The flight didn’t take nearly as long as I hoped it would. “You’ve been upgraded to first-class, Ms. Faraday,” The gate agent said, handing me my cell after scanning my boarding pass. I open my mouth to ask how and why but quickly close my mouth when I figure it out on my own.

Conner.

Settling back into my wide, comfy seat, sipping my champagne, flipping through an old, in-flight copy of Bostonian I make a mental note to add the upgrade to the growing list of things I have to thank him for. Like thinking of him created him out of thin air, his face appears in front of me, captured between the pages of the magazine in front of me, the words Boston’s Best Catch splashed across the page below him.

It wasn’t Conner, though. It was Patrick.

Pictures of him running in track pants and a fitting tank that shows off the kind of body that makes your mouth water. Coaching his team, looking relaxed and casual in jeans and t-shirt, baseball cap tugged low over his face. Volunteering at the library, sitting next to an older man, both heads bent over a book while Patrick taught him how to read. Laughing behind the bar, towel slung over his shoulder. On a job site, looking ruggedly handsome, complete with hardhat and tool belt.

A ten-page spread. All of it dedicated to the utter perfection and availability of Patrick Gilroy. Near the end of the article, it mentions the charity show and that he is the subject of a series of paintings by local artist, Cari Faraday.

Great. Now the whole world knows I’m obsessed with him.

“I met him.”

I look up to see a flight attendant standing over me with a fresh glass of champagne. We haven’t even taken off yet. I look back at the magazine open in front of me, taking a few seconds to grasp what she’s telling me.

“You met Patrick Gilroy?”

She beams at me, a gorgeous brunette with perfectly painted red lips. “A few of the girls and I were on a layover so, we went looking for him at his bar last summer,” she whispers, crouching slightly as she exchanges my empty glass for a chilled flute. “He did not disappoint.” She whispers, giving me a conspiratorial wink that makes me nauseous. “All night long.”

I take the glass from her, praising myself for not throwing it back into her face. “He sounds... perfect.”

She sighs dreamily and nods. “He is... although they airbrushed the most delicious part about him out of all the pictures.” She leans over a bit to look at the magazine in my lap. “He’s covered in tattoos.”

I laugh, relief making me giddy. Leave it to Conner to find a way to take advantage of his cousin’s fifteen minutes of fame. I lift my champagne and toast her. “Here’s to perfection.”

We land two-hours later. The second the wheels touch down on the tarmac, I’m a nervous wreck again, the confidence built up during Grace’s marathon pep-talk melting away under the weight and heat of my anxiety.

I press a shaky hand to my stomach and wheel my carry on to baggage claim. I’ve packed enough to tide me over until I find a place to live for Grace, Molly and me. She hasn’t said yes yet, but I’m hoping she’ll come around. Aside from a few trips to Dayton for family vacations, and weekend trip to Boston for my college graduation, Grace has never been more than fifty miles outside of Benton.

I catch a flash of him in the crowd, leaning against a concrete pillar outside baggage claim, checking his phone. The second he looks up and sees me, my stomach instantly clenches, the anxiety roaring back with each nervous step.

Patrick. He came to pick me up.

His hair is cut short again, a little longer on top than usual. Dark jeans and boots, topped with a white thermal and flannel, open at the throat, and a worn Carhartt jacket I’ve never seen him wear. It’s not until I see him smile, a wide, cheeky grin that does nothing to curl my toes, do I realize it’s not Patrick waiting for me. It’s Conner.

“Hey, Legs,” he says, reaching over to take my carry-on. “Tess is buried at the garage—I’m your consolation prize.” Nothing about Patrick or why he’s not here to get me.

Behind me, I hear a titter of high-pitched voices and look over my shoulder to see a trio of flight attendants, wheeling their carry-ons through the terminal. In the middle of them is the pretty brunette from my flight. Her gaze is latched onto Conner like he’s the second-coming of Jesus. She recognizes me a moment later, and I smile at her while the color drains from her face.

Con doesn’t even notice her. Instead, he gives me a grin before leaning over to drop a quick, brotherly kiss on my cheek. “You ready?”

I listen while Con fills me in on what’s been going on the last eleven months. Declan’s been caught in Bridezilla hell. Tess is burying herself in work, so she doesn’t have to deal. I half-listen, waiting for him to mention Patrick, even though I know he won’t. If I want to know about Patrick, I’ll have to ask.

“Thank you,” I say instead, shooting him a quick look across the car.

“For what?” he says, sounding genuinely confused.

“Everything,” I tell him, slightly exasperated. “Scrubbing the video. The money—twice.”

“Oh, that,” he says, checking his rearview before he changes lanes. “You’re welcome.”

“Oh, that,” I mimic. “You act like it’s not a big deal.”

His phone beeps in the center console between us. I look at the screen. The name Henley flashes across it. He reaches down and silences it without taking his eyes off the road. “It’s not.” He shrugs, sliding the car between a taxi and a delivery truck.

“Well,” I say, looking out the window, so he won’t be able to see that I’m crying again. “It was a big deal to me.”

“You’re family.” He sighs, blowing past the downtown exit. “You don’t have to thank family for taking care of you.”

Hearing him say that makes it even harder to fight back the tears. “You missed the exit for my hotel,” I say, brushing my fingertips under my eyes.

“Are you listening, Legs?” Con shoots me another grin, signaling his way off the freeway. “You’re family. Family doesn’t fly coach, and they don’t stay in hotels.”

I know where he’s going. I’ve taken this exit a million times, and the sight of it clenches my gut. “I have reservations,” I say, desperate to go anywhere but where he’s taking me.

“Cancelled ‘em.” He hooks a right before shooting me a sidelong glance. “You okay, Legs? You don’t look so good.” I’m not looking at him, but I can hear it in his voice. That asshole is laughing at me.

