Chapter Four

The people here are so nice. They do hospitality better than any Southerner back home, and that’s saying something. Haven’t met an unkind soul yet.

—Travel Journal of Will Sinclair, Abbeyglen, Ireland

No cafeteria.

What kind of school was Ireland running here?

Erin bit into her sandwich. “Why is that weird?” “You’re missing the joys of healthy cafeteria fare like fries, cold pizza, and mystery meat.” Not that I ate that trash. The last few months I had really cleaned up my diet, but school food was a teenage right of passage. Of course, so was driving, and they didn’t get that one either.

“We either bring our own lunch or go off school grounds,” Erin said.

Off-campus lunch. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Ugh, there goes Beatrice and the Poshes.” Erin’s friend Orla pointed to the group of girls crossing the street.

“Where are they going?”

Orla took out a compact and covered the shine on her forehead where her blond bangs swung. “That’s the boys’ school. St. Raphael’s.”

“What did you call them? The Poshes?” I ate my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, scraping off some of the strawberry jam, ripping away the crusts.

“Posh,” Orla said. “Like fancy. Think they’re better than the rest of us, sure they do.”

“We used to be friends,” Erin said. “That was before they got so uppity and . . . daring. We don’t mind a bit of fun, but we’re not party girls.”

“Yeah.” Orla opened her brown paper bag and peeked inside. “We know fun. Like two weekends ago we stayed up all night watching a documentary marathon on the brain.” She rolled her eyes toward Erin. “We’re positively wild.”

“You forgot to tell me Beckett Rush was staying at your house.” I was quite proud of how casual my voice sounded. As if it were every day I was sleeping under the same roof as a teenage phenomenon.

Erin craned her neck and looked all around before speaking in a hush. “Mam has made me promise not to so much as open my mouth one peep about him. Something about a contract she had to sign when he checked in. The whole town knows, but our family still can’t say a word. It’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. You can’t talk about him either. We don’t know who could be press in disguise. One word to them, and we lose the B and B, our possessions, and our life savings.”

“Wow.”

“I know. Isn’t it awesome?” Erin gave an airy sigh. “Beckett’s lovely, don’t you think?”

“I guess.” I took a drink of water. “If you’re into his type.”

She smiled. “The tall, blond, and ruggedly good-looking type?”

“I’d be careful with him, Erin.”

“Oh, I know. My mam’s already warned me. But he’s been at our house for three weeks and been nothing but a gentleman.

Hasn’t made one single overture toward me.” She sighed. “It’s been a total disappointment.”

“Bea’s one of the locals the Fangs in the Night crew hired, don’t you know,” Orla said.

Erin nodded. “She has a small speaking part.”

Orla took out a package of cookies. “But you’d think she was Scarlett Johansson.”

“It is something to be proud of,” Erin said.

Orla snorted. “And proud that one is. Her cousin got her the gig. Bea has all sorts of connections, and believe me, she uses them. She’ll run over anyone to get what she wants. Best keep your eye on her. I’ve seen the way she looks at you, Finley. Like you’re new competition.”

I lined my bread crusts up neatly in a row on the table. “That’s ridiculous. I don’t want anything she has.”

Erin looked toward St. Raphael’s. “Just make sure you keep it that way.”

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That night I woke up. Sweat glued my shirt to my skin, my heart pounded loud enough to wake the whole village, and tears coursed down my cheeks. Another dream where I saw Will. Yet I couldn’t get to him. And he couldn’t get to me.

One thirty a.m.

I rolled over and sighed, realizing that I was starving. Dinner had been some sausage concoction, and I couldn’t swallow more than a few bites. Sometimes meat just grossed me out. Maybe this was God telling me to be a vegetarian.

Deciding to take my mind off of my growling stomach, I flicked on the bedside lamp and opened my brother’s travel journal. I’d read this thing from cover to cover. Yet I still felt so drawn to it, as if it had something more it wanted to say.

I had to find a way to get out into the countryside and really see Ireland. The O’Callaghans were so busy, there was no telling when there would be a chance to get away. Patience had never been my strongest suit.

Or rolling my r’s.

God, I know we haven’t talked in a long time, and you seem to be playing the quiet game, but if you could open some doors for me to get a car. I want to see the land my brother fell in love with. Talk to the people he never forgot. View the world as he saw it. He believed this was the most beautiful place ever. And I could definitely stand some beauty.

My tummy rumbled again, and I knew I had to do something about it. Last year I would occasionally forget to eat. My counselor called me depressed.

I called me devastated.

I slipped on a sweatshirt to go with my Mickey Mouse pajama bottoms and fuzzy bunny slippers and made my way down the two flights of stairs, straight for the kitchen.

