Page 8 of Irish Betrayal

He stepped closer, crowding her space just enough that she had to look back. “Why?” he pressed. “Why so far away? You’re a genius. You could go anywhere. Anywhere that’s closer than America, damn it.”

Her throat moved as she swallowed. Her hands came up slower this time. “It’s a good program. I like the professor I’ll be under. The Stantons are the best. Your mom would attest to that.”

He let out a humorless breath. “Don’t do that.”

Her brows drew together. “Do what?”

“Lie to me.”

The words landed. He saw them hit, saw the way her shoulders tensed, the way her fingers curled slightly before she forced them to move again.

“I’m not⁠—”

He caught her wrist. Not rough. Never rough with her. But firm enough to stop her hands from inflaming his temper more.

“Blair,” he said aloud, even knowing she wouldn’t hear it, the sound dragged out of him anyway.

Her eyes snapped to his mouth.

“Tell me the truth.” For a second, just a second, he thought she might.

Her composure cracked. He saw it. Something raw pushed to the surface, something that looked dangerously close to panic.

And then it was gone. The truth in her eyes reduced to the lies she’d been feeding him for months.

She pulled her hand from his grip, shaking her head. “I can’t.”

The words punched straight through him. “Can’t?” he echoed, frustration bleeding into his voice, into his movements. “Or won’t?”

She flinched.

That stopped him cold.

Daniel stared at her, something uneasy settling in his gut. That hadn’t been annoyance. That hadn’t been guilt.

That had been fear.

“Blair…” he started, softer now.

She stepped back.

He followed.

She stepped back again—until her shoulders hit the brick wall behind her. Nowhere else to go.

His pulse kicked harder. “Talk to me,” he said, quieter this time, his hands coming up—not to trap, but to frame her, braced on either side of her shoulders.

Her breathing had changed. He could see it, feel it in the space between them. Fast. Shallow.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and everything shifted.

Daniel felt it like a spark catching. She wanted him. Blair wouldn’t lie about that. She couldn’t lie. Not about them.

“Don’t,” he murmured, but there was no real warning in it. He didn’t want this conversation derailed, but Christ, how touching her affected him.

Blair’s fingers curled into the front of his shirt, just like they had that night, like muscle memory, like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

His control snapped, and he kissed her.