“Fuck you.”

“You can’t stay in a hotel for an entire month, Legs.” He stops a red light before shooting me a look. “Besides—do you know what my Da would do to me if he found out I dropped you at a Super 8?”

I thought of Paddy. His broad, affable face. His easy grin and lovely brogue. “You’re afraid of your father?”

“Terrified.” He turns onto Sutton. “But only half as terrified as I am of me Mam,” he says, affecting a convincing Irish brogue of his own.

“Your mom’s a sweetheart,” I say, allowing myself to be momentarily distracted.

“Yeah? So was Mussolini.”

I can see Gilroy’s looming in the distance and start to panic. “Please, Conner,” I say, hating the way my voice trembles. “Please take me to the hotel. I can’t—” I shake my head, hand pressed to my stomach. It flips and flops, harder and faster, the closer we get. “I’m not ready.”

Instead of doing what I ask, Con pulls into Gilroy’s gravel lot and parks. “He’s not here,” he says, finally taking pity on me. “He and Dec have been buried, neck deep in work—so much so that he’s finally agreed to hire a part-time bartender.” He kills the engine and turns in his seat to look at me. “He doesn’t even live here anymore.”

“What?” I whip around to look at him so fast, my neck cramps up. “He—” I swallow hard, shaking my head. “He loves it here.”

“That maybe so,” Con says, dangling a key in front of my face. My old key chain. Brand-new key. “But he moved out the day you left.”

“He said he was going to.” Look out the windshield at the building in front of me. “I just thought... I thought he was moving out because of me.”

Con drops the key into my hand before popping his trunk. “He did.”

It hits me hard. Knowing that he left a place that he loved because I ruined it for him. “How is he?” I told myself I wouldn’t ask. That I wouldn’t give Conner the opportunity to give me one of his knowing smiles or tell me again how badly I’ve screwed things up. But I’m asking because not knowing is killing me. “I thought... I thought maybe he’d—”

Call me. Reach out to me. Ask me to come home.

“He’s good.” Con’s tone is neutral. Almost passive. No knowing smile. No he deserves better lecture. “Like I said, he’s busy.” Then he pops his door open and steps into the cold, leaving me alone in the car. Before I can count to five, I’m scrambling out of the car after him.

“Look,” I say, reaching into the trunk of the car to retrieve my bags. “I know I left—”

“Hands off, Legs—I’m workin’ here.” He pulls my hand off the handle of my suitcase and gives me an annoyed glance. I catch a glimpse of new ink under the cuff of his jacket.

Remembering what the stewardess said, I pull at the cuff of his jacket. “You got a new tattoo?” I say, turning my head, trying to get a better look at it.

“What?” He looks at his wrist before jerking the cuff of his jacket down to cover the ink. “You expected us all to stand in one fucking spot until you got back?”

I stand back, feeling helpless, and watch while he pulls my bags from the trunk of his car. “I didn’t mean to hurt him, you know.” He shoved my carry-on into my hands, and I shoulder the strap. “I just thought it would be better—”

“I don’t want to have this conversation with you, Cari.” He slams the trunk lid and hefts my suitcase. “And believe me, you don’t want to have it with me either.”

Again, he leaves me stunned, skirting around me while he heads across the parking lot, my suitcase swinging at his side. Conner has never called me Cari. Not ever. It tells me that beneath his easy-going, you’re family vibe he’s got going, he’s angry. And not just at me.

I scramble after him, barely making it before the side-door slams in my face. Catching it with my foot and I wedge it open, stepping in before making a hard left to make my way up the stairs to our apartment.

Shit. No. Not ours. Not his and not mine. Not anymore.

Knowing that would’ve choked me where I stood if not for the fact that the staircase was gone. It’s gone. In its place is a wall that looks like it’s always been there. I stand stock still for a moment, staring at it before Conner calls out to me from across the bar. “This way, Legs,” he calls over his shoulder, and I catch sight of him, walking down the hall to the office.

Feeling like Alice, chasing the white rabbit, I hustle after him, passing by Patrick’s Uncle Paddy, polishing glasses behind the bar. “I expect a proper kiss and hug after you’re settled,” he calls out, and I toss him a grin over my shoulder.

“I’ll trade you for a bacon burger,” I say, earning myself a belly chuckle. At least someone is happy to see me. I turn, just in time to see Con walk into the office. Hurrying after him, I step through the doorway to find him, waiting for me in front of a polished mahogany door where a liquor-stocked shelf used to be.

I feel like Alice, now more than ever. “What’s this?”

“This,” Con says, setting my suitcase down in front of him. “Is the physical manifestation of eleven months’ worth of heartache and frustration.” He gives his chin a hard jerk at the stairs. “You need help up?”

“No,” I tell him, cheeks flushed. “I can manage just fine on my own.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, green eyes hard and narrowed slightly, stepping away from the door to give me room to unlock it.

“So much for family,” I mutter under my breath, fitting the brand-new key on my old ratty keychain into a shiny new lock.

“Oh, you’re family, Legs,” Con says, hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket, watching me struggle with my suitcase. “If you weren’t, I would’ve re-routed your plane to Siberia.

“Siberia?” I have no doubt he could do exactly as threatened, but I’m too angry to care. “How original.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Don’t mock Siberia—it’s a classic for a reason.”

“Oh, in that case—” I push the door open and lug my suitcase across the threshold. “Do svidaniya, asshole,” I say before slamming the door in his face.

“Cap’n not the only one you hurt by leaving, you know,” he shouts at me through the door. “Call Tess.” It roots me in place. The anger and hurt in his voice. I open the door, suddenly ready to apologize. No more excuses. No more reason. Just I’m sorry.

But there’s no one to apologize to. Conner is gone, and I’m all alone.