Page 10

“My God…”

Dust bunnies gathered in the corners and under the table legs, and dishes littered the sink. The worst of it? This kitchen had clearly once been filled with plants of every kind and size. Now every single potted plant—and there were a whole lot of them—was dead, the kitchen nothing but a plant graveyard. Poor things. They hadn’t stood a chance.

She studied the row of dried pothos that lined the top of the cabinets like dead sentinels.

A half-eaten sandwich lay by the sink right on the counter. Not even a plate.

Before coming to Ireland, she’d done her research on Oliver. Her brother had caused this vibrant man to become… well, a slob. A hermit.

She’d seen photos of him before the accident. He’d been a tanned, blue-eyed adventurer—excavations in Greece, skydiving in New Zealand, scuba diving in the Caribbean. She’d also seen photos of him between operations. People had snuck into his Los Angeles yard to snap shots of him to sell to the media. His face had been swollen and unrecognizable then. How hard that must have been—not feeling safe in his own home.

She doubted Oliver had ever wanted the spotlight, but his connection to his famous siblings made otherwise impossible. Of course, every news outlet, TikTok sleuth, and social media influencer tripped over themselves to cover the youngest Icefall brother’s accident.

He came from wealth and had access to all the best reconstructive surgeons and therapists. Even with all that, he’d removed himself from humanity and was hell-bent on revenge. His presence in this random small town really could only mean one thing: Kyle was somewhere nearby.

Pulling over a chair, she kicked off her shoes, stepped onto the peach cushion, then up onto the white-tiled counter, and began taking down the plant carcasses.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

She hadn’t even heard him come in.

In twisting to look at Oliver, her footing on the narrow ledge where counter bordered sink slipped. Arms flailing, she fought to regain her balance.

“Shit.” He leaped forward.

Not willing to let him touch her again, she grabbed for the cabinets to steady herself. “I’m good.”

He stopped at her chair and craned his neck to look at her. “Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Need help getting down?”

Grasping another pot from above the cabinet, she lowered one foot then the other to the chair. “I got it.”

He took the plant from her, but let her reach the floor otherwise unassisted. “What in the hell, Yarrow?”

In the quiet of the kitchen bathed by sunlight, she took the time to study his features. The reconstruction surgeons really did do an amazing job. Someone had posted leaked photos to Reddit of him arriving at the hospital right after the accident—his face had been nothing but mangled meat and bone.

If she hadn’t seen those images, she’d never suspect he’d been put together by screws and stitches. The transformation was remarkable. He had the means to demand the best plastic surgeons, the best doctors. They did an insane job—a near-successful reconstruction few could afford.

He’d had a bad brain injury too. If the articles had been correct, he couldn’t remember what had happened before or after the accident. When he’d woken up in the hospital, he’d gone blind. She wondered how long the blindness had lasted.

“Stop.” He dumped the plant on the nearby counter. “Stop looking at me like I’m some freak.”

Startled by the belligerence in his tone, she backed up a step. “I’m not. I was just… I was just remembering all you’ve been through.”

He retreated to the other end of the kitchen. Not that she blamed him. She’d been through hell because of her brother too—still had the nightmares and the scarring.

His eyes flicked around the room. “Why are you rearranging my kitchen?”

“I’m hiding the evidence of your black thumb.”

When his brow furrowed, the scar across his forehead became pronounced. She’d not even noticed that one before.

She pointed to the pot he’d just set down.

The man stared at the dead plant with genuine confusion. “Where’d you get that?”