Running Back (New York Leopards 2)

I watched them laughing. Watched Mike, the brightness in his eyes, the joy on his face. And my heart flipped. Just flipped over and said, yes, that’s right. That’s him.

Somewhere along the line I had fallen in love with Michael O’Connor.

I turned away, my heart beating wildly. What was I supposed to do now? What did you do when you ended up over your head?

I tried to focus on the church, on the saints and the gargoyles. Instead, I caught a glimpse of Rach and Bri, who had also paused to watch the boys, small smiles on their faces. Smiles I doubted they knew were there.

They had figured it out. Most people figured it out. Emotions were part of human life.

But I dealt with people and places long gone, not modern love. Not things that could affect me. And I stood by what I’d said; I agreed that the emotion of love was real. I was chock full of dopamine and norepinephrine and serotonin. But that didn’t make it lasting.

What did I do now? Let it run its course, enjoy it while it lasted, love Mike with all my heart—well, with all my complimentary brain-produced chemicals? That was surely the healthy thing to do, the way most people functioned.

But if you knew pain was coming—how did it make sense to put

yourself straight in the path of all that agony and depression? Wasn’t it stupid to stand on train tracks, even if you couldn’t hear the train?

I lifted my gaze above the Cathedral’s three arched portals to the gallery of kings, all carved drapes and endless crowns. But there were no answers in the stone.

I was beginning to think that was always the case.

* * *

We returned to Ireland, and rain.

The O’Connor women picked us up at the airport. They’d cancelled their northern trip due to the endless downpour, and spent the weekend in Dublin, where they could stay dry in museums.

They were not thrilled to hear about France’s lack of rain.

I found all the water soothing. The way it streaked across the windows, the way the ocean pounded against the land and sent up angry white sprays. The world was bleached of every color but green and gray, turned into some strange altered landscape where everything blurred together.

Back at the inn, we settled before the fire, talking about our trips and drinking hot tea and devouring the pastries we’d brought back. I studied Mike’s face, the curl of his lips, the crinkle of his eyes. The dimple when he laughed out loud.

Maybe I could just tell him and follow up by saying I didn’t expect anything. That I just wanted to share. That I was trying to be emotionally open, but I didn’t want to tie him down or anything.

A knock sounded. Jeremy leaned on the doorframe. Scruff roughening his jaw, and two lines folded the skin between his brows. “Natalie. You’re back. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Of course.” I uncurled and stood. I could feel Mike’s eyes as I followed Jeremy, who led me up to his room. “How was your weekend? Is everything okay?”

He shook his head and dropped into his desk chair. I hovered nervously. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

He kept his eyes steady on mine. “An article was published about you this morning.”

I actually placed my hand on my chest, I was so surprised. “Me? What did it say?”

His head wavered back and forth. “About Tamara Bocharov’s daughter, actually.”

My throat dried up. “I don’t understand.” Why would anyone write an article about me as my mother’s daughter? And if they did, why would Jeremy care?

Unless it was really an article about Kilkarten. My arms wrapped around my waist. “What did it say?”

He let out a deep sigh. “The original article was gossip. Nothing really.”

“Because it is nothing. How did anyone even find out?”

His gaze went over me. “Because of him.”

I whipped my head around to find Mike crossing from the top of the stairs to Jeremy’s door. He stopped close enough that I could feel his warmth, and stared right back at Jeremy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”