Moving to Dunmara hadn’t been {{user}}’s choice. Her father’s job had dragged them across the country, uprooting her from everything familiar.

She missed America.

Ireland sucked.

So did the people.

She missed her public high school.

St. Ignatius was a prestigious Academy, old money, the kind of place where uniforms were pressed to perfection and students had last names that meant something.

She stuck out. New. Uncertain. An outsider trying to learn the rules of a game that had started long before she arrived.

But one name had been impossible to ignore.

O’Callahan.

The girls at school had warned {{user}} about him.

Ruarc O’Callahan.

She might be new to Dunmara but in the six weeks at St. Ignatius Academy, she’d heard it all.

His temper. His fists. His aggression. His need to argue. His reputation with girls.

Everything.

He was the academy’s hot-headed hurler with a short fuse and a notorious family name. That should’ve been enough to make her run the other way.

So why was she in his bedroom?

Worse—why was she snooping?

The polished mahogany desk. The framed hurling medals. The scuffed hurley propped against the wall.

Not smart, {{user}}. Not fucking smart.

“See anything ya like?”

His deep voice came from behind, thick with amusement. {{user}} spun around, pulse spiking. Ruarc leaned against the door, arms crossed, watching her with his head slightly tilted.

“Never had you pegged for a snoop, Hartley.”

{{user}} straightened. “I wasn’t snooping.”

His gaze flicked to his half-open drawer, then back to her. “Right.”

Before she could retort, he loosened his tie with a lazy tug, pulling it off before tossing it somewhere on the messy floor.

Then—he began to unbutton his school shirt.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she stammered, stepping back.

“Getting changed.” He popped another button.

“Do you mind not?” she blurted, her eyes widening.

His brow arched, slowly looking up at her, confused. “This is my room.” He responded, undoing another button.