Today was the day my parents decided to invite Sailor’s family for dinner. Mother wanted to get to know the Brennans. Well, that was her main excuse. Really, she just wanted to force Hunter to visit her.
Even though Hunter was against the arrangement, I’d met Sailor plenty of times since they moved in together. We became fast friends after a peculiar charity ball we’d both attended, in which she introduced me to Persephone and Emmabelle.
She was funny, quick-witted, and loyal. But no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t get her to talk about Sam. She was crazy protective of him, and every time I asked about her family, she changed the subject.
The butlers swung the double doors open. The Brennans stood on the other side. Mrs. Brennan, with tangerine hair and sharp emerald eyes, held a steaming dish in her hand.
Sam’s eagle eyes snapped to mine. The unpleasant curl of his lips warned me not to act like we’d previously met. Seeing each other wasn’t a surprise to either of us. I had no doubt Sam knew his sister lived with my brother.
He never bothered to seek me out.
My father, oblivious to my gigantic internal meltdown, conducted the introductions.
“And this is my daughter, Aisling.” Athair—father in Gaelic—waved his hand in my direction, like I was a decorative ornament. Gerald Fitzpatrick was a plump man with a face the color of a shrimp, beady eyes, and three chins.
Sam offered me half a nod, barely glancing my way.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I said steely. Sam ignored me.
My brother Cillian stood tall and imposing yet still looked small in comparison to Sam.
“Don’t even look at her, Mr. Brennan. Aisling is prime rib. Not a hotdog and therefore not on your menu.”
“Cillian, for shame.” Mother clutched her pearls, like she hadn’t shared his opinion. Sam grinned, taking his phone out and checking something, like our presence around him didn’t even register.
Cillian walked over to Troy, Sam’s dad.
“May I offer you and your wife a tour of Avebury Court Manor?”
The man sized him up. My guess was our mansion interested Troy Brennan just a tad less than the state of the weather in Gambia.
“You may, but I’ll pass,” Troy drawled, “on the grounds that you’re a cun—”
“We’d love a tour!” Sparrow elbowed her husband’s side.
Sam tucked his phone back in his pocket, indifferent to the awkwardness. Judging by the introductions alone, tonight was going to be long and painful.
“Aisling, go with them while I check on the cook. See if they need anything,” Mother instructed, and I knew what it meant.
Keep them company so I don’t have to. So I can fix myself a drink and hide in my room a little longer.
I fell into step behind Troy, Sparrow, Cillian, and Sam. His casual jeans and tee were replaced with gray slacks and a black button-down shirt. His hair was cropped closer to his scalp. His shoulders were so broad they blocked half the hallway.
We were the only two people who didn’t engage in small talk, although both Troy and Cillian seemed painfully bored with Sparrow’s sourdough bread recipe, which included letting the dough “rest” in the sun, feeding it, talking to it, and generally treating it like a Tamagotchi.
We ascended the stairs to the second floor. My house was terrible. Soulless and glitzy, like an endless hotel lobby. Limestone and gold accents winked from every direction; dramatic curtains and fountains attacked your eyeballs no matter where you looked. If nouveau riche had a face, it would be Avebury Court Manor.
Cillian showed the Brennans the left wing, also known as the family hall, filing through our rooms as he recited our family’s history like we were the Kennedys.
Sam slowed his stride gradually. At first, I didn’t think it was intentional, but soon, we were walking at the same pace, eight feet away from the rest.
He was the first to speak.
“Suffering from a jock itch?”
I gave an unwavering smile that did nothing to calm my nerves but didn’t answer. His presence alone had me feeling disoriented, excited, and manic.
“You’re awfully slow,” he continued. His husky voice trickled into my system, like sweet venom.
“You’re awfully rude.”
I stared ahead at our families’ backs. Cillian was standing in front of a portrait of Cormac Fitzpatrick, the first-generation Fitzpatrick who arrived in Boston after the Great Famine. Troy and Sparrow looked about ready to fling themselves out the French windows.
“Found yourself yet?” he inquired.
Not even close.
I felt my cheeks reddening under my makeup. “I had a bad night that night.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” He chuckled.
Cillian shot us a frown. “Hurry up. And remember, Brennan, I’m watching you.”
Sam smiled at my brother, who was only a few years older than him. “Like what you see, Fitzpatrick?”
“Not even remotely.” Cillian narrowed his eyes.
“A word to the wise: I don’t like being told what to do, but for the right price, I can be motivated into doing just about anything.”