Page 114 of The Bossy One

Seamus stopped just out of punching range and took a breath, clearly nervous.

Jesus Christ, I thought. If the wimp gave me crap about buying his fucking house…

“I wanted to thank you for taking care of Catie,” Seamus said. “Both this summer and before. Everyone I’ve talked to says she’s a great kid, and I know that’s partly because you were there for her when I…wasn’t.”

I looked at him squarely. I waited for him to start making excuses about how he would have been there if only Sinead had told him.

But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “I wanted to ask what I can do to prove to you and Sinead that I’m ready to be part of Catie’s life.”

He waited, determined. For the first time, I could imagine some of what Sinead might have seen in him.

“That’s a question for Sinead,” I said slowly. Then, because I didn’t like owing him anything, I admitted, “I may have overreacted the last time we talked. I didn’t realize you’d just found out yourself.”

Seamus nodded, eager to find common ground. “At first, I was mad Sinead hadn’t told me. But my sister reminded me what an immature prick I was back then. Totally under my dad’s thumb. Plus, there’s the bad blood between our families.”

I arched a brow. “Is that what we’re calling your dad killing mine?”

He winced and flushed. I expected him to leave or start making excuses for his parents. Instead he nodded and said, “You’re right. Euphemisms only protect the wrong-doers, eh?”

I blinked. Was he truly that easy-going? Or had he actually grown up?

Seamus set his drink down on the bar and looked me straight in the eye. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop my dad that night. I knew he was drinking too much. I never stood up to him when he was like that because he got so nasty. But I should have. James was such a good man. I threw up when I found out it was him my dad killed.”

It was strange. The angry teenager in me was hearing the thing I’d wanted since that horrible night—for someone to take responsibility for it, and then to look me in the eye and apologize.

But the other part of me was a thirty-year-old man who knew it shouldn’t have been a teen’s responsibility to stop his dad from driving drunk.

“You were a kid yourself,” I said gruffly.

“You would have stood up to him,” Seamus said. “Sinead too. Sometimes I think that’s why I first loved her. She’s fearless.”

He wasn’t wrong. But I could finally admit it wasn’t the whole story either. Seamus might have some advantages that we didn’t, but he’d also grown up with a bastard of a father.

“We had someone to teach us how to be fearless,” I said.

We drank in silence for a bit.

“You probably don’t remember this, but there was this football game at a park in Galway when I was, I don’t know, ten? Anyway, I’m rotten at football, and my dad yelled at me a bit before going back to his office to do some work. I was just relieved to see him go.” Seamus laughed, like what he was describing was some funny, quirky anecdote, instead of another reason Mark O’Rourke deserved a fist to the face. “Anyway. You and your family were in the park that day, having a picnic or something. James came over to me and made a point of telling me what a great job I’d done cheering everyone on my team and making them feel better, even though we were losing. He said there were more important things to be good at than winning.” Seamus looked down at his drink. “I didn’t really get it at that time. But those words stayed with me. Came back to me on days when I needed them. I think he was one of the first people to show me there were other ways to be a man than the shit my dad did. Anyway.” He raised his pint. “I’ll leave you be. Cheers.”

He turned to go.

Reluctantly, I realized that Olivia was right. Mark was awful, but the rest of the O’Rourkes weren’t the monsters I’d made them out to be. Seamus was trying his best. His sister was empathetic enough to understand why Sinead hadn’t told Seamus about Catie—and to defend her for it.

Slowly, a plan began to fall into place. A way to punish Mark and protect Ballybeith from him, without hurting anyone else.

Unfortunately, I’d need Seamus’s help to pull it off. But that didn’t seem like nearly as awful a prospect as it would have earlier. Still not something I was lookingforwardto by any means—but maybe something I could live with.

“Seamus,” I said.

He turned around, eager as a puppy dog.

Christ, this was going to be painful.

I indicated the barstool next to me. “Sit down. We have things to discuss.”

37

OLIVIA

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