“Fine. Okay. He was my fantasy. But not anymore.”

“Then who is your fantasy?” Josey sipped her coffee, her eyes taunting.

“A maid who cooks is my fantasy.”

She rolled her eyes. “You sound like my mother.”

“Exactly,” I bit out, the word arriving sharper than I’d intended.

She stared at me, and a meaningful moment passed between us. Things had changed since our boarding school days, I’d changed. My priorities were different and my priorities had lost me friends, most notably my other best mate, Nadia.

But the dissolution of my friendship with Nadia couldn’t be helped.

Josey’s expression softened and she gave me a crooked smile. “Okay, sorry. What happened at the party?”

I gathered a bracing breath as I allowed myself to remember seeing him, seeing Bryan in person for the first time in five years. “I was surprised by him.”

“I thought you knew he was going to be there.”

“I did know, and I thought I was prepared. What I mean is, the strength of my. . . feelings, my response was surprising. My hands were shaking and my mind was a mess. Sure, I knew it was going to be difficult to see him, up close and in person, after . . . everything.”

My friend gave me a sympathetic look. “You’ve avoided all mentions of him for years. Plus, you’ve been in the States.”

“Exactly. It was easy to put him out of my mind when I was in Boston.”

But since I’d returned, I’d encountered billboards of his startlingly handsome face, advertisements of his chiseled physique, and special features on the television about his role on the team. Over the last few weeks, images of him seemed to be everywhere, inescapable.

“You were hoping to feel indifferent?” Josey took another sip of her coffee.

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No.” I chuckled humorlessly, shaking my head.

“What did you feel?” she pushed, her ebony gaze probing.

I considered how best to answer.

At the party last week, I’d been hoping for detached disdain on my part, instead I was faced with prompt and uncontrollable lust. Usually I was so tired, I couldn’t even muster the energy to feel pathetic about my boring sex life.

But in walked Bryan Leech and you’re suddenly hornier than a rhino.

Just. Lovely.

I couldn’t tell Josey about the lust, then we’d go back to Bryan being my fantasy and he most definitely was not.

I also couldn’t tell her about our shared—but brief—moment of joking together, because the camaraderie and my like of him in that moment felt even more dangerous than the lust.

So I answered, “Flustered. Like I said, I was surprised. Also, worried. Anxious that he would somehow guess the truth just by looking at me. I know it’s silly.”

“No. It’s understandable.” She leaned forward again, lowering her voice. “You’ve said yourself more than once, you feel guilty about not telling him the truth.”

I’d come to realize over the last several years that, no matter what I did, I was going to feel guilty.

Agreed to give the baby up for adoption—felt guilty.

Changed my mind at the last minute because I couldn’t go through with it—felt guilty.

Moved back to the States, tried to go things alone, worked three jobs—felt guilty.

Asked my cousin for help when I became ill and lost two of the aforementioned jobs—felt guilty.

Finished college with Sean’s monetary assistance on the condition that I moved back to Ireland once I graduated and passed all my licensing requirements, and then allowed him to help me find a place, fronting me cash to get settled, and a job—felt guilty.

If guilt were an Olympic sport, I would have all the gold medals. All of them.

“But, let me remind you—again—you have no reason to feel guilty,” Josey continued. “When you gave birth to Patrick, wasn’t BL arrested for drunk driving that same weekend? He was a complete reprobate when you knew him.”

“I never knew him,” I scoffed. “We were together one night.”

“And he didn’t even remember your name the next day.”

I knew Josey was trying to make me feel better, but the reminder of his indifference stung.

Ignoring the dull ache in my chest, I lifted my chin. “Exactly. He doesn’t want a child.”

Josey considered me over her coffee cup, her lips pressing into a thoughtful line. “He’s changed, though. He’s sober now, has been for months, I think. At least, that’s what the papers are saying.”

I gathered a silent breath and reached for my tea, mumbling, “Yes. Sean has mentioned something about that one or a hundred times.”

My cousin, who I loved dearly but who was also prone to being meddlesome, had informed me several times over the last year that Bryan was trying to pull his life together. I was happy for Bryan, just like I would have been for any person struggling with addiction.

But news of Bryan’s sobriety also meant I was conflicted. My course of action, namely keeping Patrick from his biological father, no longer seemed like a cut and dry decision.

“Will you see BL much at work?”

I nodded, suddenly finding it difficult to swallow. “Yes.”

“You start tomorrow?”

“That’s right. Tomorrow.” Tomorrow. My heart seized. I thought I’d been ready to face Bryan, but after what happened at the party, I was dreading my first day.