“But to you, I’m a stranger right now. I know you, but you don’t know me. Or maybe I don’t know you. I’m not sure how it works. I don’t think it would be right.”

Still, though, I feel his body move toward me a little, almost imperceptibly.

“Even if I say it’s okay?” I ask.

“Even if you say it’s what you want more than anything in the world.”

I nod. That is what I feel right now.

I crave him so much I feel like I might burst. The places on my body that I want him to touch burn cold with his absence.

“It wouldn’t be right,” he says again.

I can tell this is hard for him, which only makes it hotter.

“Okay,” I say, having trouble breathing normally.

We move toward each other. He puts his hand on the slope of my shoulder, sliding it up my neck, fingers going beneath the collar.

It sends shivers down my spine.

He bends and I shut my eyes involuntarily.

His lips land on my cheek, the stubble a little scratchy against my skin, his kiss soft and warm. He smells like the whiskey we had earlier and I know I would be able to taste it on his tongue.

Cillian pulls away. His eyes now have a love-drunk quality to them. I know he wants it as badly as I do. He’s doing the right thing. Or what he thinks is the right thing. But I want him more than I want to make good choices.

“Goodnight, Meg,” he says.

He opens the door and lets Maureen out without the leash. I stand in the doorway and watch him go. He does a sharp whistle and Maureen dashes to his heel without hesitation. Somehow, this makes me want him even more.

He turns to me and holds up a hand in goodbye. I hold one up too.

With the smallest shake of the head, he turns from me and walks out into the inky black night, lit only by the foggy moonlight and the glow of all the stars I could never have possibly seen back home.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The next day at noon sharp, Aimee arrives with a box of fresh doughnuts and orange juice. At about twelve fifteen, Kiera shows up in sunglasses, despite the overcast day, looking a little worse for wear.

“What are you eating?” I ask, looking at the white triangle in her hand and her full mouth.

“Tayto crisp sandwich. You want some?”

She holds it out like a sweet dog offering its horrid, ruined toy. “Oh, I’m … I’m all set.”