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Ship’s sailed, sweetheart.
I don’t bother looking at her. Instead, I stare at the ugly, soulless skyscrapers of Manhattan, reminding myself how much she loves them. And that just like all the ditzy girls I rolled between my sheets before and after her, she’s saddled with Instagram-inspired ideas and Photoshopped dreams. She lives a Pinterest-perfect life, and there’s no filter to make my life suitable enough for her reality.
“Okay…” she drawls, processing. “Just making sure you know I’m not going to honor that contract.”
“Excuse me while I go dry my tears with the one million euros I’m here for.” I finish my drink in one gulp and place the glass on the wide marble railing. When I turn to her, I have a pleasant, plastic smile on my face. I’d hate for her to think I actually care whether she comes or not.
“Won’t Kathleen mind me being there?” She plays with the hoop in her nose. “Considering our history and all.”
“Kathleen won’t mind.”
“Glad to see at least one of you grew up during this decade.” She twists the hoop in her nose some more. “And I would ask that Callum could come and go as he pleases while I stay at your house. We’ll be good guests and stay out of your way as much as possible, of course.”
“That’s fine,” I snap.
She’s staring at me; I’m staring at the view again. I’m not making it any easier for her. Why should I? She’s the one who threw everything down the shitter and flushed it a thousand times.
“You still live in your cottage?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you have any children?”
“No.”
“Is there a—”
“Do I look like a steak?” I cut into her words again.
She shakes her head, looking at me with even more confusion and revulsion than before.
“Then stop grilling me.” I twist my head to stare her down.
By the way her face screws in pain, I can tell she got the not-so-subtle reference to the time she asked about her da. I remind myself what I’ve had to endure in recent years thanks to her and push the guilt aside. To think that every minute spent with her, I was tearing myself apart for not giving her the truth.
About her.
About her father.
Whatever I plan to do to Aurora will only cause short-term damage. She’ll land back on her feet. Eventually. Me? I’m fucked into the next life, and possibly the one after it, too.
“Look.” I sigh. “Ryner is set on sending you to Ireland, and considering the paycheck, and the fact that you mean very little to me, I’m not sure why I should fight him on this. You’ll come, you’ll do the job, and you’ll leave. If you want to bring your shiny boyfriend along, be my guest. We don’t have to become best buds again.” I sign quotation marks with my fingers, sprinkling the insult with a fake, whiny American accent just to walk the extra cunt mile. “No need to get your knickers in a twist.”
“Why are you so mad?” she hisses, more shocked than hurt now.
“Mad?” I blink at her like she’s crazy. “I’m just not interested in making this more than it is. It’s been eight years, and a lot has happened in them.”
But not enough for me to spell out the words she wants to hear: I’m taken. You’re taken. It’s just a business transaction.
I won’t try to steal you.
I won’t try to sabotage your relationship.
I won’t try to seek revenge.
Those are all things I don’t say. Things I leave out. The things she should be demanding right now.
Luckily, Aurora seems too flustered to read the unwritten fine print of this conversation. She’s forever the hotheaded redhead.
“I see.” Her jaw squares, and so do her shoulders. “If that’s the way you want it to be, then I’ll respect that.” She nods, taking a step away from me.
I want to throttle her. To tell her it is not, in fact, the way I want it to be, but she made it that way. She moved on, and I got stuck. Now I’m angry, and vengeful, and definitely in the mood to inflict some damage myself.
“When do I start?” She parks her hands on her waist.
“Sometime after Christmas, before New Year’s. Richards is throwing a party at my house, and Ryner mentioned something about it.” I scratch the beginning of my stubble. “Work out the details with him.”
“Do you have any plans for Christmas?” She blinks at me.
Poor lass is still trying. Is she bipolar? She was quite clear about where I stood with her after we parted ways, so this doesn’t make a lot of sense.
“You’re doing it again,” I point out.
“Doing what?”
“Trying to make pleasant conversation. Being pleasant to you is not on my agenda, Aurora.”
She turns around and walks to the door. I decide I’m not done hurting her.
