Reluctantly, I shake both their hands. Maeve still looks upset by my existence, and I’m trying really hard not to out her sordid doings yesterday in front of her friend.

“I’m Rory.”

“We know,” they say in unison.

“I didn’t think she’d be that pretty. Kath said she was just okay,” Maeve grumbles, then bites her lip, realizing she said that aloud.

“Do you live around here?” I look between them, trying to break the ice.

Heather nods. “Just down the street. On Christchurch Grove. Ours are the blue and red houses facing each other. We’re married to the O’Leary twins, you see. She’s married to Sean, and I’m married to Daniel.”

This is way more information than I asked for. I smile and step away, toward the street.

“What are you doing living with Mal if you two aren’t a thing?” Maeve narrows her eyes at me.

Everything in her face is squeezed in concentration, like her life depends on my next words.

“We work together. I thought he married Kath.”

“He did.” Heather sighs, as if everyone knows how that turned out.

Well, I don’t. I’d kill for an answer. Well, maybe not kill, but seriously injure someone. Preferably Mal himself.

“Did they get a divorce?” I’m starting to think I’ve gone mad. Either Mal and Kathleen have a super-open relationship or I’m missing something crucial here.

“Mal would never.” Maeve’s bitter tone does not escape me. “He’s loyal to a fault.”

Yeah. Loyal. So, so loyal.

“Kath left him, then?”

Their eyes grow so big, I’m afraid they’re going to roll out of their sockets. Realizing this is a dead-end conversation, I mutter a goodbye and start backing away, turning around and taking off.

I need to talk to someone, all right. Father Doherty. Yeah, he’ll be able to tell me what the hell this entire inheritance obsession is about, and maybe shed light on the Mal-and-Kathleen situation. God knows Mal is not helpful in this regard.

I know Father Doherty lives in this village. It’s just a matter of finding him. I’ll go door to door if I must.

I tromp my way back toward Mal’s cottage and take the long way up, the one between fields of barley and wheat. The air is fresh, and the wheat is brown and beaten by the cold, whooshing back and forth in the wind like silk. By the time I see the cottage, my heart rate is back to normal.

I push the door open and find Mal sitting in the backyard, which has been fully furnished with loungers, a dining table, two fire tables, and a fancy grill. The entire house looks different. Uncluttered, yet full of new, shiny things. I watch Mal sit back at one of the tables outside through the living room window. He’s flirting with two American girls from Richards’ staff. He is nice, Old Mal again. The one I fell for. I shake my head, roll my eyes, and head to my room, stepping over the threshold.

I blink.

Turn around.

Stalk back to the corridor.

Check it really is my room—it is—then re-enter, looking around.

What. In. The. Name. Of. Jesus. And. His. Holy. Crew?

Someone has removed the bed I’ve been sleeping on and replaced it with a gigantic, plush, king-sized mattress on an upholstered white bedframe with the initials AR. There are two nightstands, a central sound system, a TV, every game device under the sun, and a clothes rack with robes, fancy coats, and colorful blazers.

I shoot out to the backyard, feeling like my feet are hovering over the floor. I’m not mad. No. I’m raging. I can feel my pulse everywhere, including my eyelids and toes. A feral scream lodges in my throat.

I throw the back door open, and it slaps against the wall from impact.

“How dare you?” I fling my arms at Mal. He looks up from something one of the American girls is showing him on her phone—her ass is perched on the edge of the table his feet are on—and all three are staring at me now.

He watches me with quiet amusement. “Care to be more specific? I quit my mind-reading job last week.”

The girls snicker, exchanging looks.

“My room! My things! Everything is gone.”

I’m finding it hard not to stomp my foot and throw a fit, and Mal knows it, because the more flustered I am, the calmer he looks. He yawns provocatively, leaning back in his chair.

“About that. We had a bit of a space problem with Richards moving in, so I had to put your things in my room. Hey, roomie.” He winks, his eyes light and full of mischief.

The girls sigh audibly next to him. I’m about to throw up.

“I’m not rooming with you.” I fold my arms over my chest.

“Looks like you are from where I’m sitting. Then again, you’re awfully short. Sometimes you don’t see the whole picture.”

No, he didn’t.

“You sit on a throne of delusions if you think I’m sharing a bed with you.”

“No one said anything about sharing a bed, silly. I rolled you out a sleeping bag on the floor. Chivalry is not dead, Rory. I’m living proof of that.”

“You want me to sleep on the floor?”

He shrugs. “You can stay awake on the floor, if you like. What you do with your spare time—on the floor—is not my concern.”

More laughter.

He’d better be kidding me.

“Get up,” I grit out.

The women exchange bitch-is-crazy looks. They aren’t wrong. Not now, anyway.

Mal gives them a meaningful, see-what-I-have-to-deal-with? look. He gets up, swaggering over to me as lazily as he possibly can without standing still. When he’s within reach, I grab the collar of his shirt and jerk him indoors. Everyone other than the girls is gone, the house fully prepared for Richards, but I don’t take any chances we’ll be heard. Richards is probably touring the village, trying out the local beer, butter, and babes. I shove Mal into the bathroom and lock the door. He leans back on the vanity, smirking down at me like I’m adorable.

“Mal,” I start, taking a cleansing breath. “We can’t sleep in the same room. I have a boyfriend. You have a wife. You care about what she thinks. I know you do.”

I don’t know if I’m trying to convince him, or myself. “I heard you talking to that English lady yesterday…”

At the mention, Mal’s lips curl in satisfaction. Of course, I was meant to hear him nailing Maeve through the mattress, floor, and lower sections of hell, giving her four orgasms and three praises for Jesus, God, Mary, and every saint in the Bible.

“You said you want to take Kath somewhere sunny after this is all over. Maybe you two are going through a hard time—”

“We are,” he interjects. “Horrible, really.”

I nod, eager to make my point.

“Yes. All couples do. I get it. And maybe you’re on a break, and that’s why you were with someone else. I’m not judging. But if we share a room, Kathleen will never, ever forgive you, and we both know it. And I will never be able to mend my relationship with my sister.”

Not that I particularly want that…but still. It would be nice to have the choice.

He pokes his lower lip out and tugs at it, his purple eyes raking my face. He is so painfully, unfairly beautiful. I want to lash out at him for abusing the power of his looks by being so impossible. He licks his lips, his eyes dropping to my mouth. I know what he’s thinking, and the blood that’s buzzing with anger in my veins is now full-blown humming with something that feels deadly close to anticipation. The familiar chill turns hot again, and I know he is my lighter. Ready to set me on fire with a flick of his fingers.