Even a date.
Our first kiss was literally at the altar.
We don’t know each other, except for the fact I already know I hate him.
I don’t want to be married to an Irish gangster, and I never will. No amount of time together is going to change that.
We sway together, gliding across the ballroom floor to a watchful crowd. Everything feels like background noise—the music, the voices, the clinking glasses—as I find myself unable to look away from him.
His eyes are a vivid green that reminds me of Ireland itself. Like being transported to the Irish moorland. There are flecks of gold scattered in them, tiny shards among vibrant emerald that’re so intense they almost lull you into a trance.
The longer his gaze remains on me, the more the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“Stop staring at me,” I whisper.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a crooked grin. “How can I not stare at something as beautiful as you?”
“You won’t charm me, if that’s what you’re trying to do,” I mutter back. It takes effort to move my lips as little as possible.
“I’d never try to charm you. I don’t give a fuck about that, princess. But I’m an honest man, and I’ll always speak what’s on my mind—and staring at the most beautiful woman in this room is as natural as breathing.”
My cheeks warm at the flattering honesty.
I finally tear my gaze from his, glancing at the others in the room.
They’re all watching us. Some with smiles. Some with curiosity. Others, like Seamus Callahan, with thinly concealed calculation.
We go around the floor a few more times as the soulful song plays, the singer belting a high note that echoes through the ballroom.
“Are you uncomfortable being this close to me?” Ronan asks.
“What do you think?”
“If it makes you feel any better,” he says quietly, “this isn’t what I wanted either.”
I glance back up at him. “How romantic.”
“There is no such thing as romance, princess. Forget about your fairytales and step into reality.”
The song ends, the final note fading off before the room erupts into applause.
We immediately go our separate ways.
I’m hot and irritated, every joint and muscle in my body wound tight. I can’t get away from him quick enough as I cut through the crowd that starts spilling onto the dance floor.
One thing rings true: I was right.
No man measures up to what I really want in a partner. All men are disappointing and not worth my time.
Yet now I’m married to one.
Over the next hour, the music varies from some R&B classics to the occasional Irish contribution, including a beautiful ballad called “The Voyage.” The melody is haunting and lovely, a song that would mean more if I were actually in love with my husband.
Dad and I share a father/daughter dance to a slow rendition of “Isn’t She Lovely.” He holds me close, looking down at me with pride etched on his face.
“You look beautiful, Simone,” he says. “And I’m proud of you. More proud than you could ever realize.”
I swallow the lump in my throat.