Page 29 of Finding Him
When I finally emerge from the changing rooms, bag slung low over my shoulder, one lone car is still sitting in the backlot with the engine running. And there, leaning against it, is the birthday boy himself. Or post-birthday boy, I suppose.
He’s in normal street clothes—dark denim jeans and a crisp grey t-shirt with M??s????s A??? B??? stamped in faded orange letters on the front—and his hair is swept to the side and starting to curl over his forehead. My feet hit the gravel, and I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. Boom-fucking-boom.
“You’re awfully slow,” he remarks as I’m closing in, sliding his phone into his pocket. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans, pulling them up slightly—giving me a heart-stopping glimpse of the dark band of his underwear and the lean, tanned line of his lower torso before he settles his shirt.
Get a grip, Molly. Breathe.
“Didn’t realize shower-time management is a part of the captain’s duties,” I shoot back, hitching my backpack higher. My voice sounds remarkably steady for someone whose pulse is currently doing a drum solo. “What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be home blowing out candles on a keg or whatever?”
“I’ve been sent out on a job.”
“A job?”
“I’m supposed to be escorting one of my guests,” Niall says simply, pushing off the car and walking around to the passenger side door, pulling it open. “So. Hop in. Party’s waitin’ on ya, Molly.”
His smirk is driving me mad, the flutter in my stomach undeniable. I relent to just getting in the car, not trusting my own mouth’s ability to form words.
My reward for getting into his car is a ten-minute silent ride in Niall’s car. It’s hard for me to believe he and Claire are related. Where she’s an ever-rushing waterfall of words, Niall is a still pool—you never know how deep it goes or what’s lurking at thebottom. Not a word comes out of him for the next eight minutes it takes us to get to their estate.
In Ireland, I’ve gathered, an estate is basically like a neighborhood. Alderbank Estate has two streets, and Niall’s house is on the first one.
When we pull into the driveway, he leads me inside and points up the stairs. “Claire’s upstairs. Waiting to turn you into a doll or whatever it is she plans to do. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need to be rescued.”
I climb the stairs slowly as he retreats, my eyes lingering on the framed photos lining the hallway. There are so many of them. A younger Niall with a gap-toothed grin; Claire in a tutu; and a man who looks so much like Niall it’s almost jarring. The same jawline. The same steady gaze. Just a much wider smile than I’ve ever seen on Niall, and chestnut brown hair where Niall's is dyed blonde.
I reach the landing and I’m immediately ambushed by a flurry of golden fur.
“Comet! Down, you eejit!” Claire yells, darting out of a room that looks like a glitter bomb’s exploded in it. She grabs the collar of the massive, wiggly golden retriever who’s currently trying to taste my kneecaps. That or push me down the stairs. It’s unclear.
“You must smell like Niall,” Claire giggles, wrestling the dog into a sit. “He’s obsessed with him. Come on—let’s get ready!”
Comet follows us into Claire’s overly bright room. It’s got pink walls, and strings of fairy lights stretching around her bedframe and the ceiling. The closet’s open, clothes literally bursting out; some spread on the floor and others thrown over her chair or bed.
“You’re a bit taller than me,” she muses, digging through a pile of fabric. “So the dresses might be a bit... scandalous. Hope you don't mind showing some leg.”
“That’s fine,” I murmur, still looking around the room.
She holds up two options: a shimmering emerald green and a sleek, minimalist black. “Ma says these are too low cut for me, but you’ve got the chest to pull them off. Green or black?”
“Hm, green?”
I take the dress and retreat to the bathroom off Claire’s room. It fits well enough—spaghetti straps, a nipped-in waist, and a skirt that hits dangerously high on my thighs. I smooth it over my hips, looking at myself in the mirror. I’m reaching for the zipper when the other bathroom door—it’s a Jack-and-Jill style room—swings open.
Niall’s holding a stack of towels, his eyes widening as they sweep over me. The air in the tiny bathroom suddenly feels ten degrees hotter. His gaze drops to my legs, then travels slowly, agonizingly back up to my face. His throat bobs as he swallows.
“Shit—” I jerk back, clutching the fabric of the dress.
“Sorry—I didn't—I thought you were in Claire’s room,” he stammers, his face having turned a spectacular shade of crimson. He backs out so fast he nearly trips over his own feet, slamming the door shut.
I hear Claire’s muffled shriek from the bedroom: “NIALL! STAY OUT OF THE LOO!”
I stand here, my heart hammering against my ribs, staring at the space he’s just been.
??` ?? ?´?
“S.O.S.PLEASE, SOMEONEhelp me!”Claire and I are in her living room, screaming the lyrics to SOS at each other as we dance around.
She’d eventually decided on wearing this bright yellow minidress, and convinced me to let her fancy-up our hair with these flower crowns she made in some class last year. They’re pretty—mine has these little blue, pink, and purple blossoms adorning it.
