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A low, rumbly sound emanated from Tristan, and I realised he’d turned to look at Zach again; though this time, it seemed like he might stride across the room and hit him. I placed my hand on his forearm, now bare since he’d rolled his shirt sleeves up while he’d been sitting at the big table. I’d surreptitiously watched him do it, strangely rapt by the simple act of my boss rolling up his shirt sleeves while Samara had been busy waxing lyrical about her new boyfriend.

A zap of awareness went through me, and Tristan seemed to feel it too because he was no longer glaring at Zach. Instead, his eyes came to mine, soft and concerned. “Why did you consent if you didn’t like it?” He was close enough that his low voice reached my ears in the loud pub.

A lump formed in my throat, an old pain resurfacing. It took me years and a lot of therapy to finally listen to my own needs, and it just made me sad for the young woman I was. The woman who was so desperate for safety she convinced herself it existed in a place it never had.

“I was young,” I answered simply, and Tristan’s handsome brown eyes looked so sad for me in that moment. He placed his hand over mine, his eyes never leaving me as he appeared to struggle with a thought I couldn’t decipher.

“Hey, don’t be sad. It’s over. Things are better for me now.”

“I just hate that you felt you had to …” He trailed off, swallowing thickly, his jaw doing that fascinating flickering thing again as he took me in so completely I struggled to breathe for a moment, my heart beating a mile a minute. There was a flash of something in his gaze, something that looked an awful lot like recognition before he asked, “Have you ever lived in Dublin?”

My racing heart stuttered to a stop for half a second.

“I—"

“Hey, you two,” a voice interrupted, and I’d never been more relieved to see my friend. Honestly, I could’ve kissed her.

“Samara, your drink,” I said, handing over the glass. “I’m so sorry it took so long.”

“No worries,” she replied, knocking back almost half its contents in one go before she continued, “It turns out that Barry has a bad case of eczema, so we’re taking him to see the Cure. Want to tag along?”

Tristan looked at Samara, then at me, then back to Samara, an expression of utter confusion on his face when he said, “The Cure?”

12.

Erin

Tristan looked even more puzzled than he’d been when I’d revealed my ex was into domination and sadomasochism. His confusion was a welcome dose of humour after the intense moment we just shared. Had he finally remembered me? He had way too good of a poker face, and it was impossible to tell, especially since all his attention was now on Samara.

“You’ve never heard of the Cure?” Lisa asked as she joined us, a merry gleam in her eyes.

“Can’t say that I have.” Tristan looked to me for assistance, and my skin tingled from just having his eyes on me since I had no clue what he may or may not have figured out.

“He’s a legend around these parts,” Lisa explained. “The seventh son of the seventh son. They’re born healers with an innate ability to cure small ailments like skin conditions or thrush. Oral only, of course.”

Tristan smirked. “Of course.”

“A cousin of mine was even cured of ringworm. We were all talking just now, and it turns out Barry’s been suffering with eczema for the last few months, so we thought we’d take him to see the Cure and get it all sorted out for him.”

“Not a dermatologist, then,” Tristan deadpanned, and I gave him a little elbow.

“Don’t be so cynical,” I said, trying not to fixate on the strange new intimacy between us. Something shifted during that conversation. It had brought us closer, created an unexpected bond, and my damn skin would not quit tingling every time he glanced my way.

“Ah, we have a non-believer on our hands,” Lisa declared. “You’ll eat your words, Mr Balfe, just wait and see. Come on, the house is only down the street. A few of us are walking over there now.”

She left, and Samara followed after her.

“What alternative reality have I just stepped into?” Tristan teased.

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

He shot me a wide-eyed glance. “Don’t tell me you believe in all this?”

“I’ve seen it work firsthand. Aunt Nessa had terrible dermatitis for months until she went to see the Cure. A few days later, it completely cleared up.”

“And it couldn’t have been a coincidence? Maybe it was about to clear up on its own. Also, do they go by the Cure in all aspects of their lives? Have they no actual name?”

“He does have a name. It’s Jarlath Maguire. The Cure is his professional moniker.”