Chasing River (Burying Water #3) (41 page)

River wraps his arms around my shoulders, pulling my back into his chest. I revel in his warmth. As much as I loved having my father here, it meant less time doing this with River. I’ve desperately missed it.

I don’t know how I’m going to leave him, but I know that I’ll have to at some point.

“So?” He rests his chin on top of my head. “What now?”

“Where did you say you found this place, again?” River’s amazed gaze drifts first over the stone cottage, and then to the bay beyond, a sea of crisp blue waters as far as my eyes stretch.

“Online. One of those private home rental places. It had really good ratings and we lucked out because they had a cancellation.” I haven’t stopped grinning since River turned his car into the gravel driveway. He knew we were going to the Cliffs of Moher—like we had planned—but this was a surprise. “Apparently it was rebuilt about twenty-five years ago, using the stones from the original cottage, which was abandoned during the Great Famine in the mid–eighteen hundreds. Have you heard of it?”

He grins, sliding the bags from my grip and planting a kiss on my lips. “Look at you, Miss Know-It-All.” I trail behind him as he limps past the thick border of brambly bushes and wildflowers and to a fuchsia door, the renter’s key dangling from his fingertips.

Inside, the Irish seaside charm only multiplies, the expansive, open living space filled with oak and pine furniture and plenty of kitschy antiques. A massive, double-sided fireplace stands like a pillar in the center of the cottage, opening up to both a cozy sitting area and rustic dining room. Even the dated pastel blue floral couches and the pink cushions—décor that would belong in my late grandparents’ homes—are something to be admired here. “This is perfect. Exactly what I wanted.”

A quiet, peaceful place for just River and me after so much turmoil.

Upstairs, we wander through four bedrooms, each with two single beds sitting side-by-side. “The sleeping arrangements are the only weird thing,” I murmur, dragging a nightstand out of the way, in a room that overlooks the Atlantic. That’s the view I want to wake up to with River every day for the next four days. “But I figured we could just reorganize things . . .” I lean forward to push one of the beds over.

And find myself sprawled out on top, thanks to a playful push from River.

He chases my laughs away with a deep, all-consuming kiss.

“I think I could live here,” I murmur absently, staring out over the purple-and-pink dusk sky and vast expanse of water from our grassy perch atop the cliffs, as we’ve done for the past four nights. River sits at my back, our bodies guarded against the crisp evening air by heavy wool blankets.

I feel him tense; I hear the hard swallow. Since that night when he begged me to stay in Ireland, before Delaney’s was attacked, the topic of me leaving has sat in the middle of every room like a giant white elephant. It’s our last night here. I don’t think we can avoid talking about it much longer.

Before we left for this cottage, I had to make a choice. I’d already cancelled my trip to England, but there was another flight looming: the one that was supposed to carry me from London to Madrid in a week’s time.

So I rearranged my ticket to fly me from Dublin to Spain’s capital. The plane leaves tomorrow night. I know it’s the right decision, I know that my father is right and I need to remove myself from this situation for a while to be sure I’m thinking clearly, but it pains me all the same.

River heard me on the phone with the airline, making the arrangements. He hid his disappointment behind a smile, but I saw it all the same.

I turn back to lay a soft kiss on his jawline. “So? What’s your plan?”

He inhales deeply. “Rowen should be out in another week or two. I’ll spend some time with him in Dundalk. Make sure Ma doesn’t drive him mad. Then, I don’t know. Perhaps take some classes.”

“Really?” When we talked about college last time, he didn’t sound at all interested in it. I’m glad to see that maybe he is.

A sheepish smile fills his handsome face. “When I went to talk to the college office about Rowen, I saw some flyers for part-time courses. Business and computers and whatnot. I figure that could be useful to me, for running the pub.”

“Learning how to use basic technology? You’re right, it could be.” I giggle with the memory of trying to teach River how to use Skype on his Samsung. My amusement earns me a few sharp but ticklish pokes to my ribs. “What else are you going to keep yourself busy with?” It’s going to be a while before he’s slinging pints and charming customers again.

He scoops my hair back into a ponytail, pushing it off to the side, giving his mouth access to my neck, which he happily takes. “Figured I’d work on the house. Strip that peeling wallpaper, give the walls a fresh coat of paint. Maybe by then we can start looking at rebuilding the pub. Da thinks the insurance should come through sooner rather than later, seeing as they found enough evidence to arrest and charge that bastard who tried to kill us.”

Just the suggestion in his words makes my stomach tighten. “Where do you think he’ll end up?”

“Likely Portlaoise.”

“And Aengus?”

“Same.” He sighs, that perpetual cloud that comes with any mention of his older brother rolling in. “That should keep the guards busy.”

I wonder what will become of Aengus. Whether he’ll even survive, or if River is right and he’s simply living on borrowed time. I don’t really care, but I know it’ll hurt River if something happens, and I can’t bear the idea of that.

I weave my fingers through his. “Have you looked into a passport at all?”

“I did. We’ll see what happens. It could take a while.” He doesn’t sound hopeful.

