Love and Blarney by Zara Keane Page B

He examined the raincoat with a frown and raked her body. Heat swept up her cheeks at his scrutiny. Did he like what he saw? She’d chosen her outfit with care: a peach cashmere sweater that complemented her tanned complexion, skinny jeans made by her favorite designer, and gorgeous brushed-leather, high-heeled boots.
    “You’ve lost weight,” he said gruffly.
    His indifferent reaction to her appearance hurt, even though his assessment was accurate. She’d lost a lot of things over the past year, but her diminished weight was the least of her concerns. “The coat’s not mine.” She fingered her wet hair. “And its hood was no match for the Irish wind.”
    He coaxed his lips into a half smile. “Tourist tip: don’t bother with an umbrella.”
    “My landlady beat you to it. The coat’s hers, by the way.”
    The frown returned, and wariness slammed down over his face like iron shutters. “Your landlady? Surely you’re not planning on staying in Ballybeg?”
    His obvious reluctance to be in her presence didn’t come as a surprise, but it stung with the force of a million paper cuts. She tilted her chin and met his horrified expression. “I’ve booked a room at a charming little bed-and-breakfast overlooking the beach.”
    The line between his brows furrowed. “For how long?”
    She gave him a wobbly smile, her bravado in rapid-depletion mode. But she’d come too far to quit and run. “My initial reservation is for a week. Mrs. Keogh says it’s no problem if I decide to stay longer because it’s off-season.”
    A muscle in Ruairí’s cheek flexed. “It might not be a problem for Mrs. Keogh, but it sure as hell is a problem for me.”
    The words hit her like a lash. “Please. We need to talk.”
    His mouth hardened. “We needed to talk a year ago. It’s been thirteen months. Why the sudden urgency?”
    Actually, it had been thirteen months, three days, and five hours since he’d walked out of their apartment and out of her life. She remembered every second of that awful night down to the tiniest detail. His confession, the fight, and the final horrible moment when he’d told her he was leaving. In the days that followed, she’d thought nothing could have the power to make her feel more wretched.
    Boy, had she been wrong.
    A wave of grief hit her in the solar plexus, as fresh and as painful as the day her life had truly fallen to pieces. She dragged air into her lungs, shoved the bad memories away, and forced herself to concentrate on the present. “Our divorce will come through in a few weeks.”
    His eyebrows had always reminded her of a satyr and never more so than when he raised one—as he was doing now. “So? I spent months trying to get in contact with you. You rebuffed my every attempt.”
    “Please, Ruairí. Don’t be this way.” She shifted her weight from one sore foot to the other—her beautiful high-heeled boots were
not
suited to the cobbled streets of Ballybeg—and contemplated her strategy. Problem was, she didn’t have one. The moment she’d opened the envelope and seen the letter from her lawyer, she’d known what she needed to do. The
how
part of the equation hadn’t materialized with the same lightning-bolt clarity.
    “You filed for divorce,” he said. “You ignored my calls, texts, and e-mails.”
    “You
left
me.” Her voice was wobbly, and unshed tears stung her eyes.
    His jaw tensed. “I didn’t leave
you
. I left America. I said you could come with me.”
    “And quit my job from one day to the next? Abandon my whole life?” Her breathing came in short, sharp bursts. “You sprang the news on me the second I walked in the door after a long day at the practice. How did you expect me to react? I thought your parents were dead!”
    “I never said they were dead. You assumed—”
    “You
let
me assume.” The hurt, the pain, the betrayal of that night surged to the surface. “How could you lie to me about something so important? You’ve met my