37
Istep into the wide bright hallway with Ash, following her mom past a couple of open doorways until we enter a humongous kitchen. The right side of the large space houses wall-to-wall wooden cupboards and a myriad of kitchen appliances. A double-sided stove-slash-oven occupies prime real estate in the space, and a girl with long strawberry-blonde hair stands in front of it, stirring something in a pot. “This is Fiona, Shane’s fiancée and little Chloe’s mum,” Cath explains, taking my hand and leading me over to the stove.
Eyes bore into me from behind, and my heart does a little skip, which is just pathetic, because it really needs to get with the program where Dillon is concerned.
“Hello,” Fiona quietly says, smiling shyly.
“I’m Grace. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You’re a fucking clown,” someone with a deep voice bellows from behind us, claiming our attention. “Ma! D’ya see the state of this bleeding idiot?”
Turning around, I lock eyes with an older version of Ronan. I don’t know if it’s Shane or Ciarán, but he has the same dark curls and piercing blue eyes as his younger brother. He’s not quite as tall as Ro, and he’s stockier, but I could identify them as brothers from a lineup with no difficulty.
“Leave your brother alone, Shane.” Cath leads me toward the long wooden table. “And behave in front of our guest.”
“Da. You talk some sense into Dillon, will ya?” Shane says, gesturing wildly to the broad-shouldered man with thick salt-and-pepper hair sitting at the head of the table.
“Knock it off, Shane. You’re upsetting your mother,” Ash’s dad says without glancing up from his paper.
“Un-bloody-believable.” Shane throws his hands in the air. “Next time I’ll say nothing and let my brother kill himself on that goddamn bike. Am I the only one who cares he’s still riding that deathtrap?”
Dillon rolls his eyes from where he’s standing against the wall behind the table. He has one knee bent, the sole of his booted foot flat against the wall, and his arms are folded across his muscular chest.
Cath lets go of me, striding toward Dillon. She grabs his stubbly chin, yanking his face down to hers. “What have I told you about driving that bike while you’re hungover? You’ll give me a heart attack from worrying one of these days.”
“Shane is overreacting, like always.” Dillon throws an annoyed look at his brother. “I would’ve come with the others if I wasn’t sober enough to drive. I’m not completely reckless.”
A guy with reddish-brown hair snorts as he stretches across the table to grab a piece of bread from the wicker basket in the center.
Sadness washes over Cath’s finely lined face as she grabs Dillon’s cheeks. “Promise me you’ll be more careful. Please, Dillon. If anything happened to you, it’d kill us all.”
Dillon lowers his arms, reeling his mom into a bear hug. He holds her tight, closing his eyes momentarily. “Ma. There’s nothing to worry about. Shane just loves stirring shit.”
It didn’t sound like that to me. It seemed like his brother is genuinely concerned. From the way Dillon took that corner earlier, I’d say his brother’s fears are well-founded.
Dillon presses a kiss to the top of his mom’s head while she wraps her arms around him. Her head only reaches the bottom of his chest, and she looks so small and thin circled in his strong arms.
“And you love swanning around town pretending you’re god’s gift to women,” Shane retorts, smirking and flipping him the bird behind their mother’s back.
“There’s zero pretending involved,” Dillon smugly replies as his mom shucks out of their embrace.
“You just need the love of a good woman, Dillon,” Shane says, snaking his arm around his fiancée as she leans over him to set some bowls down on the table. Shane pulls Fiona into him for a quick kiss, and it’s a sweet gesture.
“Love is for pussies,” Dillon replies.
Cath messes up Dillon’s hair, shaking her head and fighting a smile. “Language, Dillon. You’d swear you were dragged up in a brothel.”
“You should’ve washed his mouth out with soap more often, Ma,” Shane quips.
“Feel like running off screaming yet?” Ro asks, coming up on the other side of me. He casually slings his arm around my shoulders.
“It’s fifty-fifty,” I tease, watching Dillon’s eyes narrow on Ronan’s arm.
“Who’s that?” a girlish voice asks, and I whip around, grateful when Ro’s arm naturally falls off my body.
“This is my friend, Vi—Grace,” Ash says, quickly recovering. “Sorry,” she mouths, cradling her cute three-year-old niece in her arms.
“Hi, Chloe.” I raise my hand for a high-five, and she slaps my palm enthusiastically with her tiny one.