We sit in silence as the sun slowly descends along the horizon. I know that a mesmerizing blanket of stars waits in the wings for darkness. It reminds me of back home and years of lying across the hood of a car, taking in the vast night sky. A home that is not only thousands of miles away but now feels like light-years in the past. I don’t know how I’m simply supposed to go back to it. And what? Pretend that this amazing thing didn’t happen? That River doesn’t exist? Or just chalk it up to a life experience? I may still be Amber Welles to my core, but my life has been irrevocably changed by this man and I can’t pretend otherwise.

“So . . . what’s the plan again? Spain, then France, and then Italy, is it?” he asks softly.

A lump forms deep in my throat. The last thing I want to be doing is talking about all the places where I’ll be without River. “You’d better respond to my texts. Whenever I message you, you drop everything.”

“So ya want me at your beck and call, basically?”

I nuzzle against his neck, the scruff from his chin scratching against my nose. “Not basically. Exactly.”

He chuckles, but it’s a heavy sound. “You could save yourself the hassle and just stay here. You can have me whenever you want, in the flesh.”

There it is. I know he’s not trying to make me feel guilty, but my tears begin streaming all the same. “It’s just something I need to do. For me. I’m sorry.”

“I know. You can’t think straight when you’re around me. It’s the same way I am with you.” His arms tighten around me. “But don’t worry. You’ll see that you’re meant to be here soon enough.”

I laugh, even as I cry. “You sound so sure.”

“I
am
sure. Which reminds me . . .” River shifts behind me. There’s just enough light to recognize Alex’s handwriting on the creased piece of paper he holds out.

I snatch it from his grip, laughing as I scan over the lines again. How had I forgotten about this?

He produces a pen almost magically. “See anything you want to check off?”

“Number twelve, definitely. And thirty-two.”

“Anything else?”

I stare at that first line and swallow.

1. Have a torrid affair with a foreigner. Country: TBD.

It was a joke when Alex wrote it down, a tease for River when he discovered it, and a secret wish for me in those first days with him. And yet now that I read it again—after what we’ve been through in such a short time—it feels wrong to think of what we had, or have, as nothing more than a torrid affair.

That makes it sound like it’s already over.

“No.”

“So . . . you’re keeping that one open?”

The very idea of being with another guy makes me ill. I drag the tip of the pen through number one.

I shiver at the feel of his hot breath against my ear. “I took the liberty of adding a line. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Really?” I flip the page and see the new handwriting at the bottom.

My heart stutters.

Sweat trickles down the nape of my neck as I climb the uneven stone steps, dragging my suitcase along behind me. I think the wheels may snap off at any moment, which will make the many days of travel ahead that much more difficult. It’s been quite the production to get here as it is, two trains and six hours later.

It’s worth it, though, I surmise, taking in the sand-colored caves ahead of me. It was a pure fluke that I stumbled upon this place over a year ago—an incorrect Google search that led me to a travel blog for the south of Italy. It was there that I found Sextantio le Grotte della Civita, a series of prehistoric caves that have been transformed into a boutique hotel just outside of Matera, not far from the Adriatic Sea. As soon as I saw the pictures of the candlelit rooms and the honeycombed walls, I knew I had to splurge, even if only for one night.

Still, I’m sweaty and tired and covered in a layer of travel dust. My hair is sticking to my skin. All I want right now is a long soak in my bathtub with the balcony doors kicked wide open.

The patient, smiling receptionist inside the rustic entryway—an almost ethereal woman with crystal-blue eyes and thick, shiny raven hair cascading down her back—checks me into my cave, one of only eighteen, which I reserved a year ago and thankfully didn’t cancel, back when I was with Aaron and willing to give up this life-changing experience.

Finally, I step into my room. I push my battered suitcase to the side and toss my purse on the bed, relishing the temperature change in here as compared to the scorching midday sun outside. It’s as picturesque as the hotel’s website promised, the view of the mountains beyond the balcony even more so.

I sigh, soaking it all in.

Wishing, for the thousandth time, that River were here with me, just as I wished he were there with me to stand in awe of the majestic Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, and to smell the potent lavender fields in Provence, and to experience the countless wonders in between. All that I’ve done since he kissed me goodbye at the Dublin airport almost three weeks ago, I’ve done with every intention of enjoying. And I
have
enjoyed my time.

But River hasn’t left my mind or my heart through all of it.

Each day I wonder if I’ve made the right decision by leaving Ireland. If I will one day regret not choosing him instead.

Maybe it’s because I won’t stop texting him—sending little messages and pictures—and he won’t stop responding, within minutes of me reaching out. Maybe if I just cut him off, our time together could fade away into history. Maybe if I stopped pulling out that piece of paper and reading over the line he added,
he
could have the time and space he needs to realize that it’s not true.

I don’t see a good reason to let us fade, though. I don’t want to give up on this yet.

But is this what my life with River will be like? A series of messages and pictures from thousands of miles away because he can’t step off Irish soil? The thought makes me sick, so I push it away.

It’s just after three o’clock here, which means it’s two in Dublin. They have WiFi in the lobby, so I can touch base with him soon. While I don’t want to lose exploring time, I need to clean myself up.

I’m just drawing water in the bath—a freestanding tub off to one corner—when a knock against the worn wooden door sounds. That must be the complimentary bottle of wine that the receptionist promised was coming.

I yank open the heavy door.

The sight of River standing there, a bag slung over his shoulder, steals my breath.