Kathleen again just a little less than I want to have dinner with Hitler, Stalin, and Vlad the Impaler.”
“Hey, don’t bunch Vlad in with those assholes. He was just misconstrued and loyal to his country.” Summer sniffs.
I bump her shoulder with mine. “Point is, I’m dreading every moment of being there. Nothing will happen between married Mal and me.”
“Call me every day.”
“Scout’s honor.”
“And whenever you want to pork him—remember he also screws your sister, and that’s just too Jerry Springer for me to ever be associated with you again.”
“I wouldn’t risk our friendship like that,” I agree.
“Letting him double-dip his wiener into the family sauce again is…gut-wrenching.”
“Thanks for the culinary analogy,” I mutter. “You really made your point now.”
Her eyes on me don’t waver. “Promise me, Rory.”
“Jeez, Louise. Promise.”
She watches me for a long beat, moving her jaw back and forth. On TV, Richard and Julia are wrapping it up. Something about how love conquers all, yada yada. I never much enjoyed Pretty Woman.
Then I remember my conversation with Mal all those years ago—about women having to drive men somewhere for it to be a classic romance flick. Julia Roberts did that. I bet Mal likes this movie.
Don’t think about Mal. Mal is a bastard.
Summer shoves the spoon into the ice cream and scoops out half the tub, waving it in my face. “Carb up, girl. If that’s not a good excuse, I don’t know what is.”
One week later
Rory
The cab driver deposits Callum and me in front of Mal’s cottage and U-turns away, leaving mud splashes in his wake.
It’s surreal to see the cottage again after eight years of fixating on what happened between its walls. It looks like the place has been neglected beyond belief. The exterior has turned from charmingly old to decayed ancient. The roof is tattered, falling apart, and the grass is still overgrown, with patches of mud everywhere. I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe a woman’s touch from Kathleen, the cardigan-loving, proper-talking demoness? Alas, the place looks like it needs a good scrub, a lawnmower, and a hug. At least from the outside.
“Bloody hell,” Callum mutters behind me.
We were supposed to go to England to see his family—the first time I would have met his parents—and instead, he decided to accompany me here for a day to help me settle. He’ll have to catch a flight tomorrow morning to England, and I’m already dreading his departure.
“I could get us a room at an inn on the main street,” he suggests, his nice way of saying this place is unlivable for anyone who isn’t a ghostbuster.
“Ryner said I needed to stay here,” I say soothingly, walking up the cobbled path to the chipped, wooden door.
My heart is beating so fast I want to throw up. I’m going to come face to face with Malachy and Kathleen as a couple. They’re going to be all loved-up in my face, and I will be working under their roof.
I knock on the door.
“Do they know we’re coming?” Callum asks behind me.
“Yeah. Whitney said she sent Mal an email with our flight schedule.”
Not that Mal cares, I assume. A knot is forming in my stomach. Is he going to make my life hell here?
“You should text your mum,” Callum points out.
I don’t turn around to face him. “Uh-huh.”
“She’s heartbroken over the fact you didn’t stop to say goodbye.”
“We celebrated Christmas with her,” I grumble.
I wasn’t in the mood to listen to more of her begging me to cover my birthmark with more makeup, pleading with me not to go to Ireland—her most loathed country in the universe—and generally making me listen to her gossip about people I don’t know.
There’s no answer, so I knock again, this time harder. It’s freezing outside. Callum is shifting from foot to foot next to me. He’s wearing a pea coat and a powder blue dress shirt.
He snakes his arm around me, rubbing my shoulder. “Relax, love. It’s going to be fine. It’s been eight years, he’s married, and then there’s the matter of you being madly in love.”
He says that as a joke, but I can hear the question in his voice. Before I officially signed the contract for this project, I told Callum about what happened with Mal eight years ago, hoping to hell he’d make the decision easy for me and express how uncomfortable he felt about it. I’m not much of a Mary Sue who likes to be told what to do, but it would’ve been a much-needed nudge