How dare he. How fucking dare he. I told him time and time again this wasn't what I wanted. And yet he'd done it again. He'd given me a beautiful house with a horrible ghost.
Because how was I supposed to curl up on the couch on cold nights before the fire without seeing him there beside me, untouchable? How was I supposed to come down those lovely stairs, my fingers on the carved railing, knowing that his memory haunted the cold, empty, lifeless kitchen? How, how was I supposed to read in the breakfast nook, bare feet propped up on the big bay window, and look out on the sunny backyard to see Zara playing with Michael's ghost?
This house was cursed, because Michael cursed it. This house was cursed because Michael was not in it.
"It's not our house," I told Zara with a smile, brushing back her blonde hair. "But we can stay here for a few days, okay?"
A flicker of disappointment shadowed Zara's face like a summer storm cloud, but she nodded.
"Okay."
"Hey, why don't you go explore the backyard, huh?"
I patted her on the butt as she ran toward the kitchen. When she was out of sight, I stalked to the office on the left, found a piece of paper and a Sharpie and wrote a quick sign. Then I stormed into the living room and grabbed the edge of a cream suede couch. Grunting and heaving, I wedged it through the front door and shouldered it down the path between the roses to the curb.
I slapped the sign I wrote on it and went inside for the next piece of furniture. The sign read:
For Sale. Best Offer. Need to sell fast.
I only needed enough for a plane ticket to Dublin.
Abbi
A last-minute ticket from Denver to Dublin ended up costing one suede couch, two antique lamps, a porcelain tea set, one nightstand, and a food processor. Before heading to the airport I swung by Sandra's to drop off Zara for the weekend.
"You're all set for your big national parks project on Monday?" I asked, kneeling before her at the door.
She nodded, her eyes on the floor.
"You're going to do great," I said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I love you."
Sandra eyed me after Zara slipped underneath her arm into the apartment.
"This is a bad idea," she said, leaning against the door frame.
I adjusted my duffel bag on my shoulder and grinned at her. "Since when do I make good choices?"
Sandra laughed and shook her head. "I still have some of those napkins with the numbers on them," she said giving me a wink. "Maybe even the one for Brad Pitt?"
I made sure my passport was in my pocket and looked up at her. "Thanks for looking after Zara."
"Abbi…" Sandra reached out an arm and placed it on mine. "Maybe it's best to just let him go?"
"Maybe," I said with a sad smile, "but I haven't been able to let him go for nine years. I'm not sure I want to."
"It could just lead to more pain."
I laid my hand over hers. "I guess the risk is worth it this time."
Then it was the long cab ride to the airport, the long lines through security, the long flight, and the long cab ride to Michael's law firm in Dublin. My toe tapped impatiently as red tail lights flashed in the midday rain. When we pulled up outside a brick building with a sleek metal sign announcing PLA Harper, my stomach turned and I suddenly wished traffic had been a little heavier.
"It's here?" I asked, hesitating with the money.
The cab driver's open palm insisted. "It's here."
The interior of the lobby was dark and cold, decorated with slate-grey marble, metal furniture, and an intimidating bronze desk, something from Lex Luthor's lair.
"I'm here to see Mr O'Sullivan," I said to the secretary at the front desk.
Her manicured fingers clacked on the keyboard and she shook her head.
"Mr O'Sullivan is out of the office today."
I frowned. "Out of the office?"
"It is Sunday, ma'am."
"So?"
Michael wasn't one to take a weekend off. The woman licked her finger to pull a sticky from a pad.
"A message, perhaps?"
"No." I snatched the sticky from the desk and crumpled it up. "No, I need to see him today."
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm his personal assistant."
The woman's eyes darkened as she looked at me suspiciously. "Caroline Fitzpatrick is Mr O'Sullivan's personal assistant."
I bit back a growl of irritation. "I'm his American personal assistant."
Again the front desk woman frowned. "I was given to believe that Mr O'Sullivan's business with Levi, Levi, & Burke concluded weeks ago," she said. "And if you still had business with him, wouldn't you have his Irish number to—"
Okay, I didn't have time for this shit.
"I'm his baby mama," I interrupted, voice echoing loudly in the wide, empty space like a bellow in a cave. "Mr O'Sullivan knocked me up in a motel up in Glendalough and we have a nine year old daughter together and I'm here to tell him that I hate him and I'm angry as fuck at him and I lo—"
I laid my hands flat on the cold surface of the bronze desk as the woman stared up at me with wide, disturbed eyes. I sucked in a steady breath and smiled.
"And maybe you should just go ahead and give me an address before I really start to make a scene?"
Thirty-five minutes later I was stepping out of another cab in
