The Player and the Pixie(17)

Abruptly, the bourbon tasted sour on my tongue. I removed my hand from the cup so as to control my urge to pitch it at him.

“What about your sister?” The words were out of my mouth before I realized I’d said them.

Ronan’s glare cut to mine and sharpened. “What about my sister?”

I smirked, though I struggled to form the words as a bizarre sense of loyalty and guilt completely arrested my spitefulness. “Is she the stealing kind?”

Panic flickered behind Ronan’s glare, heating it to incendiary levels. Ronan knew. He knew all about his sister’s sticky fingers. And worried about her.

Christ, I hated myself sometimes.

But not enough to stop baiting Ronan.

My smirk grew into a threatening grin. “I wonder what else little Lucy and I have in common.”

“Shut your bloody mouth, Cassidy.” Ronan began to stand, murder clearly on his mind, but was stayed by Annie’s firm grip on his shoulder and calm reassurances.

“Ronan, he’s trying to get a rise out of you. Just let it go. Can’t you see how sad he is?”

I felt her last words at the base of my skull, a prickling discomfort, yet managed a slight chuckle. “Sad? Me? Ha. I’m the picture of cheerfulness.”

“Yes. You. Sad.” Annie’s serious brown eyes captured mine across the aisle and her tone was free of malice as she continued, “You are sad and lonely and lost, though you’ll never admit it. Instead you pick fights, desperate to feel something.”

I swallowed past a cinching bitterness in the back of my throat and drawled, “Oh yes. I’m so desperately sad, and need to be saved. Save me, Ms. Catrel. Save me from my crushing loneliness and despair. All I require is a good woman . . . or two. Or three, at the very most, so do bring some friends along.”

Annie shook her head at me, a slight, knowing smile pasted on her lips, but was stopped from responding further by the appearance of the aforementioned gate agent.

“Mr. Cassidy?” She addressed me, her tone painfully conciliatory.

Not a good sign.

“I am Mr. Cassidy,” I confirmed flatly.

“I am so sorry,” she was tripping over the words, barely able to get them out, “but it appears there has been a mix-up. We never should have released this seat to you. I’ll need you to come with me back to the gate.”

“You don’t say . . .” I gritted my teeth, hating that Ronan would win this round, just like he won everything.

Ronan Fitzpatrick and his apish manners.

Ronan Fitzpatrick and his legion of loyal followers.

Ronan Fitzpatrick and his adoring family.

He didn’t deserve to be the team captain. He didn’t deserve seat 1B in this airplane. And he definitely didn’t deserve the insightful, pretty, and brilliant Ms. Catrel.

I unhurriedly unfolded from the seat, tilting my head to one side so as not to hit it on the roof of the plane. The gate agent backed up two steps, clearly startled by my size. Or perhaps she backed off because I was glaring daggers in her direction.

“Tough luck, Cassidy.” Ronan stood as well, grinning triumphantly. “You could always fly coach.”

I felt my glower intensify as I volleyed back hatefully. “Perhaps I’ll go find your sister in Barcelona and we can chat about all the things we have in common.”

Irritatingly, Ronan chuckled and called after me as I walked down the aisle toward the exit. “Not likely. Lucy isn’t in Spain, Cassidy. She’s in the middle of the woods at some yoga retreat, where you’ll never find her.”

I turned the corner, now blessedly out of earshot, left the airplane, and straightened to my full height as I strolled up the onramp and back to the gate. Bourbon, 7 Up, and defeat an acrimonious mixture on my tongue.

The gate agent was still apologizing, scurrying in front of me and tossing regretful smiles over her shoulder.

I didn’t return her smile, too busy stewing in the simmering heat of failure.

Ronan Fitzpatrick lumbered through life, threatening and shouting, getting his own way at every turn. He was a great buffoon, masquerading indulgent, brutish conceit and idiocy as loyalty and dedication.

“We’ll get you back to Dublin, Mr. Cassidy. I promise. It might take a few hours, but we’ll have it sorted.”

He deserved to feel the sting of a true setback.

He deserved humiliation.

He deserved to suffer.

“I’m not going to Dublin,” I said as I thought the words, a plan forming in my mind.

“Oh?” The woman frowned at me, considering and cautious, and her voice held a slight tremor as she offered, “Well, I’m sure we can accommodate you wherever you’d like to go.”

I glared at her earnest and solicitous face for several protracted seconds. Holding my gaze, she swallowed as though the action were painful. I dropped my eyes to her hands where they fiddled with the badge around her neck. Her fingers were shaking.