Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120241 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120241 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
The beautiful thing about free healthcare is that it’s free. The terrible thing about free healthcare is that it means waiting.
Waiting so long, you start forgetting what it feels like to hope, and in some cases, the treatment comes after it’s already too late.
So here I am, in the back of the car.
Da is driving, with Mam next to him, her hands folded in her lap.
Me—sitting in the back, itching to count something. Anything.
I need an anchor. A number. A rhythm.
Something to stop me from focusing on the way this dress clings to my skin like a second layer of sweat. Moisture pools beneath my breasts, between my thighs, making me feel filthy and exposed.
I want to claw at my skin. Rip the fabric away. Scream.
Instead, I count.
One. Two. Three. Four.
It’s too much. Way too much.
I don’t know how to claw my way out of this space.
“Stop making that face,” my mother snaps. “You look like you’re about to have an accident or something.”
“What?” My cheeks flush hot. “What are you talking about?” I shake my head.
“Your face is all scrunched up like that, and I—”
“Tara,” my da cuts in, placing a hand on her wrist. “Leave her alone. You know how she is.”
And somehow… that hurts even more than her chiding. Like I’m broken and defective, something to be managed.
My throat tightens. I dig my nails into my palms until it hurts.
Better. Pain I can control.
I swallow hard. I can’t think of that, not now.
I hope Bridget knows how much I love her.
I hope whatever negotiations they’re planning tonight are worth it.
They better be fucking worth it.
“Oh my,” Mam mutters under her breath. “It does look sort of majestic in this light, doesn’t it?” She can’t hide the jealousy in her tone as we pull up to the McCarthy estate. The McCarthy estate, famous in Ballyhock and the surrounding towns as well.
Floodlights burst across the gravel, lighting our path in harsh, golden stripes.
And for a second… I forget everything.
I forget the cologne.
The sweaty dress.
The pinched shoes.
My mother’s sharp, needling voice.
Because the McCarthy estate is stunning.
It swallows the landscape… swallows me whole.
“Property’s worth fifty million euros,” my da mutters.
“I can see why,” I say with a sigh.
My mother rolls her eyes, lips pursed tight.
“Mam, I thought you were friends with Caitlin McCarthy?”
“I am.” She clears her throat. “She’s a very nice person… but she didn’t build this or anything.” She waves a hand toward the house.
“No one said she did,” I reply, giving her a look. “What a weird thing to say.”
“She’s too nice,” my mom mutters. And I know exactly what she means.
She doesn’t play games. Doesn’t bluff or bite.
Good.
Caitlin and I are probably going to get along just fine.
“Fifty million euros,” I say again, shaking my head.
“They say it was worth eleven when the McCarthy family bought it,” Da adds. “When Keenan McCarthy became the head of the clan, they expanded it so family could stay close. Close-knit clan, they say.”
Indeed.
“All of them still live here?” I ask.
“Some moved on. Some live in the nearby village. But yes, a few still have residence here. Bronwyn. Kyla. The single lads. And though Seamus has a place with his wife… Cavin’s still here.”
My blood goes cold.
Cavin fucking McCarthy.
The boy who made me cry in bathroom stalls.
The man who carried me out of a bombing like I weighed nothing. Like I was something precious.
My pulse kicks up just thinking about his hands on me, his voice in my ear.
Christ, what’s wrong with me?
Great.
“Why is he here?” My voice tightens. “Isn’t he, like, twenty-eight?”
Two years older than I am. I know that much.
“He moved back home after his release from prison,” my da says quietly.
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Right. Didn’t want to keep up his property while in prison, so now he’s back. Working the estate.”
My lips flatten into a hard, thin line.
Well.
If Cavin McCarthy needs me to play nice for one family dinner… I can do that. For one night.
I can smile. I can nod. I can forget the way he used to look at me. The way he made me feel. The way his voice sounded like a threat, no matter how he talked to me.
Maybe he’s changed.
God.
As if.
He was an evil son of a bitch… and there’s no way in hell he’s had a personality transplant.
Uniformed staff greet us as the car pulls up. One man steps forward to park it for us.
“Thank you very much,” my mother says, her tone sweet, her posture stiff. I can tell she’s impressed but pissed. They’ve got something she doesn’t.
“This is gorgeous,” I say, half under my breath. “Just look at it.”
The gardens stretch for acres. Cut hedges. Trellises. Old trees, bent like they’re praying. The greenhouse glows behind the main house like a buried lantern.
You can see how huge the place is from here—how many rooms, how many secrets.