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It’s warm inside, so the lower panes of glass have fogged, and the sour-sweet smell of beer soaked into floorboards never seems to fade.

Eilish walks in and closes her umbrella, propping it next to the door.

She sees me, waves, then goes to the bar.

To place her order, she leans in and smiles at Paddy behind the counter with that soft, dangerous charm of hers, and I take the moment to study her from behind my glass.

She deserves better than a friend who keeps secrets and a family who bred her for the purpose of power.

My stomach tightens.

After a few minutes, she brings over a gin and tonic and a packet of crisps.

“Paddy says he’ll bring you over another rum.”

“You’re late,” I say.

She grins. “By five minutes.”

Eilish slides into the seat beside me and drops the crisps between us. “So, what’s this bullshit about you not wanting to be my bridesmaid?”

I look to the ceiling. “I thought you said no wedding talk.”

“I lied, and you should know me by now. I always get what I want.”

The laugh gets out before I can stop it, and her mouth softens because she knows she’s won a little ground.

“I won’t let you bail on me,” she says.

“It’s not that straightforward.” I stare at the salt and vinegar crisps instead of her face.

“What do you mean?”

I breathe through my nose and make myself meet her eyes. “I can’t be that close to him all the time.”

“Because you hate him.”

“Well, yes, I do hate him.” I set the glass down. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

And then the pub door opens.

Cold air whispers through the room, carrying rain and the faint smell of wet pavement. My spine reacts before my eyes do, every nerve turning toward the door with a humiliating precision I would pay good money to have surgically removed.

Eilish’s gaze flicks past my shoulder.

That is when I know.

Slowly, I turn my head.

I know the man who walks in is Fionn Harrington. The well-dressed man people expect, with tailored suits and groomed hair.

However, this evening he wears dark sweats, a black hoodie, and a cap pulled low to shadow most of his face.

His hair is still damp where it curls beneath the brim, darker from a shower, and there’s a fresh redness across his knuckles. He looks undercover or just comfortable in his own appearance.

But he also looks lethal.

My body knows him without the suit. Worse, it knows him better like this, stripped of all that Harrington haughtiness, with his shoulders loose beneath the cotton and his jaw roughened by stubble.