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I run my hand through the new very short style with the bleached tips. There’s a lot of gel in it to get it to spike up just right too. “I cut it.”
“Yourself?”
Okay, it does not look like I cut it myself. “Of course not.”
“You paid someone for that?” She lifts the cupcake she swiped from the dessert table and takes a huge bite. Little candy sprinkles fall to the floor around her.
I sigh. My niece is only ten, but she definitely has opinions. And she’s always willing to share them. She’s also been hanging out with my sister, her mom, too much. She sounds just like Fiona.
“The color or the style?” I ask. Because it doesn’t really matter if she likes it. The important thing is that it’s different. I needed a fucking change.
I hate my job. I want to quit. But I can’t.
I’ve only been doing it for two months, for one thing.
For another, it’s not really the type of job you just quit.
So since I can’t change my life, I changed my scenery—temporarily—and my hair.
Saoirse shrugs. “Both,” she answers around a mouthful of vanilla cake and pink frosting. “I also like you better with a beard.”
I skim my palm over my newly shaven jaw. I do too. “It’ll grow back.”
“Good thing.”
Okay, so the girl who is the reason my whole life is an upside down, bullshit, what-the-hell-did-I-do dumpster fire doesn’t like my makeover.
But I don’t regret my decision to upend my life for her. Exactly.
She’s going to do amazing things with her life, and she deserves the chance to make the decisions about what those amazing things will be. It’s not fair that her whole life was mapped out for her with a full list of expectations and responsibilities the moment she was born.
Still, my brother Declan would have made a hell of a king. He shares that I-don’t-give-a-fuck-what-anyone-else-thinks that my grandfather has perfected.
Except Declan was smart enough to walk away, and not look back.
So now here I am. The middle brother. The one who’s responsible and reasonable, and intelligent, who wants to do the right thing, be noble, and lead.
But I’m not leading a fucking thing. I’m not responsible for anything. I’m not doing anything.
“Uncle Torin?”
I focus on Saoirse, aware that I’ve been scowling at a spot on the floor just past her left shoulder. “Aye, a stór?” I ask, trying to soften my tone. I probably look mad, and I don’t want her to think I’m angry with her.
She is the reason I did it, but it’s not her fault.
“My mom says that Great-Grandpa is really mad at you.”
I nod. “Probably.”
“He’s been calling her.”
I sigh. I couldn’t even have a weekend away? And why not? It’s not like he’s put me in charge of anything.
I’m just blowing off steam. Enjoying being a goddamned prince for a fucking change. Because I sure as hell don’t enjoy it when I’m actually in the country I’m the prince of.
But my hair will grow out. My beard will grow back. And I can wear this fucking suit to the next godforsaken dinner my grandfather plans with my betrothed and her family.
I scrub a hand over my face and yes, it feels weird without my beard.
