“Yes. Exclusively.”
“Exclusively,” he agreed. “Now that we’ve settled that—your family lunch?”
She groaned, burying her face in the crease of his neck. She kissed him beneath his shirt collar. “There are only so many hours in a day. It can’t last forever. Let’s go.”
“Enough hours to get the shit beat out of me.” That was what he wanted to say, but didn’t.
At thirty-nine, he never thought he’d find himself squirming at a girlfriend’s parents’ front door, but here he was, gripping Bébhinn’s hand in what must be an uncomfortably tight clasp.
“Ready?” Bébhinn asked.
“Of course.”Not at all.
Apparently, when she said her family owned a building of flats, they really did. The O’Faolain monolith was a four-story monstrosity of old-world glory—gray stone and a few steps from the men’s wives’ business, Triskelion Design. He couldn’t wait to see the inside.
Lunch today was on the fourth floor. Her mother’s floor. He could handle her brothers’ posturing, but Rowan… Her opinion meant everything to Bébhinn, which meant it was everything to him.
Bébhinn entered the door code and shoved the heavy door open, and he was greeted with three women who looked like his girlfriend standing fanned out before the entrance. Beyond, leaning against an impressive pub-style bar were four white-haired men, arms crossed, their stares like loaded weapons aimed his way.
It was silent for no more than half a second, until…
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Why do you look like Patrick?”
And finally, the one introduction he needed to ace. “I’m Rowan, Bébhinn’s mother. Come in. Please.”
He might have squeezed Bébhinn’s hand harder than intended, but between his girlfriend’s doppelgangers surrounding him and his own, well, doppelgangers sneering athim, the coming lunch was proving to be a worse nightmare than he’d imagined.
When Rowan, ignoring the men flanking the bar, waved a hand in front of the large display of liquor, clearly asking his preference, he said, “Glenmorangie.”
“Year?” Rowan asked.
“18. If you have it.”
“I do. Good choice, it’s one of my favorites.”
Raven and River—he wasn’t sure who was who—went to their husbands and sons. “Dagr, this is my husband Bran, his brother Patrick, my son, Daniel, and Patrick and River’s son, Jonathan.”
So that was Raven. Then River, which he would have guessed eventually since Bébhinn said she had the sharpest tongue of the three sisters, faced the men, clearly annoyed.
“This is Dagr Griffiths, our Bébhinn’s boyfriend. Shake hands before I lose my shit.”
One of the sons mumbled loud enough for the group to hear. “Bébhinn’s old man friend, more like.”
Several things happened at once. Bébhinn’s head whipped toward her nephew-cousin, and she took a step forward as if she meant violence. He gripped her hand tighter and pulled her back to his side. Rowan sucked in breath, her eyes instantly glassy. As a woman who had loved a man many years her senior, her nephew’s comment would have hit her harder.
The eldest brother, Bran, saw Rowan’s reaction and slammed down his own glass of whiskey, rounding on his son who briefly closed his eyes in…regret, maybe.
“Do not ever disparage age in this house, son. No two people loved each other more than your grandfather and your Aunt Rowan.”
Daniel looked at his aunt first. “I’m sorry, Row. I shouldn’t have said that. I never once thought it of you and Grandpa.”Then he turned to Bébhinn. “I’m sorry, Bébhinn. I was being a dick. Apologies, Griffiths.”
He felt the tension ease out of her fingers where they still held hands. She only nodded in acknowledgement of his words. It wasn’t necessarily forgiveness.
Christ, the shock of being in a roomful of men who had his exact shade of hair was still a mind fuck. Jonathan, the younger white-haired nephew-cousin, spoke up then.
“In Daniel’s defense, we’ve known you’ve been keeping something from us for weeks. It hasn’t sat well with either of us. We’ve always been closer than that, Bébhinn.”
