She doesn’t need a reason to come home,” Emer says sternly, glaring at him.

“Is that what ye’re doing?” Gray eyes remain locked on me. “Coming home?”

I understand now what’s eating at him the most. Not that I didn’t tell him who I was, but that I might be staying. That he might actually have to see me again.

Straightening my shoulders, I lift my chin and harden my gaze, and my heart. “Maybe. I haven’t decided yet. Actually, Emer just invited me to her and Aiden’s wedding, so I think I’ll be sticking around at least a week.”

He doesn’t respond, but I see his nostrils flare, the slight twitch of his eye.

I push my chair back, holding his gaze and daring him to tell me to sit again, then murmur a quick thank you to Emer, before making a quick escape, knowing nothing I could say would make this any better, or any less awkward. And wondering how different the reunion would have been if I’d just told Owen from the start who I was.

Trouble always had a way of finding me, but this time I’d dug my own grave. I’m just not ready to lie down in it.