Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
“I know how to cook,” I tell him, nodding. “I like to cook. It’s soothing. Calming. And maybe stems from a little paranoia because when you cook for yourself, you know what’s going into your food.”
“Yes.” For him, he might wonder if someone’s poisoning it or whatever. For me, it’s an entirely different reason. “I respect that,” he says quietly.
Of course he does.
But then something shifts in his expression. His eyes scan the crowd behind me, sharp and assessing, and his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. It’s subtle—most people probably wouldn’t notice—but I do. There’s a hardness there, a wariness that doesn’t match the easy conversation we were just having.
“What is it?” I ask.
His gaze snaps back to me, and he forces a smile. “Nothing. Just keeping an eye out.”
“For what?”
“Everyone,” he says simply, but the way he says it makes my skin prickle. “Everything.” Like he’s expecting something, and he doesn’t trust anyone here.
Before I can ask more, a crowd of younger girls eyes him with nothing short of adoration. I remember how, back in St. Albert’s, the girls there would have worshipped him like he was some kind of hero.
“Put that away,” one of them hisses quietly, looking nervously over her shoulder at Cavin. “He’s right there.”
I give him a curious look. “Are they hiding something from you? They’re shite at doing it if they are.”
“I don’t know,” he says, and there’s that edge again in his voice. He stalks over, hands in his pockets. “What are we looking at over here?”
Their eyes go wide, and they step back.
“Nothing,” one says.
“Hand it over.” His voice brooks no argument.
Someone hands him the phone, and he scans it, his eyes quickly going dark, actually dark—like something twisted and violent just woke up inside him.
“Who the fuck posted that?” he growls.
Oh no. Not another one.
“Don’t know. Whoever manages the St. Albert’s account—”
“What is it?” I ask him. “Another stupid post? Not worth getting upset about, Cavin.”
Now at the doorway, his cousin Declan walks over. “Right. Find out who the fuck is running the St. Albert’s account. We need to have a word with them,” Cavin growls.
“Come here, Erin.”
He gestures to the girl with the phone. “Take this picture.”
He puts his mouth to my ear, and it feels intimate and warm despite the tension radiating off him. I feel a flush creep over my cheeks.
“Smile for me, yeah?” he murmurs. “Let’s show them all you’re not bothered.”
I do. I smile. And he turns and kisses me like I'm the only person in his world as she takes a picture of us together.
“There,” he says. The girl shows us the picture. “That’s better, isn’t it?”
It is. It’s actually beautiful. Moving, even. We look… we look like we’re in love.
“Post that,” he tells Declan. “Make sure everyone sees it, and tell them Erin Kavanagh is mine.”
“Aye.”
“Well done, McCarthy.” My cousin Shane approaches and shakes Cavin’s hand with a hard slap to the back that seems customary for men, but makes me flinch. He smiles at me and gives me a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “Congrats, Erin.”
“Y’alright?” Cavin asks in my ear.
“Aye,” I whisper, but my throat feels tight, my breathing ragged. “There are just so many people. Why are there so many people?”
“Aye,” he says with a sigh. “McCarthys plus Kavanaghs could field a right good football team, if we were of a mind.”
That makes me smile. “We could, but the ref would have his cards out before kickoff, knowing this lot.”
When we’re alone again, or as alone as we can be in a crowd like this, I study him. Really look at him. The way his eyes never stop moving. The way he positions himself so that his back is never to the room. The way his hand rests on the small of my back, but his body is coiled tight, ready to move.
“You’re always watching, aren’t you?” I say softly.
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see something raw there. Something that looks almost like fear, though I’m not sure Cavin McCarthy is capable of that emotion.
“Have to,” he says simply. “It’s how you stay alive.”
The words send a chill through me because he’s not being dramatic. He means it. He’s lived in a world where one moment of inattention could mean death. Maybe he still does.
“Is that what it was like?” I ask carefully. “In prison?”
His jaw tightens, and for a second, I think he won’t answer. But then he nods, just once. “Every fucking day, Erin. Every day you wake up, wondering if it’s the day someone decides you’re more useful dead than alive. And you learn quick that the only person you can trust is yourself.”
“That sounds… lonely.”
“It was.” His eyes soften slightly. “But maybe it doesn’t have to be anymore.”
I know. I understand.
I’m lonely, too.