The Player and the Pixie
Page 14

Ronan’s exceptionally pretty, brilliant, and odd girlfriend stood at his shoulder, cheeks rosy and tanned, and with wide eyes peering at me with surprise.
“Ms. Catrel. How pleasant.” I grinned at her.
“What are you still doing in Spain? I thought you left weeks ago?” Ronan growled.
I ignored him, addressing my question to Annie as I patted the seat next to me. “Is this your seat?”
Ronan shifted to the side, effectively hiding her from my view. “That is her seat, but you’re in mine. So I’ll thank you to get your arse up and out.”
The grin slid from my face as I pulled my ticket stub from my suit pocket and showed it to my rival. “You’re in error. This is my seat. I’ve just purchased it.”
Ronan’s Cro-Magnon brow furrowed, meant to display the severity of his disdain; he didn’t look at my ticket. “I don’t care if you’ve purchased the whole godforsaken airline. That’s my seat, and you’re in it. Get. Up.”
“Oh dear.” The stewardess appeared, holding my cocktail and casting concerned glances between my hulking teammate and me. “Is there a problem?”
“This man is harassing me,” I responded flatly.
Mother Fitzpatrick turned an alarming shade of red.
“No,” he growled, tossing his thumb in my direction as though the action would smite me where I sat in seat 1B. “This arsehole—”
“Ronan,” Annie soothed, placing her hand on his arm.
He began again after taking a breath and holding up his ticket for Dorothy the stewardess. “This person is in my seat.”
I held my ticket up as well. “That’s impossible. I just purchased this seat two hours ago.”
Dorothy’s eyes moved between our offerings and her forehead creased with worry. “Oh dear. This is a mess. May I have these tickets? I’ll ring the ticket agent.”
“Certainly.” I relinquished my slip of paper proof and exchanged it for the cocktail she held.
Ronan likewise handed over his and Annie’s tickets, sliding into seats 1C and 1D to wait as Dorothy disappeared into the galley.
“The flight is sold out, Mother Fitzpatrick. You can’t steal those seats either.” I indicated to where he waited, sipping my bourbon and 7. I was glad Dorothy had made it a double.
“I’m not the stealing kind, Cassidy. I’ve no need,” Ronan shot back, his eyes pointedly not meeting mine.
“I suppose you’re referring to Brona? Really, isn’t that bad form of you? Bringing up your ex in front of pretty Ms. Catrel.” I winked at her. She rolled her eyes heavenward.
What Ronan didn’t know—what no one but Brona O’Shea and I knew—was that I never touched Brona O’Shea except for publicity purposes.
Actually, that wasn’t quite right. Lucy Fitzpatrick knew.
I scowled, recalling how I’d told her the truth. In retrospect, I couldn’t fathom why I’d allowed her accusation of bad taste to piss me off so much. I didn’t have bad taste. I had impeccable taste. I just didn’t act on my impeccable taste because . . . no point.
Regardless, Brona and I had staged the whole scene, our relationship, hoping to enrage Ronan and push him over the edge. Unsurprisingly, it had worked. Ronan was nothing if not predictable, his emotions far too close to the surface.
His loyalty and candid affection for his loved ones would be his downfall.
I couldn’t relate. I had no loved ones.
Well, that’s not quite right. I had a loved one. I had Eilish, but I didn’t go blathering on about her.
Presently, to his credit, Ronan managed to sound bored and threatening at the same time when he responded, “Keep pushing, Cassidy, see where it gets you. You and Brona deserved each other seeing as you’re both dead inside. Really, it must be nice not to give a shit about anyone but yourself.”
Abruptly, the bourbon tasted sour on my tongue. I removed my hand from the cup so as to control my urge to pitch it at him.
“What about your sister?” The words were out of my mouth before I realized I’d said them.
Ronan’s glare cut to mine and sharpened. “What about my sister?”
I smirked, though I struggled to form the words as a bizarre sense of loyalty and guilt completely arrested my spitefulness. “Is she the stealing kind?”
Panic flickered behind Ronan’s glare, heating it to incendiary levels. Ronan knew. He knew all about his sister’s sticky fingers. And worried about her.
Christ, I hated myself sometimes.
But not enough to stop baiting Ronan.
My smirk grew into a threatening grin. “I wonder what else little Lucy and I have in common.”
“Shut your bloody mouth, Cassidy.” Ronan began to stand, murder clearly on his mind, but was stayed by Annie’s firm grip on his shoulder and calm reassurances.
“Ronan, he’s trying to get a rise out of you. Just let it go. Can’t you see how sad he is?”
I felt her last words at the base of my skull, a prickling discomfort, yet managed a slight chuckle. “Sad? Me? Ha. I’m the picture of cheerfulness.”
“Yes. You. Sad.” Annie’s serious brown eyes captured mine across the aisle and her tone was free of malice as she continued, “You are sad and lonely and lost, though you’ll never admit it. Instead you pick fights, desperate to feel something.”
I swallowed past a cinching bitterness in the back of my throat and drawled, “Oh yes. I’m so desperately sad, and need to be saved. Save me, Ms. Catrel. Save me from my crushing loneliness and despair. All I require is a good woman . . . or two. Or three, at the very most, so do bring some friends along.”