When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I notice the door marked employees only is open slightly. This is where I should keep walking, but my annoying curiosity won’t let me, because just inside the door, sitting on an antique desk, I see a family photograph. I’ve never been part of one. My mother couldn’t even remember to feed me most of the time, so making arrangements to capture our likenesses would have been beyond her capabilities. While I’ve never understood the motivation to pose for such a picture—because, inevitably, you will hate your hairstyle within a year, but by then it’s nailed to a fucking wall for everyone to gawk at—they’ve always drawn me in.

Paging Willa’s shrink. Yes, the curiosity probably comes from wanting to understand something I’ve never had, but that doesn’t make me any less curious. After casting one final glance at the pub entrance, I nudge the employees-only door open with one finger, as if the less I touch it, the less offensive an intrusion this will be. At first, my attention is captured by the smiling foursome, forever frozen in time, watching me invade their privacy. Faith and Shane, both a few years younger, stand front and center in the photo, smiling. The smile looks forced on Shane’s part, but not Faith. She looks positively elated to be participating in family picture day. Behind them stands a man and woman, the man unsmiling with his chin raised proudly, the woman looking as though she’d just forgotten she left something baking in the oven.

I can’t help but laugh in the dimness, wondering why in God’s name they’d chosen this particular shot to display in a frame. They are either the least photogenic family in Ireland, or they’d been heinously ripped off by their photographer. My gaze lingers on Shane a moment before shiny objects in the corner of the room catch my attention.

Trophies, at least a dozen of them, are stuffed haphazardly inside a giant cardboard box, but I can see gold figures of cars mounted on their tops. Interest piqued, I skirt past the desk and pull one out to inspect the inscription.

Second place: 2013 Formula 1 Malaysian Grand Prix, Shane Claymore. I pull another one out. Third place: 2013 Formula 1 Australian Grand Prix, Shane Claymore.

I can feel my eyebrows inching toward my hairline. Shane is a race-car driver? A successful one, apparently. It’s the last thing I expect, and I’m not often surprised.

“Well, that explains how he got here so freaking fast,” I mutter, then sift through the box to pull out a framed, black-and-white photograph. Shane is dressed in a white racing uniform, ball cap pulled down low over his forehead. He’s sitting on the hood of a race car, all casual grace, a trophy propped on his thigh. Whoever took the picture must have said something funny, because his smile looks spontaneous. Definitely not forced, like in the family photo. I try not to study it too closely, but it’s hard. His interesting lines, the depth lurking in his eyes. He is a photographer’s dream.

Now that I’ve admitted he is good-looking, I resolve never to think about his looks again. I firmly place the picture back in the box and turn to leave, a dozen thoughts skittering around in my noggin.

What is a race car driver doing bartending in a pub?

I have this thought a split second before I hear footsteps coming down the hallway. Shit. I can’t walk out because then someone will know for sure I was snooping. I turn in a circle and ram my hip into the desk. Goddammitouch. That’s going to leave a mark. I cringe when I realize my only option is to wait by the door and hope they pass so I can slip out unnoticed.

I already know this is wishful thinking. My luck is notoriously fucked-up. So when the office door is yanked open and Shane walks in, I’ve got a cover story locked and loaded. Metal box under his arm, he freezes when he sees me, one dark brow quirking with an unspoken question.

“Wait a minute, this isn’t the bathroom,” I say, scrutinizing the employees only sign.

I didn’t say it was a good cover story.

Shane isn’t buying it either. He flips on the light, and I see his attention flick over to the box of trophies, then back to me. I’m waging a hefty battle not to turn around to see if I left one of them at a noticeably different angle.

“Curious as well as stubborn, are you?”

Question answered. Pretense dropped. “All right, you caught me. I was lured in by the world’s worst family photo. I was powerless against its creepy magnetism.”

When he moves into the office, his expression reminds me of a hunter who’s just trapped his dinner. He comes so close, I swear he’s going to kiss me. His face comes within inches of mine, his big body making the barest hint of contact. All the while, he keeps his blue eyes trained on me with intent. It’s a ballsy move. It’s unnerving. Challenging. As if catching me red-handed has given him permission to mess with me. I don’t intimidate him at all. Not the way I intimidated—

Evan’s image pops into my mind and at the last second, I flinch backward.

Shane’s laugh is devoid of humor. “Not curious about everything, then?” He draws a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocks one of the desk drawers where he stows the metal box. After he shuts and locks it, he looks up at me again. “Brace yourself. This might come as a shock, but I’m glad I caught you. We should talk.”

For the second time in as many minutes, I’m surprised. It must be some kind of record. My mind automatically begins calculating what he could possibly want to speak with me about. “Is this about me ditching you and taking a cab from the airport? I’m not going to rat you out to the contest organizers. You’ll get your money.”

“I received it this afternoon, or you’d be looking for a new place to stay.”

“Heartwarming.” Jesus. And I thought I was mean? “I thought Ireland was the land of one thousand welcomes.”

“I’m knocking it down to nine-hundred ninety-nine.”

I tilt my head. “Not quite as catchy.”

He smirks. “I want to talk to you about Faith. Close the door. She’s an accomplished eavesdropper, my sister.”

With a shrug, I kick it closed and cross my arms. “Fire away, un-welcomer.”

“Very well. We’ll make this quick.” He reaches down and adjusts one of the trophies nestled in the box. I watch something flicker behind his eyes, but it vanishes pronto. “Back off my sister. I know she doesn’t make it easy, latching on the way she does, but the last thing she needs is a temporary friend.”