Page 88 of Love, Lies, and Celtic Knots

And maybe he does.

“Nothing to say?” He presses, straightening slightly. “I guess that’s fine. I’ve always been better at doing the talking.”

That’s it. That’s the push too far.

I stand abruptly, the sudden motion knocking the table slightly and rattling my plate. My purse is in my hand before I realize I’ve reached for it, and I drop a fifty onto the table with shaking fingers. My resolve hardens with every passing second. No more games. No more letting him or any Murphy push me around.

Picking up my scotch, I look at him for the first time since he came over, my glare sharp enough to cut glass. His smarmysmile falters slightly, and for one satisfying second, I let him see the fire burning behind my eyes.

Then I throw the scotch in his face.

The liquid splashes, dripping from his jaw as he recoils in surprise. A stunned silence falls over Jumpin’ Jacks, the quiet so heavy I can hear my own breath.

I don’t wait for his reaction. I push past him, out of the booth, turning on my heel and walking out, my steps quick and deliberate. The door jingles behind me as I leave, but I don’t look back.

Outside, the night air is cool against my flushed skin, and I take a deep breath, steadying the wild storm of emotions coursing through me. He doesn’t get to win. Not this time.

My driver waits as I slide into the backseat of my Rolls Royce and then closes the door with a quiet thud. I glance briefly at him in the rearview mirror when he takes his seat. “Take me back to the Airbnb,” I say, my voice calm, even.

As the car pulls away, I sit back against the leather seat and let my resolve solidify further. Ryan Murphy is back, but he doesn’t scare me. He doesn’t own me.

I’m done playing nice, and this time he is not going to win.

Chapter 5

Ryan

For a moment, I just stand there, the scotch dripping from my face, soaking into my shirt. The burn of the liquor on my skin is sharp, the scent heady and familiar. I run my tongue across my lips, tasting the smokiness of the drink she just threw in my face. Damn.

Her tastes have improved.

Unless I’m seriously mistaken, it’s the same brand I favor—Macallan, probably at least a twenty-five-year, maybe older. Candace Prescott doesn’t do things halfway. Even her fury comes with a touch of class.

A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, low and nervous at first, but it builds, rolling out of me in a way I can’t control. The whole tavern stares, wide-eyed, until one of the regulars at the bar starts chuckling, and before long, the entire place is laughing with me.

I swipe my sleeve across my face, grinning as I turn to the waitress, who looks completely flustered. “Sorry for the mess,” I say, reaching for my wallet and pulling out a hundred-dollar bill. “That should cover it. Keep the change.”

She stammers something I can’t hear over the laughter, and I wave it off, tossing the bill onto the counter before heading out the door.

The cool night air hits me like a slap, washing away some of the liquor’s lingering sting. I take a deep breath, steadying myself as I stride toward my bike. My boots crunch against the gravel, and the sound is the only thing grounding me for a moment.

Where the hell did she go?

Sliding onto my Indian, I fire up the engine, the rumble vibrating through me as I take off toward the only place I can think she’d be. If I know Candace—and I’d like to think I do—she wouldn’t settle for just any accommodation. She’d want somewhere luxurious, private, and preferably with a killer view. There’s only one place in this town that fits the bill: the Airbnb on the outskirts, perched on the rise overlooking the Atlantic.

The road winds ahead of me, dark and quiet, the bike’s headlight cutting through the night. I’m halfway there when I spot it: her limo parked on the side of the road, its glossy black surface gleaming faintly under the moonlight.

I pull over behind it, killing the engine and swinging my leg off the bike. The driver is standing outside the driver’s side door, staring straight ahead like a statue. His expression doesn’t change as I approach, but his eyes flick toward me briefly before glancing down the hill.

“Down there?” I ask, gesturing toward the rocky hill that heads down to the ocean.

He nods once, a subtle movement, and I don’t wait for more.

The path down the hill is steep and uneven, the rocks shifting under my boots as I descend. The sound of waves crashing against the shore grows louder with each step, the salty tang of the ocean filling my lungs.

I spot her before she notices me, crouched low to the ground, her hand splayed over the earth like she’s trying to draw something out of it. The moonlight catches the wet streaks on her cheeks, her face tight with an anger I don’t fully understand. It’s as if this place has special significance to her—as if there is a memory she is trying to recapture.

It’s not the Candace I expect—the icy, controlled woman who just threw scotch in my face. This is raw, vulnerable, a side of her I haven’t seen in many, many years.

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