Atrocious.
I lifted my head to shout at the man, demand he bring me socks for actual athletes, when a streak of color caught my eye. More precisely, many colors. All the colors of the rainbow.
Lucy.
Heart and lungs seizing, I stumbled a half step back, blinking at the sight of her entering the shop, not trusting my eyes. Yet, there she was. Shopping.
She’d left—ended us—no more than an hour ago. Apparently that’s what one does after breaking someone’s heart. They browse the goods at a pro shop within a gaudy golfing hotel in Kildare.
Obviously.
My original errand completely forgotten, I stalked over to her. Because I had to. It wasn’t a conscious decision and I had no idea what I was going to say or do.
I just . . .
Christ.
I just wanted to see her.
The last month had been torture without her easy smile and teasing laugh. My only reprieve had been the daily text messages.
I sought to hold fast to my anger, yet I couldn’t manage it. Raw, swelling sorrow choked me as I halted my approach and studied her profile.
Fuck.
I hated this.
She’d been crying. Her eyes were puffy, her lips swollen and abused, the tip of her nose red. The rest of her typically glowing skin was white and drawn. Observing her misery didn’t help. Rather, it fueled a sudden desperation to ease her discomfort. Unthinkingly, I began closing the remainder of the distance between us, intent on taking some action.
But then she did something rather unexpected and it brought me to a full stop. She picked up a three-pack of expensive golf balls and slipped them into her handbag. Afterward, she stood frozen for several seconds. She then proceeded to pick up four more three-packs—the obnoxious neon yellow kind—and placed those in her bag as well.
Then she darted for the exit.
I gaped at her, unable to fathom what I’d just witnessed.
Unless she’d developed an insatiable penchant for expensive golf balls in the last forty-five minutes, Lucy was shoplifting to soothe acute emotional distress. I’d only witnessed her habit once—months ago now—and I’d brushed it off as a harmless, meaningless diversion.
Two hundred euros in golf balls was not a diversion. It was a compulsion.
She’d nearly made it to the perimeter of the shop when I shook myself from the grip of stupor and charged after her, not wanting to lose her in the lobby of the hotel. But then my stomach dropped, because the shop alarm gave a loud whoop whoop. A previously unseen detector flashed red and white, alerting all within that someone was trying to escape with fancy golf balls.
I quickly glanced around, horrified to see the man I’d interrogated about socks just minutes prior jogging toward a paralyzed Lucy, his expression thunderous.
“You there! Empty your bag.”
She mouthed the words, Oh shite. Her eyes closed as a scarlet flush of mortification spread up her neck and cheeks. He reached Lucy before I did and yanked her bag away, the same bag I’d mocked at the restaurant after I’d spotted her shoplifting the first time. He then unceremoniously turned it upside down and shook it.
Rescue her, an impulsive voice insisted in the recesses of my mind. Rescue her as she’d rescued you.
Possessions rained from her purse, clattering on the shop’s marble slab floor. Four containers of golf balls fell along with her phone, purse, and other sundry items.
When her phone collided with the marble, an unmistakable cracking sound of the screen shattering reverberated like a gunshot between my ears. It was the final straw that spurred me into action.
“You’ve broken her phone,” I said, charging forward, drawing both Lucy’s and the store clerk’s attention to me. I felt her eyes like a physical touch. I didn’t need to see her face to know I’d shocked the hell out of her.
He backed up a step at my approach, lifting his chin to meet my glare, and responding with haughty impatience, “Sorry for the inconvenience, sir. But I’ve just caught a thief.” He gestured to Lucy, either misunderstanding or mishearing my complaint.
“No you haven’t,” I insisted, stepping in front of her protectively and crossing my arms.
Delay, my mind insisted. Bluff. Threaten. Improvise. Fix this.
The man’s mouth opened and closed, working to sort through my words.
“Do you know who she is?” I gained another step forward, towering over him and glaring menacingly.
“Sean,” her soft voice pleaded. “Don’t.”
The man’s eyes narrowed and he set his jaw. “I don’t care if she’s the Queen’s sister, she’s a thief and I’m calling the police.”
“You’ll lose your job,” I threatened, pleased to see his eyes widen with a moment of hesitation. “She’s Ronan Fitzpatrick’s sister, captain of the Irish rugby squad.”