The Player and the Pixie(5)
I thought I saw his lips twitch in amusement, but then he grew hostile again. “I thought girls such as yourself limited their repertoires to alco-pops and daiquiris with tacky umbrellas.”
His smile was as condescending as his tone and he made a move to walk away. Still, there was something defensive about how he said it that made me think his comment was a pre-emptive strike. He thought that because I was Ronan’s sister I automatically hated him, so he’d show he hated me right back. Hmm . . .
“You seem tense, maybe you should try meditation,” I suggested.
He stopped and turned back around. “Pardon?”
“Yogi Bhajan meditation is supposed to work wonders. For me, personally, yoga works a treat. I go in all tense and stressed and come out light and airy. Seriously, consider it. You’ll be amazed by the results.”
This suggestion seemed to both annoy and fluster him. “What are you rambling about?”
I took a few steps forward until I was standing directly in front of him. “You obviously have some unresolved issues and you’re using my brother as an outlet for your aggression. I’m trying to suggest some ways to deal with your anger. Oh, and you know what else is great for managing stress? Full immersion relaxation and detox, like going to a yoga retreat. In fact, I’m doing one when I return to the States next week. It’s in Squam Lake, gorgeous place. I’m really looking forward to it. You should think about going.”
Of course, I wasn’t at all serious, but I was tipsy and chatty and felt a bit sorry for him. There was something about Sean Cassidy that reminded me of the dogs that came into the shelter in New York, abused and mistreated, barking at everyone because they didn’t know who to trust. Obviously, it was a ridiculous notion. Sean wasn’t a rescue dog, he was a primped and pampered thoroughbred.
He listened to me speak, but his eyes weren’t on my face. Instead they wandered from my bare arms and shoulders before landing on my chest. I had this small beauty mark close to my collarbone, and he was currently staring at it as though he wanted to get up real close and personal with it.
Whoa, this was not what I’d expected at all, but having him look at me the way he was looking at me right then, well, it made my skin tingle.
He took a step forward and into my space, his size and closeness dizzying, and deadpanned, “Aren’t those retreats just an excuse for hippies to get together in the middle of nowhere, eat granola, and have group sex?”
The way he spoke made my tingles instantly vanish. Ronan was right. Sean was an arsehole. And I was a softhearted fool to think there was something more beneath his sleek and polished surface. We were from two different worlds. He’d grown up in South Dublin, an adopted son in a privileged house. Whereas I’d grown up in North Dublin, in the working class area. My mother had worked two jobs, barely putting food on the table. Everything, from the differences in our accents to our divergent attitudes, put us worlds apart.
“No actually, it’s an excuse to go somewhere beautiful, meet amazing people and clear your mind, but I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.” And with that I turned on my heel and attempted to walk a straight line back to the party.
It could have been my imagination, but I felt his eyes on me the entire time and I may have quickened my unsteady pace until I was safely beyond the privacy door. I hated that he got to me. I was supposed to be the calm one, the enlightened one, and yet with just a few carefully chosen words he’d made me want to throttle him. I now totally understood Ronan’s hatred for the guy.
I always tried to believe everybody had the potential to be good, to be redeemed. But this guy might just be the one to prove me wrong.
Yes, as far as I was concerned, Sean Cassidy was completely, irrevocably, and unequivocally irredeemable.
Chapter Two
There are three certainties in life, death, taxes, and the cold dread of attending another family gathering.
- Sean Cassidy.
*Sean*
Somebody needed to explain to me why mobile phone cameras made that click sound whenever a photo was taken. Could you not see a photo had been taken? That was like adding sound effects to a salt shaker. Clearly, I saw that my food was being salted. I could taste the salt. I didn’t require additional sensory information alerting me that my food had been salted.
I hadn’t opened my eyes yet, but I was awake. I could hear her snapping pictures of me, so I decided to wait until she finished. No need to make things uncomfortable.
Hopefully I didn’t have drool crusted at the corner of my mouth, and she hadn’t drawn on my face. If memory served, she hadn’t seemed the sort. Those pictures were trophies for girls like her.