I walk through the narrow hallway afterwards. The master bedroom, which was his mother’s before Kathleen moved in, is completely empty, save for the king-sized bed that’s unmade. The pillows are a suspicious shade of dirty yellow, and the blanket could use a wash. I move to the bathroom, which has also seen better days, finally stopping at Mal’s then-room, and our guest room, I suppose. It has one made-up, single bed and a little closet. I turn around to Callum, but he just grins.
“Less room means more spooning. Not a bad Sunday.”
I should love this man.
I should.
And right now, I’m getting damn close to that elusive feeling.
“No part of this is your fault,” he adds. “So don’t you dare apologize.”
We move to the last room down the hallway, and it is locked—possibly the studio Ryner was talking about. That might explain the deadbolt, padlock, and STAY OUT sign on the door.
Callum gets right to business, wheeling my suitcase into our room, while I open the rusty door leading to the backyard to see if the sheep and cows are out and about.
There are no more sheep.
No more cows.
There’s no more…anything, really.
I take a step out, and something crunches under my shoe. I look down, frown, and pick up an earring. Just the one. Must be Kathleen’s. A drop-shaped pink diamond earring. It looks fake, but then again, so is she. Maybe they’re hard up for cash. No other reason for Mal to take this writing gig. I look up, staring at the green hills.
A voice behind me rustles, “Breaking and entering is illegal in Ireland.”
I jump, turning around. Mal is leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, his hands shoved in the front pockets of his acid-washed jeans, one Blundstone boot crossed in front of the other. His beauty arrests me for exactly five seconds before I school my face.
“Nice crib.”
He pushes off the doorframe, descending the two steps to his backyard and ambling toward me. “Trashed it especially for you.”
“And I suppose Kathleen was eager to help. Anything to make me feel unwelcome.”
Mal flashes me a breezy smile, tying a red bandana on his forehead like he’s getting ready for something. He reminds me of old Mal again—adventurous and boyish, impossible to resist.
“Where is she, anyway?” I look around.
I want to get the initial slap-in-the-face reaction of seeing them together out of the way so I can breathe regularly again.
“Dublin.”
“When is she going to grace us with her presence?”
He whistles, then lets out a gruff chuckle. Of course, Kathleen has conveniently removed herself from the situation. I don’t know why she’s hiding. She’s just the type to parade her gorgeous husband like it’s a dog show. Obviously, Mal is not going to answer my question.
I gesture toward the nothingness.
“Where’s the cattle?”
“Sold it.”
“Father Doherty? Is he doing okay?”
He squats down, patting away a patch of mud on the front of his boot. “He’s alive.”
“How about your mother?”
He stops messing with his boots, looks up, and blinks at me like I stopped speaking English. “I’m not a steak, Aurora,” he snarls.
“You need to open the studio. I want to take some photos of it before Richards arrives.”
“There’s no studio,” he says, watching my reaction intently.
Then what the hell is that room? Of course, I don’t ask.
“Then how are you going to record the songs?”
“We’re not. We’re just going to write them.”
“Ryner lied,” I mumble.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. I wouldn’t trust that man to give me the time in a room full of clocks.
Mal shrugs.
“You should really clean this place. Richards won’t live in this condition in a million years and counting. He’s used to pretty, nice things.”
“That makes two of you, Princess.”
I want to ask him what the hell he means by that, but I’m not supposed to care. I haven’t done anything wrong. I respected our contract, pined for him for years, and tried to move on. What did he expect? For me to sit around and wait for fate to take control while he wedded my sister?
He shakes his head on a dark chuckle, seeming to take my silence as admittance. He turns around and stalks back inside, leaving me to stand here.
It is crazy how eight years ago, I could feel his pulse against my palm for days and weeks after we parted ways.
Right now, I’d like to rip his heart out of his chest, just to see if it beats anymore.
If it’s still there.
And if it’s black, like my mother warned me.
Mal
On my way back into the house, Aurora’s shiny boyfriend stands up from the sofa and stretches his hand toward me, flashing me his slimy banker smile.
I saunter past him to my room and slam the door. I fling myself onto the dirty bed, staring at the ceiling, ignoring the buzzing of my phone.
Maybe it’s one of my regular bells.