I decided what I needed was a bath for my aching muscles in the old clawfoot tub. Adding some lavender bath salts I found in a cabinet, the scent fills the air. As I sink into the hot water, my muscles finally begin to relax after the tension of the last fewdays.
Poor Kane. At least when my life fell apart, I knew who I was. My husband might be a cheating bastard and my sister a backstabbing bitch, but my fundamental identity remains intact. I’m still Kori Blake, marketing executive turned housewife, now soon-to-be-divorcée.
But Kane? His very existence has been rewritten. The father who raised him wasn’t his father. The uncle he looked up to is actually his biological dad. The cousins he grew up with are his half-siblings. And somewhere out there, he has a sister he never knew about.
No wonder he drinks.
I sink deeper into the tub, letting the water cover my shoulders. My situation suddenly seems manageable in comparison.
The chirp of my phone startles me, breaking the silence of the bathroom. I sit up so quickly that water sloshes over the edge of the tub, reaching for where I left it on the small stool beside me. It’s Jen calling. I hesitate for a moment, then swipe to answer.
“Kori! Thank God,” Jen’s voice floods through the speaker. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, adjusting to sit more comfortably in the cooling water. “Just taking a bath. The cottageis amazing. Thank you for letting me stay here.”
“You’re welcome, but that’s not why I’m calling. Mark’s been blowing up my phone. He showed up at my apartment looking for you.”
I feel a momentary twist in my stomach, but it’s duller than I expected. “What did you tell him?”
“That I had no idea where you were, which was true at the time. He looked awful, if that helps.”
“It doesn’t,” I say, though part of me is grimly satisfied. “I don’t care how he looks.”
“Good for you,” Jen says approvingly. “So, how’s Ireland? Drowning your sorrows in Guinness and handsome locals?”
I laugh, thinking of Kane buried in the sand with the nose and earplugs. “Actually, I met someone, but not like that. Someone from the plane, travelling with his family,” I add quickly. “And then I ran into him on the beach. It was... complicated.”
“Complicated how?” Her voice perks up with interest.
“I was using that metal detector on the beach, you know, the one your brother left here.” When she hesitated, I continued, “Anyway, it doesn’t matter; what matters is I found this guy buried in the sand. It was him.”
“WHAT?!” Jen shrieks so loudly that I have to hold the phone away from my ear. “Like, dead buried?”
“No, alive buried. His family did it to him as some weird intervention for his drinking problem.”
There’s a long pause. “Kori Blake, you'd better start from the beginning.”
So, I do. I tell her about finding Kane, about his family, about going to the castle ruins with them (though I leave out the part about Russians and hidden sisters—that feels like crossing a line).
“Wait, wait,” Jen interrupts. “What does he look like, this sand man of yours?”
I feel my cheeks warm inexplicably. “Tall. Muscular, but not in that gym-rat way. More like someone who’s naturally strong. He has these tattoos all up his arms—Celtic designs mixed with other stuff. Longish dark hair that falls in his eyes. And these blue eyes that just... I don’t know. They see right through you.”
“Honey,” Jen says, amusement clear in her voice, “you sound like you’re describing the cover model for ‘Hot Irish Rogues Monthly.’”
“It’s not like that,” I protest. “But my breath did catch in my throat when he came out of the car dressed in jeans and a grey Henley shirt.”
“And how exactly does he look in these clothes? Or out of them, since you found him half-naked?”
“Sinful,” I admit before I can stop myself. “He looks sinful as hell, Jen. Like trouble wrapped in a perfect package.”
She laughs delightedly. “Oh my God, you’re into him! This is fantastic!”
“I am not ‘into him,’” I insist, sinking lower in the now-tepid bathwater. “I literally just met him four days ago. And I’m still technically married.”
“To a cheating asshole,” Jen reminds me. “Look, I’m not saying marry the guy. But maybe a little Irish fling is exactly what you need right now.”
“Jen!”
