The Player and the Pixie(77)

I straightened from the wall and almost did, but Bryan’s hand held me in place. “No, no, no.” He shook his head, stepping in front of me and pointing a finger in my face. He was one of the few members of our team nearly my size. “No fecking way.”

“Move.”

His grip tightened. “Nope. It’s for your own good, mate. You’re a bloody fuckwit, but you’re a great flanker.”

“Am I to call you Mother Leech now?” I taunted, knowing he of all people would despise the moniker. Tracking Lucy’s movements over Bryan’s head, I watched as she rejoined the wives and girlfriends. I noticed a man in their company. Broderick.

I liked Broderick.

More importantly, Broderick seemed to like me. He harbored no ridiculous prejudices against me, such as my well-deserved title of grand manipulator and malefactor.

“You can call me whatever you like, Cassidy. Just as long as you continue playing nice with Ronan and keep your hands off his sister.”

I wondered how many more pints were required to render Bryan Leech unconscious. I suspected more than several. We rugby players, as a rule, were infuriatingly capable while in our cups.

Lucy was now splitting furtively anxious glances between her brother and me. My gut tightened. Seeing true distress in her expression and how she held herself rigid. Misery—at causing her a moment of anguish—deflated any design I had on a stolen shag.

Two months ago, I might have relished causing anyone associated with Ronan Fitzpatrick any level of discomfort. But now . . .

My attention moved back to Bryan’s grim expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, removing his hand from my shoulder. “It’s getting late. I’d better be off.”

He blinked at me. Confusion and suspicion wrinkled his forehead. “What’s your game, Cassidy? You can’t be giving up so easily, it’s not in your nature.”

“Exactly,” I agreed, though not just with the last statement. I wasn’t giving up, and giving up wasn’t in my nature. Rather, for once, I wanted to be decent, or at least give the appearance of it.

For Lucy.

Allowing myself one final, lingering look of her, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and turned my back on the revelry, slipping away without offering words of congratulations or parting well wishes. I didn’t quite have it in me to be insincere. Insincerity was taxing once you’d breathed the refreshing air of artless candor.

It was a cold night and I zipped my jacket against it. The memory of my week with Lucy had kept me warm for nearly a month. I doubted my actions this evening, no matter how noble, would achieve a similar effect.

***

“I don’t understand why you can’t get one of your women to accompany you to this wedding.” Eilish peered at me through the reflection of the shop mirror. “Don’t you have throngs? I believe I read one article that claimed they fling themselves at you by the dozen.”

“I can’t recall anyone ever flinging themselves—as it were—in my general direction, let alone twelve women at once.” I scratched my chin, examining my cousin’s choice of dress and deciding it was too short.

“That seems like something one would remember with some clarity.”

I ignored her teasing. “Although once, I did have a lady fall down a flight of stairs and land at my feet.”

“But did she fling herself?”

“No. It was more of a stumble. And an ambulance was called. But I did visit her to sign the cast. By the way, that dress is too short.”

Eilish lifted a red eyebrow at me and glanced down at herself. “Sean, you’re being ridiculous. It’s past my knees.”

We were at the back of a fancy women’s boutique on Clarendon Street, in an area meant for trying on clothes. Several curtained stalls lined the back wall and a couch was placed to one side. It was the only place to sit, so it was where I waited, scrolling through the website Lucy took pictures for on my phone. I wasn’t even sure why, because clearly there weren’t going to be any photos of her, or me for that matter, but somehow the practice calmed me, made me feel like I was with her even though I wasn’t. Go psychoanalyze that.

Lucy had sent me several texts since our wordless encounter the night before. I hadn’t answered any of them. Their lack of sentiment irritated me.



Lucy: Did you leave?

Lucy: Thanks for being so nice to Ronan.

Lucy: Finally home, exhausted. Going to sleep.



And that was all she’d sent.

See? Irritating.

Good sense told me nothing had changed. Lucy had offered me nothing. Her behavior had been consistent from our first encounter to our last, and all the text messages in between. I had nothing with which to reproach her.