Page 344 of Manhattan Bossholes

But she was already running upstairs to her room.

I hesitated, listening to her angry little feet storm away from me. Every instinct I had said to go after Catie and comfort her, but I had no bloody clue what I would say. Everything I’d tried had only seemed to make it worse.

“So,” Olivia said, almost to herself, “that went well.”

“Oh, and you would have told her the truth?” I snapped. “‘Catie, your mum’s an alcoholic, and she’ll live with that disease for the rest of her life, even if the treatment she’s on now helps her figure out how to control it. Also, there’s a genetic factor, so you might be at risk too. Isn’t that grand?’”

“Obviously not like that.” Olivia stood and started clearing the table. “But yes, it’s always best to tell kids the truth. An age-appropriate version of the truth, but the truth, all the same.”

I grabbed the salad bowl and followed Olivia into the kitchen. “There is no age-appropriate version of this. Trust me.”

Olivia set the plates down on the counter and turned to face me, hands on her hips. “So it’s better for her to hate you for it?”

“I can be the bad guy, if it means shielding her from something that would crush her,” I said—and I meant it. If letting her get angry with me was the price I had to pay for shielding Catie, I’d gladly pay it twice over. “If rehab works, and Sinead gets sober, Catie never has to know.”

Something like sympathy flickered across Olivia’s face. “Declan. You have to know that’s not realistic.”

Maybe I did. But in my experience, “it’s not realistic” was the thing people said right before they gave up. And I wasn’t ready to give up.

“I’m not telling her the truth about her mum,” I said, deadly serious. “Neither are you. And that’s final.”

“But—”

I locked my eyes on hers, clenched my jaw, and thought of how best to make her understand this wasn’t up for debate.

“Cross me on this and you’re fired, Olivia.” I waited for no more than a heartbeat. “Understand?”

She pressed her lips together and took the glass salad bowl from me, setting it down on the marble counters with enough force that it cracked. Clearly, she wasn’t too happy about my ultimatum. Then again, what did she expect? At the end of the day, I was her employer. I was the one making the rules.

It took her a moment to realize what she’d done. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that…”

“It’s fine,” I said, feeling worn by the turn the night had taken. “I’ll toss it in the bin.”

But Olivia beat me to it. When she was done, she said, “Maybe you should call Sinead? It might calm Catie down to hear her mom’s voice.”

“I will,” I agreed. Then I noticed. “You’re bleeding.”

“What? Oh.” She blinked down at her left hand, surprised.

“I’ll get you a plaster,” I said. I was pretty sure there was a first-aid kit in the pantry, next to the bottled water and emergency torches.

“A what?” Olivia asked, confused.

I found the first-aid kit and squirted some antibacterial stuff on a bandage. “Give me your hand.”

“I can do it myself,” she protested.

“Sure, like you could get your suitcase into the overhead,” I said.

Olivia gave an exasperated sigh, but surrendered her hand. I carefully covered up the small spot of blood, trying not to notice how soft her skin was.

Olivia pulled her hand away from mine as soon as possible and ran her fingertips around the edge of the plaster, as if to double-check my work.

“You should go call Sinead,” Olivia said. “I’ll clean up dinner.”

I took her at her word and went to go sort out the women in my life.

“I don’t like lying to her,” Sinead said, about a half hour later. She’d claimed that rehab was going well, and I’d decided to believe her. One of the reasons I’d picked this treatment center was because they customized their program based on the needs of the patients. In Sinead’s case, that meant letting her have daily calls with her daughter, even though their standard program didn’t allow phone calls during the first few weeks.