“Okay…” she drawls, processing. “Just making sure you know I’m not going to honor that contract.”

“Excuse me while I go dry my tears with the one million euros I’m here for.” I finish my drink in one gulp and place the glass on the wide marble railing. When I turn to her, I have a pleasant, plastic smile on my face. I’d hate for her to think I actually care whether she comes or not.

“Won’t Kathleen mind me being there?” She plays with the hoop in her nose. “Considering our history and all.”

“Kathleen won’t mind.”

“Glad to see at least one of you grew up during this decade.” She twists the hoop in her nose some more. “And I would ask that Callum could come and go as he pleases while I stay at your house. We’ll be good guests and stay out of your way as much as possible, of course.”

“That’s fine,” I snap.

She’s staring at me; I’m staring at the view again. I’m not making it any easier for her. Why should I? She’s the one who threw everything down the shitter and flushed it a thousand times.

“You still live in your cottage?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Do you have any children?”

“No.”

“Is there a—”

“Do I look like a steak?” I cut into her words again.

She shakes her head, looking at me with even more confusion and revulsion than before.

“Then stop grilling me.” I twist my head to stare her down.

By the way her face screws in pain, I can tell she got the not-so-subtle reference to the time she asked about her da. I remind myself what I’ve had to endure in recent years thanks to her and push the guilt aside. To think that every minute spent with her, I was tearing myself apart for not giving her the truth.

About her.

About her father.

Whatever I plan to do to Aurora will only cause short-term damage. She’ll land back on her feet. Eventually. Me? I’m fucked into the next life, and possibly the one after it, too.

“Look.” I sigh. “Ryner is set on sending you to Ireland, and considering the paycheck, and the fact that you mean very little to me, I’m not sure why I should fight him on this. You’ll come, you’ll do the job, and you’ll leave. If you want to bring your shiny boyfriend along, be my guest. We don’t have to become best buds again.” I sign quotation marks with my fingers, sprinkling the insult with a fake, whiny American accent just to walk the extra cunt mile. “No need to get your knickers in a twist.”

“Why are you so mad?” she hisses, more shocked than hurt now.

“Mad?” I blink at her like she’s crazy. “I’m just not interested in making this more than it is. It’s been eight years, and a lot has happened in them.”

But not enough for me to spell out the words she wants to hear: I’m taken. You’re taken. It’s just a business transaction.

I won’t try to steal you.

I won’t try to sabotage your relationship.

I won’t try to seek revenge.

Those are all things I don’t say. Things I leave out. The things she should be demanding right now.

Luckily, Aurora seems too flustered to read the unwritten fine print of this conversation. She’s forever the hotheaded redhead.

“I see.” Her jaw squares, and so do her shoulders. “If that’s the way you want it to be, then I’ll respect that.” She nods, taking a step away from me.

I want to throttle her. To tell her it is not, in fact, the way I want it to be, but she made it that way. She moved on, and I got stuck. Now I’m angry, and vengeful, and definitely in the mood to inflict some damage myself.

“When do I start?” She parks her hands on her waist.

“Sometime after Christmas, before New Year’s. Richards is throwing a party at my house, and Ryner mentioned something about it.” I scratch the beginning of my stubble. “Work out the details with him.”

“Do you have any plans for Christmas?” She blinks at me.

Poor lass is still trying. Is she bipolar? She was quite clear about where I stood with her after we parted ways, so this doesn’t make a lot of sense.

“You’re doing it again,” I point out.

“Doing what?”

“Trying to make pleasant conversation. Being pleasant to you is not on my agenda, Aurora.”

She turns around and walks to the door. I decide I’m not done hurting her.

“Kathleen’s,” I say to her back. “I’m spending Christmas at Kathleen’s.”

She stops, but she doesn’t say anything. I get a good view of her little, round bum.

“And you?” I can’t help myself. “Christmas with the future in-laws in England?”

She turns and gives me a serene smile.

“I, too, have no interest in being pleasant with you, Malachy Doherty. The difference between us? Unlike you, I stay true to my word.”

I lean back on the bannister and smile, watching her go.

All is fair in love and war, and I’m certainly prepared for battle.

A NOTE FROM JEFF RYNER

History and hysteria have more than a few letters in common.

These two? They definitely share a history, and what I saw on the balcony was nothing short of hysterical.

I’ve watched it happen time after time in this industry.

Exes working together, thinking they are mature, and moved on, and capable of being friends.

B.U.L.L.S.H.I.T.

I could’ve told them it would only get uglier from here on out. Warn them not to bother. That the money isn’t worth it, and babysitting an asshole like Ashton Richards is only going to put them under more pressure, break more rules, and push them over the edge.

I could…

But let’s be real. I’m a forty-something cokehead with a sex addiction, and I have absolutely zero doubt that’s how they view me and what they think of me. Seeing other people screwing up their lives is not painful at this point. It is even—dare I say it?—therapeutic. Like knitting.

Knitting a disaster.

That’s why people gossip, right? To get a kick out of other people’s problems. And when other people don’t have problems they can see or taste or judge, they create problems for them. Analyze their every move to try to make themselves feel better. Well, this has catastrophe written all over it. How could I prevent it from happening?

Plus, I’m genuinely interested to see how it pans out. Knowing Malachy Doherty’s story, I don’t know how he can bang up his miserable life more than he already has. Guy is so deep in shit, anything else thrown at him, even a scandal, would frankly be an upgrade.

I pop two pills of whatever my dealer gave me and make my way back to the party, knowing I look like a Eurovision set and not giving a fuck.

Because I don’t.

I really don’t.

Let people judge. They’re not much better. The only difference between us is that I know what Malachy and Rory think about me. They don’t know what I think about them.

Rory

“You’re home early.” Summer pokes her head up from behind the fluffy cushions of the couch before turning back to the TV and shoving another spoonful of Chunky Monkey into her mouth. Pretty Woman is playing.