For the first time, as I sauntered across the shiny marble floors of Avebury Court Manor on my way out, I wondered if maybe there was another reason why I enjoyed hating Gerald so much. Perhaps the excuse to hate the Fitzpatricks and everything they stood for was just too much temptation. Or maybe I always wanted to fuck Cillian and Hunter over—these two boy-men, who had everything handed to them on a silver platter from the moment they were pushed into this world.
I stopped by the door, shook my head, turned around, and made my way back into the house. I ascended the stairs to Gerald and Jane’s room. Jane was in her bed, sleeping soundly in the middle of the day. And by asleep I mean knocked the fuck out.
I strolled into his walk-in closet, took a safety pin from my pocket, unlocked his jewelry box, and went straight for the jackpot. The thing I knew Gerald valued the most.
The Fitzpatrick cufflinks he’d inherited from his dad. Seventh-generation Fitzpatricks, made of gold and engraved back in Ireland, where the family had nothing to their name other than these cufflinks.
His precious heirlooms. The cufflinks he’d refused to donate to a local museum in Boston, he loved them so much. I pocketed them, smiling.
“I put extra cameras around the house to make sure I am protected.”
Now he was sure to think the traitor was within.
On my way out, I spotted Aisling parking her modest blue Prius by the fountain. Snowflakes gathered over her head like a crown.
I could easily avoid her by getting into my Porsche and driving off, but where would be the fun in that?
She got out of her car wearing scrubs, flipping me the bird in one fluid movement, somehow still managing to look graceful as she stomped her way to her house.
“Nice scrubs. Shame you only put them on so your family buys your hospital story.” I chuckled. She froze for a nanosecond before resuming her walk to the front door.
I might not know every detail of her secret, but I knew enough to be able to make her life very miserable indeed.
Unsurprisingly, I made it a point to not want things that didn’t want me. It was a given, considering my life experience and history. And Aisling may have wanted me, but her family was going to keep us apart at any cost. Not that it was going to help them if I, indeed, wanted Aisling. But as it happened, I rejected things and people who thought they were too good for me.
“Have a nice evening, Miss Fitzpatrick.” I tipped an imaginary hat her way.
“Burn in Hell, Brennan.”
“If there’s a God, that’s definitely His plan for me.” I ducked my head, entering my car.
“Oh, there is a God, and trust me, when He gets His hands on you, I’ll be waiting with popcorn.”
“Uncle Tham! Can I ride you?”
Rooney, Sailor and Hunter’s daughter, not even three, flung the door to Troy and Sparrow’s house open, throwing herself at me like a missile. She wrapped her pudgy arms around my leg then proceeded to crawl her way up to my torso like a mini soldier, until I scooped her, tucking her under one arm and holding her like she was a helmet. I waltzed inside the house where I’d spent my teenage years, kissing Sailor on the cheek then Sparrow.
“I wanna ride you.” Rooney giggled, still tucked under my arm as I exchanged pleasantries with my adoptive mother and sister. “Puh-lease.”
“After dinner, Roon Loon,” I said, messing her mane of tangled red hair. She looked exactly like Sailor, who looked exactly like Sparrow. Three generations of hellion banshees. Troy clapped my shoulder, and Hunter handed me a beer, which I took with my free hand.
“Auntie Emmabelle says all the girls at your club ride you,” Rooney continued from under my bicep, blinking at me in wonder.
“Auntie Emmabelle should have her mouth stitched shut.” I flashed Sailor a menacing look.
“I thought I was the only girl who can ride you.” Rooney wiggled free out of my hold, standing front of me. With one hand free, I reached for the table to grab an appetizer, but halfway through, Sailor tucked baby Xander into my arm so she could try to collect Rooney’s hair into a ponytail. It was impossible to avoid children in the Brennan household these days.
“Samuel, could you please hold either the baby or the beer? It doesn’t look good when you have both in your arms. Put one down and help me serve.” Sparrow wiped her hands with a kitchen towel, padding toward the kitchen to check on the Sunday roast she was working on. A weekly tradition.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, putting Xander in his stroller by the door, following her.
I heard Sailor muttering, “A-hole,” behind my back.