Page 88 of Thrones We Steal

“I wanted to apologize. That’s why I came to your office this morning.”

“In that case, we’ll be here all night.” I’m still irritated that he came along, and as far as I’m concerned, he can participate via silence and statue-like behavior.

“I’m sorry for the way I ended things that night. And all of the times since then that I’ve made an asshole of myself and hurt you.”

I take great interest in my manicure, ensuring I haven’t chipped any polish. If I refuse to meet his eyes, maybe he’ll quit talking. The whole thing was weeks ago. I’ve nearly put it out of my mind.

“I was hoping we could at least be friends.”

From across the room, Maisie is talking. We both ignore her.

“Bloody hell, Celia. Can’t you at least say something?”

I drop my hand and shoot him a nasty look. “Friends? You want to be friends? You were the one who said our friendship was over.”

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. “That was a long time ago.”

“Ten years to be exact.” I resume my nail inspection, although I can’t even tell you what color they are. Tears hover right behind my eyelids, but I’ll die before I let them fall.

His timing is impeccable. Just when I’m learning how to breathe without him again, to be able to go minutes without thinking of him—he rips the scab off and leaves me bleeding all over again.

“I know you have a right to hate me, but it’s killing me.”

“How do you think I feel?”

“C, I’m sorry.” His voice is thick with emotion. “Truly.”

My monotone belies the thunderstorm raging in my chest. “Don’t be. You did me a favor.”

I know my words find their mark, because a small groaning sigh escapes his lips, the sound you make when disappointment and surprise meet together to punch you in the chest. Shoving aside the regret I feel at hurting him, I remind myself that he has hurt me far worse and with more frequency.

“Sometimes there’s more to the story.”

“And sometimes the best stories are short and sweet,” I retort. “I would love it if, for just once, my life could be uncomplicated. Apparently that’s too much to ask for.”

“No, it’s not. You deserve that.” He sighs. “But it’s not always possible.”

Maisie comes around the corner of the bookshelf, saving me from having to reply. “There you guys are! I’ve been looking everywhere. I found them!” She holds up a stack of dusty books. “Exactly where I said they’d be,” she adds.

We sit at the table and each take one of the ship logs from the stack. “It’ll be a lot easier if we check the date first. Philip had to sail in 1837,” I say. “If he left Ireland at all.”

“So, we’re looking for Philip Anderson leaving Ireland in 1837 and sailing to Wesbourne?” Henry has assumed a neutral tone, both of us having silently agreed to put our argument aside for the time being. Forever, if I’m lucky.

I nod in agreement and flip open the logbook in front of me. It’s dated 1829, so that’s an easy discard. The next several are also dated too early to be of any use. Finally, I come across one bearing 1837 on the title page.

“I’ve got one,” I say, looking through the pages for the passenger manifest.

“Me too,” Maisie says from across the table.

“And I’ve got nothing.” Henry slides the last logbook onto the dead-end stack. He stands and comes around the table to peer over my shoulder, barging into my personal bubble with his presence. My chair shifts slightly as he braces his hand against the back of it.

For a minute, I forget what I’m doing and all I can think about is the fact that if I turn my head forty-five degrees, we could be kissing.

But that is the kind of thought that needs murdering.

I clear my throat and the thoughts from my mind and focus on the list of passengers in front of me. The handwritten script of a sea captain isn’t the easiest thing to read, but most of the names are semi-discernable.

My finger stops. “Is that P. Anderson?”

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