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I knew what he was doing. He was apologizing, in his own way, picking at the edges of my armor and worming his way into my heart yet again. I stared right back at him, unflinching under the intensity of his stare as the grip on my wine glass threatened to break the stem in two.
It was insane, but I nearly laughed out loud. I would have if it didn’t feel like my heart was breaking all over again. Why’d he have to go and play that song?
“I told myself this was going to be strictly business. I thought it was going to be easy. I’m a patient man, but you’re pushing the very limits of my self-restraint, lass.”
Is this how my mother felt? I wondered because I never saw them fight. My childhood had been full of warmth and love from both of them, and if my father had been anything other than the kind and gentle man he appeared to be, he’d kept it well hidden.
Until Rosaleen’s death. Then Michael’s mask had come off—I suppose he had no reason to hide his true self from me anymore. I wondered how much of it Rosaleen had seen, or rather, how much she hadchosento see.
“You don’t give your heart or your trust easily. It’s been broken too many times, and you’re afraid of getting hurt again. You like to think that you’re fearless, but what you fear most is your own vulnerability. That’s why you don’t let many people in, certainly not people who are like the ones who’ve hurt you before.”
It was different with Connor. He was very good at donning his different masks. That was the problem. It would be one thing if I had only seen one side of him, but after the night we’d spent together, after I had seen the potential that lay beneath all that violence, it was hard to reconcile that with what I had seen. I didn’t think I could forget it.
“I wanted to hate you. I prayed I would feel indifferent towards you. But you’re wrapped up in my head, and I can’t afford to be distracted like this. Because all I can think about is claiming you.”
So I stood there, clutching my wine glass like a lifeline and watching him play. Connor’ gaze was unwavering, and in the depths of his impossibly blue eyes I could see everything he was trying to say.
“What about me? Am I still the man you thought I was? Am I nothing more than a criminal to you?”
A toned, slender arm slipped into mine. “Cassidy, have I shown you the renovation plans for the summer house?”
“Uh.” Nice, Cass. Very eloquent.
“Come on, I’ll show you. Just us gals.” She gently took my arm and steered me from the room. Connor’ eyes widened for a brief second, but he went back to playing.
Sloane led me into a small salon off the dining room. There were no designs. I knew that when I followed her. I wasn’t a fool, either. Sloane was about as interested in interior decorating as I was. She poured two drinks—bourbon, neat—and she handed me the glass before closing the door.
Offering me a seat on the couch opposite her, Sloane took a healthy swig of her drink and leveled a gaze at me over the edge of the glass as if she were dissecting me piece by piece. She was wearing a plumb dress with a sweetheart neckline that somehow looked both retro and chic at the same time, stopping mid-thigh and complimenting her surprisingly numerous tattoos well. Her ink-black hair, so like Connor’s, was cut in a vicious bob. The dark eyeshadow made her ice blue eyes look preternatural.
She looked dangerous. She looked like she belonged here.
“You look just like Rosaleen,” she said suddenly, “but I’m sure you’ve been told that before.”
I had been told that before. It didn’t make it hurt any less.
“I’m surprised you remember her,” I said. I certainly didn’t remember Sloane growing up. This felt like part two of the shovel talk, and I threw back my drink in one shot.
She cocked an eyebrow and sat back, crossing her long legs. “I remember enough. She used to come by Lady D’s often enough to bring Michael lunch.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know.”
I bristled. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you had us all judged from the moment you set foot back in Boston, and you don’t want to see or hear anything that runs contrary to that. You hold onto any evidence that’ll vindicate your preconceived ideals like a drowning woman clutching at flotsam in a storm—a storm of your own making.”
I set my glass down on the table harder than I meant to. “I didn’t make this storm. I didn’t blow up that Town Car. I didn’t kill Johnny.”
“No, you didn’t,” she agreed. “But you didn’t hesitate to play the victim every step of the way.”
“I don’t have to listen to this. Not from you.” I stood to leave.
“You can either be the victim in your own story, or the hero, Cassidy.”
I halted three steps from the door. “Is that who you all see yourselves as? The hero? Because in my story, that sure as hell isn’t the case.”
Sloane topped off both glasses. “How about Rosaleen? What was she? She married into this life, after all.”
