the house went quiet, she slowly opened her eyes and looked around. A fire flickered on the hearth and the acrid smell of peat teased at her nose. She glanced under the quilt. Though she was certain she hadn’t undressed herself, she couldn’t remember who had.
Her mind wandered back to the previous night. Though she’d done her share of stupid things, especially when it came to her relationships with men, this might just top the list. A late-night phone call, an argument with her ex-fiancé and too much to drink had ended with her tossing a nine carat diamond ring into the sea before passing out on the beach. It seemed as if all her problems had become too heavy to bear. Not just the breakup, but the everything that had come before it—the fights, the paparazzi, the Italian police and the “incident.”
That’s what she’d taken to calling it. That’s what her Italian attorney called it. And that made it sound so benign. But punching a photographer was a serious offense, even if she’d done it while under the influence of another very expensive bottle of champagne and the misunderstanding that the photographer was trying to grope her.
And so she’d run away to Winterhill, to lick her wounds and await her hearing scheduled for late January. Her grandmother’s country house in Ireland was a place she’d remembered so fondly from her childhood. The windswept cliffs and brilliant green meadows had been her playground every summer, creating fantasies for a girl used to a solitary existence. She’d come back to find the center in her life again, to hide from everything that confused and frightened her. Though she’d lived all over the world, Ireland had always felt the most like home.
She drew a deep breath and winced, her head throbbing and her mouth dry as dust. Was this what all her therapists had talked about? Everyone had been predicting it. Had Gigi Woodson, tabloid princess and celebrity heiress, finally hit rock bottom?
Her father, Ellery Woodson, was a diplomat for the British government, and her mother, an American socialite. She was their only child and after the first eight years of her life, a pawn in their very nasty divorce. Bad behavior had come easily. It had been the only way to get her parents’ attention.
At age twelve, she’d been kicked out of her first boarding school. By seventeen, she’d been kicked out of more schools than she could remember. She had a brief spell of normalcy during her university years in Paris, when she worked on an art history degree and lived with a handsome French banker. But then her grandmother died, leaving her Winterhill and a large trust fund. At age twenty-one, the naughty Gelsey returned with a vengeance—and with a seemingly bottomless bank account.
She’d transformed herself from Gelsey Evangeline Woodson, well-educated daughter of a diplomat, to Gigi Woodson, party girl without a care in the world. For the first five years, it had been fun, like playing make-believe only with posh parties and exciting new friends. Even her mother had approved.
But in the past few years, her life had started to spiral out of control and she began to suspect that she really did care. That all the pretending didn’t make the loneliness and the insecurities go away. Maybe she hadn’t had the best family life and maybe her parents hadn’t really wanted her around. But she’d come to realize that the life she was living would never make her happy and the friends she had weren’t true friends at all.
Gelsey drew a ragged breath. So, perhaps this could be a fresh start. Today, this morning. Or afternoon. When she opened her eyes again, she could forget the past and start all over again. She could use what was left of her trust fund and build a simple life for herself, away from the glare of the spotlight and the flash of the paparazzi’s cameras.
Her thoughts dissolved and she fell back into a shallow sleep, content for the first time in a long time. Everything would be all right. She’d be safe here, in this tiny cottage. No one knew her in Ireland beyond the housekeeper at Winterhill. No one would care if she stayed away for a day or even a week.
She wasn’t sure how long she slept, but the touch of a hand on her face brought her back from a dreamless state of exhaustion. She opened her eyes and found him sitting on the floor near the end of the sofa and staring at her intently.
“You’re awake,” he murmured.
“Yes,” she said, her voice croaking. Gelsey cleared her throat.
“Would you like something warm to drink?” he asked. “I have coffee or tea. Or soup. Or maybe a bit of whiskey?”
Her stomach growled at the mention of food. “Yes, soup would be nice.” As for the whiskey, she’d decided to take a new direction in her life. It was time to stop drinking … at least to excess.
“Soup,” she said.
“I’ll be right back,” he murmured.
Gelsey clasped the quilt to her chest as she pulled herself up to a sitting position. To her surprise, she didn’t feel nearly as bad as she’d expected. Just a little bit weak and a tiny bit embarrassed. But she was here, being waited on by a devastatingly handsome man who was making her soup. The first day of her new life was beginning quite well.
As promised, he returned in a few moments with a huge mug and spoon. He sat down beside her and handed her the soup. “It’s beef and barley,” he said. “It’s from the pub down in the village. My ma makes it.”
Gelsey took a spoonful. The hearty warmth made her smile. “It’s delicious.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“How is it you came to be on the beach?”
Gelsey opened her mouth to reply, then snapped it shut. She didn’t want to explain it all, especially to this man. She didn’t want him to think badly of her, to make assumptions and to write her off as some stupid girl without any limits.
“I—I don’t know,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
Gelsey shrugged. “I don’t remember.” She took another spoonful of the soup, waiting for him to question her. But he just continued to watch her suspiciously. “I’m not sure.”
“Are you saying you have amnesia?”
Gelsey frowned. It sounded like a reasonable diagnosis and it happened all the time in the movies. If she didn’t know who she was, then she wouldn’t know where she came from. And she could stay here with this man. “I don’t know. I just don’t remember.” She took another spoonful of soup and handed it to him. “I’ve had enough, thank you.”
“You’ve barely eaten at all,” he said.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Kellan. Kellan Quinn.”
A memory flashed in her mind, so clear it might have happened just yesterday. The boy that had chased her from the beach so many years before. His name had been Kellan. She’d heard his brothers yell it across the meadow and she’d committed it to memory. This was the same boy, all grown up.
She smiled to herself. How many times had she woven long and complicated fantasies around that boy? For at least a month after, she’d thought about returning to the beach to find him. But the summer had ended and she’d been sent back to school, leaving thoughts of him far behind.
“Kellan,” she repeated. “I like
