I pull up to the O’Connell house and spot Mick out front, leaning against the fence with a cigarette between his fingers. He looks up when I get out of the car, noticing the flowers in my hand. He smirks. “Look at you,” he drawls.

I give him a flat look.

“Docks at noon?” he confirms, flicking the cigarette away.

I nod as the front door opens and Seamus O’Connell steps out. His eyes go to the flowers first. “You’re early,” he says, approval clear in his voice as he holds out his hand for me to shake. Then his focus shifts to his son. “Don’t you have somewhere you’re meant to be?”

Mick rolls his eyes but mutters, “Yes, sir,” before pushing off the fence and heading down the walk to where his car’s parked.