Page 156
He thanks donors and the Kinnanes for organizing the event. Thanks the sponsors and the Harringtons for their generous contribution to Lot Nine.
And the whole time Fionn doesn’t even spare me a single glance.
“Lot Nine, dinner for ten in the exclusive Ríoga restaurant, has been won by Miss Sera Tallon.”
Everyone applauds. Heads turn to find me, and the man to my right tosses his napkin because I outbid him.
The host smiles towards me. “A wonderful evening ahead for you and your guests, Miss Tallon.”
I raise my glass.
“I’ll gift it to a few of the dock workers,” I say, loud enough for the nearest tables to hear. “Their wives can wear whatever dresses they like.”
Mara’s smile turns bright and lethal. Eilish looks down at her hands, her expression full of pride.
Alasdair presses his elbows into the table and steeples his fingers, the muscle in his cheek jumping.
As I smile, Fionn looks over.
For one stupid second, I hope he might give me something. A twitch of his mouth. A flash of temper. Anything that proves he’s not as untouched as he looks.
He lifts his glass, drains it, and turns back to his table.
Right.
So that’s how we’re doing this.
The host clears his throat and moves to the next lot. Conversation rises around me, and my name disappears beneath the remaining prizes and their winners.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Fionn pushes back from his chair.
I don’t look over as he crosses the space between the Harrington table and mine. Instead, I stare at the candle flame in the centerpiece as it bends in the disturbed air, watch wax gather at the base, cock my head a little as a white flower dips its head toward the heat, the whole time pretending I don’t care.
Fionn stops beside my chair and places a cream envelope beside my plate with two fingers, at the exact distance where our hands can’t accidentally meet. Ríoga is stamped across the front in gold.
“Your prize, Miss Tallon,” he says.
I’m sure every person at the table will translate his tone to simple courtesy, whereas I hear cold formality.
I glance at the envelope. “Hand delivered by a Harrington. How unexpected of ya to do something a courier could handle.”
“The staff at Ríoga will need the name of the guest using it.”
“Then I'll be sure to check in with my lads at the docks.” I offer him a tight smile and look away.
“You made your point,” he says.
“What point?" I raise my eyes to his. “That even dock workers can enjoy a meal at your overpriced restaurant.”
For the first time, the public perfection in his face tightens. He bends closer so his voice belongs to me. “You’re making yourself visible to the wrong people.”
I almost laugh. “You mean your father.”
As his eyes hold mine, the heat under my ribs turns over, unwanted and alive.
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before he lifts it again, and the movement is so controlled I might have imagined it if my stomach didn't flip like an idiot.
“I told you to go home,” he says.