The room came to life as I flipped the switch and investigated the refrigerator.

I spied the milk and remembered the impressive cereal collection in the closet-sized pantry. Just as I reached in to grab the container, a low whine came from behind me.

I turned and listened.

Nothing.

Going back to the fridge, I pulled out the milk.

And heard the whine again. A pitiful sound, desperate and mournful, as if an animal writhed in pain just outside the back door.

I went to the door and my heart clenched at the lonesome wails. Turning the knob, I stepped outside and onto the back deck.

The kitchen light shone like a spotlight on the chocolate Lab I’d spotted on the front step the day I arrived.

“Hi, boy.” I moved slowly, just in case the thing was crying over a new rabies diagnosis. “What’s wrong, huh?”

The Lab remained at attention, but wagged its happy tail.

“Are you lonely? Do you need someone to talk to?” I reached out a tentative hand and scratched his head. “Because I totally relate.”

“Do you now?”

I jumped at the voice behind me.

There in the corner, holding a small book light and a script, sat Beckett Rush.

“You scared me.” My heart thumped wildly in my chest.

“I can see that.” He closed his script. “Were you going to brain me with that?”

His gaze traveled over my head, and I realized I was holding the milk like a weapon. “I apologize for my catlike reflexes,” I said, lowering the jug. “Clearly you were milliseconds from devastating pain.”

He smiled. “Death by dairy products.”

“The dog was crying. I . . .” I was standing there in my pajamas.

In front of Beckett Rush. The Hollywood movie star. “I wanted to check it out. See if he was hurting.”

“The only thing Bob’s hurting for is food.” Beckett held up a plate. “I made myself a sandwich. Bob’s a big promoter of sharing.”

“He should’ve been around at dinnertime. I would’ve gladly shared.”

“That bad? I have half a sandwich here.”

I eyed him warily, as if the space between us were littered with land mines.

“I’m just going to throw it away.” Beckett tapped the seat beside him. “Sit. Eat. I promise you’re safe. I’m too tired to tick you off.”

“You say that like you do it on purpose.” With another scratch to Bob’s panting head, I slipped into the vacant seat.

“It passes the time.”

In the stingy light, I peeked beneath the bread and found ham, cheese, lettuce, and mayo. I scraped off the mayo, lost half the meat, and set aside one piece of bread.

“Picky eater.”

“I have discriminating taste.” I took a bite and smiled.

Bob gave another whine, then with a resigned sigh, dropped himself at Beckett’s feet.

“See?” He scratched the dog’s ear. “Some people like me.”

“He’s just lonely.”

Beckett’s eyes locked on mine. “I believe you said you were too.”

“That was a private conversation. Between me”—I swallowed my bite of sandwich—“and Bob.”

“So what are you really doing up?” His voice was sleepy deep.

“Just woke up. You?”

“Running lines.” He held up his script. “I’ve been inside all day and needed to get out. Get some air.” He ran his hand through blond hair that looked like it should’ve come with a surfboard and sunscreen. “Seems the scenes didn’t go so well today.” He took off his coat, stood up to his height that must’ve been at least six feet, and hovered over me. I held my breath as Beckett moved in close, and I smelled the detergent on his shirt as he settled the coat over my shoulders. “You look cold.”

“Thank you.” I let myself breathe again and snuggled into his jacket as Beckett sat back down, angling his body toward mine.

“I’m about to ask you a favor.”

“And I’m about to tell you no.”

“It’s not a make-out scene. Though I’d be willing to rehearse that.”

“Still, no.”

“Dig deep into that cold, callous heart of yours, Frankie.”

“It’s Finley.”

“Dig deep and find some kindness.” He held out his script.

“I’ve a need for someone to read the part of Selena.”

“Selena the mutating vampire duchess? The woman who eats frogs, whose lower body is covered in scales because her mom had a fling with a merman?”

“I knew you were a fan.”

Dumbest movies ever.

“I’ll give you a tour of the set.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I’ll get my friend Jake Gyllenhaal to call you.”

“Already have him on speed dial.”

“I won’t tell your friends about your sleeping attire.” His gaze dropped to my feet. “Nice bunnies.”

“Fine.” I grabbed the script and put aside my half-eaten sandwich. “But tomorrow we go back to ignoring one another.”

“Page fifty-one.” The dimple in his cheek deepened. “And as for girls who try to stay away from me—my charm always wears them down.”

“I’m up-to-date on my shots, so I’m pretty much immune to everything.”

Beckett just tipped his chair back and laughed. “Famous last words, Flossie. Famous last words.”