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“What? He seemed to think he could just swan into Dublin and start up his own pub like that.” He snapped his fingers.

Niall was clenching his jaw so tight he thought his teeth would crack. Images flashed across his eyes. Crafting the menu, bringing out dishes for Deirdre and Patrick to try. Noticing they were sitting close, but it was a booth, and they were friends after all. Deirdre giggling and licking the melted butter from her fingers, declaring Niall’s lobster risotto the best she’d ever tasted. Had they already been sleeping together, even then? He tried to remember how to breathe.

“He did not,” Fiona said. “He worked hard, Owen, and you know it.”

“Could you all stop talking about me as if I’m not here?” Niall muttered.

“I bet Cordelia’s father instilled a strong work ethic in her along with that handshake,” Owen said jovially. “Didn’t he, Cordelia? He must be a great man with a good head on his shoulders.”

Cordelia put her napkin on her plate. “My father’s dead,” she said tersely. “And I don’t think my work ethic was what mattered to him. Just that I loved him and he loved me. He gave me the courage to follow my dreams, and he supported me unconditionally. So I think that whatever Niall has or hasn’t achieved, it shouldn’t be a measure of how much love he deserves. And you’re lucky you still get to have dinner with him. I’d give anything to have one more dinner with my father. Excuse me.”

She took her empty plate and fled to the kitchen. Niall was stunned. It was such an effortless and subtle way to eviscerate his father’s argument. He felt a twist of guilt—that she’d been willing to share something that caused her pain, in defense of Niall. And he’d been acting a right prick to her ever since they met.

“Now you’ve gone and put your big fecking foot in it, haven’t you,” Róisín said.

“I didn’t know,” Owen said, blinking.

“Well, you weren’t stopping to think either,” Fiona said. “Just plowed ahead like you always do.”

Niall couldn’t sit there anymore. He got up and took his own plate to the kitchen. Cordelia was standing at the sink, gripping the counter with both hands.

“Hey,” he said. He gestured back to the dining room. “Sorry about my da.”

“It’s fine,” she said but her voice cracked. “Is he always like that?”

“Like what? A complete and utter arsehole?”

Her lips twitched. “Always that hard on you.”

“Oh.” Niall shrugged. “Yeah.”

Silence hung between them. Niall shifted from foot to foot. The kitchen was spacious, but right now it felt far too small. Cordelia seemed to think so too. She moved away from him, over to the table. She picked up the little ceramic salt and pepper shakers his mother kept, shaped like ducklings.

Niall wanted to tell her thank you. That no one had ever stood up for him like that—not even Deirdre. Not even his mam. That he hadn’t known she was in pain. That he hadn’t thought anyone else’s pain very important besides his own recently. But the words wouldn’t come.

“I’m sorry about your da,” he said instead. “When did he die?”

“Two years ago.” She must have seen the surprise on his face because her expression soured. “You probably think I should be over it, huh? So does my mom. So does my brother. Join the club.”

“No, that’s not what—” Niall stopped himself. “I didn’t know, is all.”

“Why would you?” She rubbed her thumb over the salt duckling. “I hope I didn’t make things weird out there, with your family.”

“Nah, we’ve been making things weird just fine on our own for years.”

Her mouth twitched again. Niall suddenly wished he could find the right words to make her smile. To ease some of the sadness from those big hazel eyes. He felt like he’d been tramping around the entire evening like an angry ram, lashing out at anyone close by. He was capable of being nice. Even if he was out of practice completely.

“I really am sorry,” he said softly. And he meant it—he was sorry for breaking her camera, and sorry for his crap apology, and sorry for all the digs he’d made at her earlier. It wasn’t her fault that Deirdre left him. It wasn’t her fault that his life had fallen apart.

He was surprised when she put the shakers down and glared at him.

“I don’t need your pity,” she snapped. Her eyes landed on the paper open to the article and the picture of Deirdre and Patrick. His heart somersaulted, the iron spring snapping around his lungs. As she picked it up, Niall wanted to throw himself between Cordelia and his shame. But it was too late.

“Oh,” she said. “Bad news. The papers. The trollop. I get it now.” She held it up as if he needed to see it to confirm. “This is, um, her?”

“Yeah,” Niall said coldly. Deirdre’s face stared at him, filling the room, mocking him. He marched over and snatched the paper from her hands, tossing it in the dustbin. “And I don’t need your pity either.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath and cursed himself, staring into the bin. What the fuck was he doing?