Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(48)

I level her with a look. “She’s not like you.” I’m sure Nuala’s never taken a fella home and not f*cked him senseless.

“She’s got a cunt, doesn’t she?” Nuala snips, strolling away to begin lifting stools and chairs so the floors can be washed, dropping them loudly onto tables. I know I’ve pissed her off. Nuala doesn’t take too kindly to being compared to girls of Amber’s pedigree, which is staggeringly higher. I’ll bet Amber would never even use a word like that.

Still, Nuala’s words linger in my mind. I think Amber understood why I left. I hope she did. What does she have going on for tomorrow? Will she come back here? Again? I did leave her hanging, a tease. Maybe she won’t appreciate that. Maybe that’ll piss her off. How long will a girl like that chase when she’s only here for another week? That she’s even chasing after me at all is a shock.

I consider calling her. Driving drive back there tonight and letting her know exactly how I feel, that I don’t want her scratching any itches with anyone but me.

But when I leave Delaney’s for the night and see the street up ahead, where I should turn left toward her place . . . I go straight instead, toward home.

SIXTEEN

Amber

The shrill ring of my phone is ten times worse than normal.

“Hello?” My voice crackles in the receiver, my eyes squinting against the dull morning light streaming through the kitchen window as I watch rain splatter over the patio table out back. This is the kind of weather Mary Coyne warned was common in Ireland.

“You’re up.”

As happy—and relieved—as I am to hear River’s voice, I can’t manage more than a light moan in response.

“Did you drink water?”

“Three glasses and counting.” I tip the tall glass—the only reason I crawled out of bed in the first place—to my lips, praying that the cool liquid will get rid of this dull ache. Clearly three glasses hasn’t been enough.

“Listen, I wanted to apologize for last night. I should never have come in like that.” He pauses. “And I’m sorry I ran.”

I smile. If he hadn’t, there was only one way last night was going, and I honestly can’t say how I’d feel about that this morning. As it was, my last thoughts before falling asleep were of him, and what he would feel like. My first thoughts this morning were of him, too.

In fact, all of my thoughts since I stepped into that pub two days ago have been of him.

“It’s okay. Really.”

“So, you’re not pissed at me, then?”

I chuckle. “Why would I be ‘pissed’?” If anything, the fact that he’s so concerned makes my knees weak with the thought of him.

“Nuala made it sound like . . . never mind.” A loud sigh fills my ear, making me wish he were here, in person. Just maybe not now, I accept as I steal a glance at the reflection in the hallway mirror. Smears of the residual black mascara that didn’t wash off circle my eyes, and my smooth curls from last night are now a rat’s nest.

“What are you doing today?”

“Probably sleeping this hangover off, as much as I hate wasting a day.” I begin to climb the stairs.

The doorbell rings. I freeze mid-step and turn, my brow furrowed at the door ahead.

There’s a long pause, and then, “Are you going to get that?”

“No. I’m not even dressed.”

“I don’t mind.”

“What do you . . .” I scamper down and to the living room window, my eyes widening when I see River’s forest-green MINI Cooper—a source of great surprise last night when he led me to it, seeing as I have a newer model, in red—parked next to Simon’s car. “Are you outside?”

“It’s really coming down now. Do you think you could let me in?”

This is not how I imagined our next meeting. But it’s pouring out there. I can’t leave him standing on my doorstep in the name of vanity. Spotting the long tunic sweater that I left draped across the chair yesterday, I quickly yank it on over my tank top. It just reaches past my underwear. It’ll have to be enough.

“Amber?”

I glance at my reflection again, this time in the hallway mirror. And groan. And then I open the door.

River’s eyes flash with surprise, grazing over me ever so quickly before lifting to settle on my face. He steps in, handing me a tall Starbucks cup on his way past, his T-shirt and track pants drenched, his hair plastered across his forehead. “I would have brought you a hearty Irish breakfast to go with those grapes but wasn’t sure if you could handle it.”

I take a step back, my breath likely as toxic as the taste swirling in my mouth right now. “And what’s in an Irish breakfast?”

He shrugs. “Bangers and beans . . . potatoes . . . eggs . . .” He reaches out, brushes away a stray hair from my cheek. “. . . black pudding.”

My stomach churns. “Maybe later.” Bonnie warned me not to eat that. It has something to do with actual blood.

He chuckles, watching me closely.

“I just need ten minutes, if you don’t mind.” My bare feet are slipping one behind the other, in an attempt to escape up the stairs.

He grabs my hand, stopping me. “How about I give you an hour. I’m going to fit in a quick run, but I have a bit of time after that, if you wanted to go out.”