Chapter 43

FORTY-THREE

DOMHNALL

One Year Later

The phone rings and I snatch it up just as quickly as I’ve done every time it’s rung or pinged for the last year.

The sudden quick beat of my heart dulls when I see the caller ID. I consider not answering but know he’ll just call back. And back, and back, until I do finally pick up.

I thumb the green button.

“Caleb,” I answer without inflection.

“Dom!” he cries, always enthusiastic enough for the both of us and then some. “How the hell are you? ”

I roll my eyes. “The same as I’ve been every other time you do these ridiculous check-up calls. I’m fine. I’m always fine .”

“What’s the point of life if you’re just fine, though, eh? I know you’ve gone all celibate monk, but why not come out to the club sometimes? Just to hang out with everybody, maybe watch a scene or two? Quinn’s got a new pain pig, and you know how she likes to make the new piggies squeal.”

“Yeah, uh, thanks. Think I’ll pass.” I rattle the ice in my soda water and stare down at the fat copy of James Joyce’s Ulysses I’ve got open in my lap. I’ll sit here and torture myself with Irish literature instead. I’ve been a hundred pages into this monstrosity of a book for a month and it’s not getting any less painful. Not exactly as satisfying as a lash on the back, but it’ll have to do.

“Come on, man. All you do is work.”

“I do leisure activities. I’m currently reading. Later, I’ll meet with my trainer. We’re working on lats.”

I can all but hear him rolling his eyes through the phone. “Where’s the guy who used to street race to get his jollies off?”

I glare at the floor. “He grew up. Goodbye, Caleb.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Come on, man. You’re my best friend. I’m just worried about you.”

I’m a millisecond away from snapping that we’re not best friends, that we were never best friends; he was always just a means to an end. But then I count to five and breathe in and out. Because my other not-so-leisure activities are twice weekly meetings with the therapist Dr. Ezra referred me to.

Fucking therapy. On the bad days, I wish I’d never let any of those fucking vultures into my house. Brooke and I would have found our way if I’d just kept her safe from the world, locked up in my dungeon.

I should have protected her better. My hands clench around the book. I want to rip it apart. Then pick up the chair I’m sitting in and throw it through the fucking window before trashing the rest of my nice, orderly, professionally decorated study.

“Dom? You still there?”

My teeth clench and I close my eyes, trying to remember to breathe. Breathe, breathe—my therapist’s always telling me to breathe before I react; he’s got a fucking hard-on about it. Notice when something triggers you and then breathe through it, so you don’t lash out.

I breathe, but I still want to destroy shit. “I’m here. Thank you for your concern. You’re a good friend, Caleb.” There, no lashing out. “Look, I’ll call you later.”

I hang up before I lose the battle with my temper. Then I pop to my feet and toss James Joyce down into the chair with more force than is strictly necessary. I jog up to my bedroom to change into workout clothes.

When I come back out, I pause in the hallway and look towards my office. God knows I’ve spent enough moping hours looking over the footage I got of Brooke during those brief weeks I had her back.

But that way lies madness. I lost one whole month like that right after she left, barely eating, barely doing anything else except caressing her face on the screen with my eyes and fighting the impulse to go after her and reclaim what’s mine.

Going no contact was brutal. So of course, I cheated. Not that I tell my therapist, but it was nothing to arrange for a discreet security detail to make sure she’s safe in Chicago. They stay at a distance, so she never knows they’re there. And yes, they send an occasional picture.

All right, they send a picture every day. Look, sanity comes at a different price for different people. The furniture in my house stays intact and I spend an hour every day, usually somewhere around lunchtime, worshiping at the altar of my beloved’s face.

The rest of the time I stay busy.

And when the memory of her scent or the itch to touch her gets too maddening, I work out. I turn away from the office and jog back downstairs to the gym I had installed month two after she left.

I barely get gloves velcro’d before I’m taking out my frustration and fury on the heavy-weight bag—my real best friend the past year. Sorry Caleb.

I slam it hard with an uppercut that sends the bag swinging, then do a bunch of hard, quick jabs in the center that allows for a quick expulsion of energy. Then another hard slam.

I get into it, really working up a sweat with my shirt off ten minutes later when the doorbell rings.

I try to ignore it, jabbing some more when it rings again.

Fucking hell. What is it now? Did Caleb and Moira decide to gang up on me today? What, was he the cavalcade and now she’s here, the main troops, coming in for the kill? They seem to be on an all-out offensive lately on Operation Get Dom Out of His House.

I’m perfectly fine here. It’s a mansion and I’m a billionaire. Anything I want is already here or can come by delivery.

I tear off my gloves and stomp towards the door.

“What?” I bark before the door’s half open.

But then I see it’s her .

“Domhnall,” Anna says, eyes widening when she takes in my sweaty torso.

She’s so fucking beautiful. She cut off all her hair, has a nose ring, and a full sleeve tattoo down one arm. I’ve seen pictures, of course, but her—here—is so fucking stunning, I lose all the breath in my lungs.

“Anna.” I fall to my knees at her feet, pressing my face to her knees. “Are you really here? Are you real?”

She crouches down until she’s all but sitting on the front stoop with me, and when I next look at her, I see tears in her eyes. “I’m really here, Domhn. ”

I look behind her, my heart leaping when I see a big suitcase. “Is this just a visit or are you back?”

She nods shyly. “I’m back.”

“Thank Jaysus.” I throw my arms around her neck and cling to her. “I love you so fucking much. I’ve barely survived without ya.”

Her back immediately shudders with a sob. “I love you too. And I know. It’s been hell. But I had to find myself.”

I nod into her short hair, cupping the back of her precious skull. “I know, love. I know.” I pull back just enough to kiss her forehead. “Is it alrigh’? Being back here?”

She shakes her head, head craning back to look up at the house. “I don’t think I can go inside.”

“That’s fine,” I assure her. “We’ll go away. I’ll follow you anywhere, love.”

I clutch her face lightly between my palms, looking at her. Her tear-stained eyes gaze back at me, clear and full of hope. “You will?”

“Of course I will. I always woulda.” I grin at her, my whole body light as if I could fly. “Let’s run away together, love.”

She grins, laughing even as she cries. Then she throws her arms around my neck and kisses me.

Our mouths meet as we pour our love into one another. I grab her up into my lap. I can’t get her fucking close enough, wrapping my arms around her .

Every part of my being burns for her, but for now, whatever ounce or speck she gives me, it will be enough. It will always be enough. I’d beg for scraps at her table and be the happiest man alive.

Finally she disentangles herself from me, laughing as she stands to her feet, wiping her tears. I immediately stand up, too, so I can be at her side.

“Let’s stop scandalizing the neighbors,” she says. “Go get a shirt on and we can find a hotel for the night.”

Jaysus fecking Christ . Is she trying to kill me right when I’ve got her back?

I intertwine my fingers with hers and drag her forwards towards the sidewalk, grabbing her suitcase with my other hand. “Fuck the shirt. I’m not lettin’ you out of me sight for a goddamned second. C’mon. We’ll call a cab with your phone.”

Her high-pitched peal of laughter is all the healing my lost, damned soul has been needing the past year. I let go of the bag and hike her up into my arms.

She laughs again and wraps her legs around my waist. I look up into the dancing eyes of the most beautiful girl in the world.

“I love ya, future Mrs. Callaghan.”

Her grin gets bigger. “Anna Callaghan,” she says. “I think that plaque will fit nicely on the desk in my beautifully decorated room.”

Then the world’s most gorgeous woman blesses a poor, sad fuck from the arse end of nowhere with the sweetest kiss, and I know I’m the luckiest man in the world as I spin with her in my arms.