“I hope it’s not an inconvenience.”
“Not at all,” she says. “Sit. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
“This is my daughter, Iris, Liam’s youngest sister.”
Iris gestures to the chair opposite her. “Mom’s incapable of letting anyone in the house starve. It’s a compulsion.”
Saoirse gives her daughter a look, but there’s affection in it. “Ignore her. She forgets her manners when she’s not charming…investors.”
I smile, the tightness in my chest easing a little. “Thank you. This smells amazing.”
“French toast,” Iris says, sliding a plate toward me. “Mom’s way of interrogating people. Feed them until they talk.”
I almost laugh, but it catches on something in my throat. “I’m not sure I have much to tell.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” Iris props her chin on her hand. “Liam doesn’t bring people home. Ever. So, either you’re very important or very dangerous.”
The words hang there, light but edged. I take a bite of toast to buy time. It’s sweet and soft and painfully domestic. The kind of breakfast I used to make for my parents on lazy Sundays when deadlines didn’t exist. The memory hits hard, sudden and sharp.
“My parents used to make breakfast together,” I say quietly, before I can stop myself. “My mom would hum while she cooked. My dad always burned the toast. Every time.”
Saoirse’s expression softens. “They’re gone?”
I nod, swallowing past the ache. “Both. Years ago.”
For a moment, the kitchen hums with small sounds, the scrape of a fork, the pop of the toaster, the low whistle of the kettle. Then Saoirse says, almost gently, “You must miss them.”
“Every day.”
Iris leans back in her chair. “Sounds like they raised you right, at least. You’ve got better manners than most of the people Liam does business with.”
I let out a small, uncertain laugh. “I doubt he told you what kind of business I was in.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Saoirse says, sliding a mug of coffee in front of me. “You’re here now. Whatever brought you to my son’s doorstep, he obviously thinks you’re worth protecting. That’s all we need to know.”
There’s no accusation in her voice, but the words sink deep anyway.Worth protecting.I don’t know if I am.
I trace a finger around the rim of the mug, avoiding their eyes. “It’s just… a lot. Being here. I didn’t expect…” I trail off, searching for the right words. “I didn’t expect warmth.”
Saoirse smiles faintly. “The world outside these walls can be cold. We do our best to balance it.”
Iris snorts. “That’s Mum’s polite way of saying we tolerate Liam’s moods because she keeps feeding him.”
That makes me laugh properly this time, and the sound feels strange in my chest, like something I haven’t done in too long.
When Saoirse turns back to the stove, Iris lowers her voice. “Just a heads-up. He’s different here. Softer, maybe, but… possessive. You probably figured that out already.”
I glance at her, heart thudding. “You mean protective?”
She shrugs, sipping her coffee. “Same thing, when it comes to Liam.”
Before I can respond, footsteps echo in the hall, heavy and certain. The air shifts before he even appears.
Iris grins and murmurs, “Speak of the devil,” just as Liam steps into the doorway.
His eyes find me instantly, sweeping from my messy hair to the plate in front of me. Something flickers across his face. Approval, relief, ownership. Maybe all three. My stomach flutters and I blush.
“You found the kitchen,” he says.
