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An O’Conor.
Tainted blood.
The enemy.
And it’s proving to be a little harder to stand my ground.
“Look,” Eilish says brusquely. “I don’t know what your angle is—”
Fuck this.
“Myangleis that your uncle has a problem within the Kildare ranks, and needsmeto patch up that problem.”
“My, how charitable of you!” Callie gushes with all the sincerity of a punchline.
“Plus, there are a lot of people out there who want me dead because of who my father was.”
“Can’t imagine why,” Eilish mutters.
“Somy angle,” I say tightly, “is to stay the fuckalive. That cool with you?”
The two of them frown, glancing at each other.
“I amnotmy father,” I hiss. “Oh, and for what it’s worth?” I turn to level my gaze at Callie. “Ihated him, and I’d actually love to thank your brother when I see him for sending him to Hell. So, if we’re all done with the mean girl playground bullshit, can we go find me a stupid fucking dress to wear for this stupid fucking fake charade?!”
Silence bathes the foyer. Eilish glances at Callie. Callie glances back at Eilish.
Slowly, they both begin to grin.
Eilish walks over, lays a hand on my shoulder, and gives me a half grin. “I think we can probably find something of mine that will fit.”
My mouth widens. “Thanks.”
Upstairs on the fourth floor of the brownstone, Eilish pulls me into what is clearly her bedroom. I can’t help but smile as I turn slowly, drinking it all in. I know—again, shamefully, from my digging from before—that she and Neve grew up in this house, and that she still lives here. So the bedroom is a cross between that of a twenty-one-year-old business major on her way to an ivy league school, and that of a little girl.
The expected GMAT and MBA prep course books—but on a white and silver vanity-style desk that looks almost like something out of a dollhouse. Shelves and shelves of vinyl records—jazz, classical, and 60’s and 70’s rock, with a cello on a stand beside it. But the bed is the most little-girl princess thing I’ve ever seen—four posts, dreamy white and silver gauze draped across it, a pink duvet cover.
Before it all came crashing down, I once had a room like this. And there’s a weird twinge in my heart as I take it all in.
“I grew up here,” Eilish blurts, blushing a little as she rolls her eyes. “I know, it’s super—”
“Lovely.”
Her lips curl, a brow arching. “I was going to say dorky and childish and way overdue for a makeover.”
“I love it. Really.”
She lifts a graceful shoulder. “Well, thanks. I’m still thinking about moving out when I start business school—”
“Columbia,” Callie breaks in. “She’s a fucking genius.”
I grin as Eilish rolls her eyes and opens a set of doors that leads into a stunning, enormous, walk-in closet.
“Okayyy, so, white…”
“Oh, it doesn’t have to be white. It’s not really my color anyway.”
I have no fucking idea what is and is not “my color”. But I also feel positively ill at the idea of putting on a fucking white wedding dress for this debacle.
