Page 2 of Ciaran

“Fuck you,” I say to Draven’s back as he walks away, making my decision for me.

He flips me off, and I laugh, partly at him, partly to quell the anxiety swarming through my body. My mouth is as dry as a cracker. What would I even say to her after all this time?

I heave in a breath, then lightly tap on the window. Except it’s more of a thump than a tap. For fuck’s sake! Her unexpected appearance has thrown me so much, I can’t even knock on a fucking window right.

Millie jumps, knocking her cup of coffee over. Her eyes dart in my direction before she grabs a handful of napkins and mops up the spillage with short, jerky movements. Eventually, her gaze returns to me, and she openly stares, her lashes brushing her face as she blinks.

Oh shit. She probably doesn’t recognize me. No wonder she’s spilled her drink with a burly cop banging like hell on the window. I take a step back, half turning away before I make even more of a dick of myself.

A flicker of recognition crosses her face, and her eyes light up, her full lips parting before she beckons to me.

It’s too late to back out now, so I enter the coffee shop. A couple of diners glance over at the tall, broad-shouldered cop filling the doorway, then return to their food. I remove my peaked cap and stick it under my arm. Scuffing a hand over the top of my head, I make my way over to Millie’s table.

“Millie, hey. It’s me… Ciaran O’Reilly. We, um, we went to high school together.”

Smooth, O’Reilly. Real smooth.

Millie scooches to the end of the bench, stumbling when she gets to her feet. I put out my arm to steady her, but she’s already righted herself.

“Ciaran, of course I remember.”

We share an awkward hug, and I breathe her in. Even after all these years, the scent of her vanilla shampoo triggers a memory bubbling beneath the surface, only to burst free, bringing with it joy mingled with resentment that she’d never been mine. But, Christ, she’s thin. She’d been on the petite side in high school, but now I can actually feel her bones sticking through her sweater.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” she says.

I flash a grin. “Apart from a few more wrinkles and twenty pounds of muscle. Sorry to scare you by thumping on the window like that. What are you doing in New York?”

She averts her gaze, sliding back into her seat as her fingers pluck at her watch strap. “Let me get you a coffee.” She blushes. “Sorry, that was presumptuous of me. Do you have time for a coffee? Of course you don’t. You’re clearly working.”

Concern seizes my gut. This isn’t the Millie I once knew. She’s… skittish. A bundle of nerves. I give her a reassuring smile and slip onto the bench opposite her.

“Coffee sounds good. My shift’s over.”

Millie glances around, looking for the server, then makes a haphazard attempt to attract her attention by waving her hand in the air before letting her arm fall back to her side when the server tends to another customer. “Mustn’t have seen me,” she mutters, more to herself than to me.

I catch the server’s eye and gesture. “Can I get two coffees over here?”

She acknowledges my request and goes to fetch the pot.

“You must have the Midas touch,” Millie says, a glimmer of a smile tilting her lips. She drops her head and picks at a tiny scratch in the table.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Where’s the confident, energetic, life and soul of the party Millie gone? The woman sitting across from me is gauche, awkward, almost timid.

She lifts her chin. “You always did want to join the NYPD. After your grandad, right?”

A brief thrill rushes through me that she remembers my childhood dream, as well as my reasoning. “Yeah. I’ve been with the force almost ten years and counting now.”

“Do you like it?”

I nod. “Best job in the world.”

“No ambitions to be Chief of Police?”

I chuckle. “Nope. Being on the street is where it’s at. That’s where you can make a real difference in this job. I’d go crazy sitting behind a desk all day having to manage budgets and crawl up the asses of politicians.”

“Well, you certainly cut a dashing figure in that uniform,” she says, following up with a shrill laugh.

I school my expression to hide my surprise at the compliment, not to mention her choice of words. Dashing? Nope. The Millie I knew wouldn’t have used such flowery language. What the fuck is going on? I think about probing, but just as quickly, I dismiss the thought. She’s acting so out of character that being grilled by a cop—albeit one she went to high school with—might send her into meltdown or have her scrambling from her seat and vanishing into the crowds.

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