Page 35 of Blindsided
“What? You’re in a foreign country, you’ve met a hot guy with family issues who clearly thinks you’re special enough, even with that chopped hairdo you gave yourself, to drag into his drama—go for it!”
“You’re impossible,” I groan, but I can’t help smiling. “Besides, he’s dealing with some heavy stuff right now. Family stuff. I doubt he’s thinking about me at all.”
“He wrote his number on your arm,” Jen points out. “Men don’t do that unless they’re interested.”
The ink has long since washed away in the bath, but I memorized the digits before they disappeared. Not that I’d admit that to Jen.
“I’m hanging up now,” I tell her. “The water’s getting cold.”
“Fine, but promise me you’ll call if anything happens with the sand man. I need details. Explicit ones.”
“Goodbye, Jen,” I say firmly, ending the call before she can embarrass me further.
I step out of the tub and wrap a towel around myself, my skin resembling a prune from soaking too long. As I dry off, I find myself replaying Kane’s crooked smile in my mind, the way his hand felt holding mine in that underground chamber.
No. I didn’t come to Ireland for a fling. I came to heal, to find myself again. The last thing I need is to get tangled up with a man who clearly has more baggage than I do.
Still, as I pull on my pajamas and head to the kitchen to make tea, I can’t help glancing at my phone on the counter. I’ve already memorized his number. What would be the harm in saving it? Just in case.
I pick up the phone and create a new contact. I hesitate over the name field, then type “Kane Murphy” and save it. Just having his number doesn’t mean I’ll use it. It’s just... practical.
The cottage creaks around me as the wind picks up outside. For the first time since arriving in Ireland, I don’t feel quite so alone.
∞∞∞
I curl up on the sofa with a cup of tea, intent on watching a movie, but my mind keeps wanderingback to him. What is he doing right now? Did they solve the riddle? Find his sister? Is he drowning his shock in whiskey, or facing it head-on?
I glanced down at my arm, where his phone number was. Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and punch in the digits.
“You okay?” I type, then delete it. Too personal.
“Hope you find your sister,” I try instead, but that sounds too flippant.
Finally, I settled on: “It’s Kori from the beach. Just checking on you.”
My thumb hovers over the send button. This is ridiculous. I barely know the man. We’re not friends. We’re not anything. Just two people whose paths crossed briefly during mutual life crises.
But something about his vulnerability in that moment—the look in his eyes when his world shattered—won’t let me dismiss him so easily.
I hit send before I can change my mind, then toss my phone aside like it’s suddenly burning hot. What am I doing? The last thing I need right now is to get involved with someone else’s family drama when I’m still reeling from my own.
The movie plays on, but I’m not watching. My eyes keep darting to my phone, waiting for it to light up with a response. It doesn’t.
Just as well, I tell myself. He’s probably busy tracking down long-lost relatives or drinkinghimself into oblivion. Either way, he doesn’t need—
A sharp knock at the door makes me jump, sloshing tea onto my shirt. Who could be here? The cottage is isolated, at least half a mile from the nearest neighbor. Mrs. O’Malley isn’t due to check in until tomorrow, according to her note, and I doubt she makes house calls after dark.
The knocking comes again, more insistent this time. I set my tea down and approached cautiously, wishing the cottage had a peephole.
“Who is it?” I call through the door.
“It’s Kane,” comes the reply, his voice unmistakable even through the thick wood.
My heart does a strange little flip as I undo the chain and pull the door open. And there he stands, looking simultaneously better and worse than when I last saw him. His clothes are clean and dry, but his eyes are bloodshot, his hair wild like he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly. He’s clutching a bottle of whiskey, but it’s still sealed.
“You texted,” he says, holding up his phone with my message displayed.
“I did,” I confirm, suddenly very aware of my wet hair and lack of makeup. “I wasn’t expecting an instant in-person response.”
