flying back to Ireland, so Mal can see to his arrival. You and I can stay here.”
I just want to save face. Truth is, in approximately ten minutes, I am going to deliver some harsh truths to Callum, after which neither of us will have the ability to stomach my existence.
Tonight is New Year’s Eve, and the party Ashton was planning with Mal back in Ireland has been canceled. It would have been a great opportunity to take pictures, but clearing the air with Cal is of higher importance.
“That’s a wonderful idea.” Callum smiles down at me, and my heart breaks into a trillion pieces.
You did this. You basked in Mal’s warmth, not even realizing he was burning everything around you.
“It really is,” Mal agrees, shifting toward me. “There’s only one, tiny obstacle standing in the way.”
“Which is?” I narrow my eyes.
“Reality,” he deadpans. “Richards and I have decided to stay here until Monday, too. You know, change of scenery and all. Great way to get the creative juices flowing.” Mal grins down at me wolfishly.
Must.
Not.
Kill.
The.
Gorgeous.
Poet.
My jaw locks so hard it’s about to snap, and it occurs to me that Mal is just crazy enough to tell Callum what happened before I get the chance to. Mal is probably reading my mind, because the way he looks at me says trouble.
“Well, we’ll get out of your way, Malachy. Rory and I certainly have a lot of catching up to do.”
Callum turns to me and drops a kiss on my head, no doubt thinly veiling his sexual intentions.
“No truer statement has been spoken in this elevator.” Mal smirks, looking skyward, shaking his head.
Bastard. Why can’t I like the sane one? Why?
I turn my head to flash Mal a warning look, but he refuses eye contact with me, staring straight ahead.
The elevator dings, and Mal gets out, walking right behind us, even taking Callum’s suitcase and rolling it along the corridor. “Before I forget, there’s been a change of plans,” he says. “Richards is throwing a party tonight in his penthouse after all. Stars are coming from all over Europe. I think Alex Winslow is cutting short his vacation with his wife and kids in the south of France just to say hi. It’s going to be wild, and therefore not a place for a sweet lady like our Rory.”
He knows there’s no chance in hell I’m going to leave the hotel now. This is the stuff Ryner dreams about. The kind of crazy, old-school, rock-star party full of familiar faces, where people swing from chandeliers and write songs in the corner of the room and create plaster molds of penises and drive Rolls Royces into swimming pools.
We stop at Callum’s door. I look up at him and play with my nose hoop. He shakes his head with a smile.
“Let’s stay and go to the party. Who cares where we are, as long as I’m inside you?”
Mal is standing in front of us, watching the entire exchange. I want to throw up. I don’t know why Callum said what he just did, but that makes me feel even worse than I did a second ago.
I rise on my tiptoes, giving Callum a chaste peck on the cheek.
“Let’s get inside,” I whisper brokenly.
I slam the door in Mal’s face, leaving him out. Physically. Figuratively.
Leaving him with the lies.
With the secrets.
With the weight of his affair with married Maeve.
And the guilt of keeping Kath’s death from me.
With our sins.
When I turn from the door to face Callum, I drop the charade.
“We need to talk.”
Present
Rory
I never get to tell Callum about what happened with Mal. As soon as we shut the door behind us, he gets a call he has to take and locks himself outside on the balcony. He uses his hushed, I’ll-make-meatballs-out-of-you, hedge-fund-analyst tone that makes my skin crawl.
The phone call lasts nearly two hours and reaches octaves better suited for the jungle. I feel sorry for him that he has to work on New Year’s Eve. But by the time he’s done, I’m getting ready to hop into the shower before the party.
When he walks back in, his face flushed and pouty, he glances at my half-naked figure and perks up, plastering a lazy smile where a scowl rested seconds ago.
“Me. You. Shower. Sex. Let’s go.”
“We need to talk.”
“I don’t reckon anything is more important than a quick shag, especially with your hipbones poking out Bella Hadid-style. Despair suits you.” He runs his tongue over his upper teeth. “Go on. You can’t