She giggles. “Three boys? So, you have another brother?”
“Yeah. Aengus.” I can hear the lack of enthusiasm in my own voice.
“Does he work here too?”
“He doesn’t.”
I don’t know if she can sense my hesitation in talking about the guy who almost blew her up, but she switches topics, to my relief. “Do you all still live at home?”
“No. My brothers and I own a house, here in Dublin. I moved there when I was eighteen. I love my parents, but . . .” I shake my head, chuckling. “I needed some peace. You?”
“Still at home. It’s not too bad. We live in the mountains, near a small town. It’s nice, quiet. Just my family and the horses on a lot of land.” She tears apart packaging behind me. “Hold still. This butterfly bandage should keep it together nicely.”
I wince as she pulls the skin together again. “Have you been out of Dublin at all yet?”
“No. I was booked for a day tour to Wicklow Mountains, the day of the bomb. So . . . that obviously didn’t happen.”
I peer over my shoulder at her face again, because I can’t help myself. “You’re here for another week, only? That’s what your friend said?”
Her chest rises with a deep inhale, and her cheeks burn, her eyes flickering back and forth between my back and my face. She’s likely replaying the rest of Ivy’s words too. “Yeah.”
Silence fills the tiny office. I don’t have any interest in going back out to that loud, boisterous bar right now.
Another week.
Enough time for a torrid affair with a foreigner?
“What are you smiling about?” she asks, wariness in her gaze.
I clear my throat. “Nothing.”
“Fine.” She shoots me an exasperated look. “How about I clean these other ones.” She peels the bandages back so gently that I barely feel it. “You should probably give them some air.”
I watch her face, the lip she bites and then, as if realizing, releases. “How do they look?” I haven’t even seen the wounds yet, though I imagine they can’t be pretty. They’ve been itching, which is a good thing. Eamon warned me to keep an eye out for signs of infection. Maybe I should have been doing that.
Water trickles down my back as she cleans the areas. “They look like they must have hurt.” Cool air dances over my skin, her breathing shallow and quick.
“It’s nothing.”
“Shrapnel wounds aren’t nothing, River.” Tentative fingers drag over my forearm, as if testing my response to the affection. “You have those because of me,” she says so softly that I barely hear her, before fingers find their way up my arm to my jaw, to rub against the stubble on my cheek.
Dissolving whatever self-control I promised myself I’d have. I hook my finger around the belt loop of her shorts and tug her closer, until she’s in front of me. Her eyes dip down over my chest, slowing on the tattoo over the left side—a black-and-red phoenix. I got it when I was eighteen, the same day Aengus got his.
If she knows what it stands for, she doesn’t let on, her attention shifting to the finger I’ve curled under the top of her one sleeve, slipping the material down over her shoulder, until the spots of purple and green bruising appears. “This looks like it hurts, too.”
“It’s not so . . .” Her words falter as I lean in to kiss the ball of her slender shoulder, her skin carrying a hint of coconut. “ . . . bad.”
I shift my body closer to her, waiting for her to ask me to stop.
Instead, her mouth finds mine in a swoop, landing without any hesitation, and it’s pretty obvious that I’m not the only one who’s been thinking about this all night. Her lips are surprisingly fervent and her hands brave for a girl so seemingly nervous around me. Maybe it’s only the Jameson, which I can taste with each swipe of her tongue, but I don’t mind her fingers skimming over my neck, my shoulders, my chest . . . as if memorizing me. Torturing me.
The throb from my ripped stitches vanishes as another one forms in my groin. I pull her trim body in to fit between my thighs, while I gently coax her mouth closer with my fingers curled around the back of her neck. A slight moan from her lips promises me that she doesn’t mind. The problem is I’ve never been shy or patient, and that little sound spurs me on. My hands find their way down to grip the backs of those thighs with a tight squeeze before sliding up under her shorts, getting palmfuls of that smooth, rock-hard arse I’ve been admiring.
She bumps against the corner of the desk as she tries to get closer, her arms wrapping around my head, enclosing our faces in our own little cocoon of hot breath. Not saying a word to slow me down.
“All good in—” Rowen barges in, his words cut off mid-sentence.
Amber breaks free, smoothing her hair back in place, her lips red and puffy, her breathing ragged.
His eyes dart between the two of us. “So you found the shirts?”
I spear him with a glare that promises retribution later.
“I should get back to Ivy.” Amber steps back, creating some distance between us. “I promised I wouldn’t ditch her tonight.”
Her eyes skitter over my bare chest once more before ducking past Rowen. Mine trail her all the way to the door. “Hey, you said you had horses. Do you ride?”
Her curls bounce as she half-turns, her chin resting on her shoulder. “Two-time State Championship winner. Yeah, why?”
I smile. “No reason.”
As soon as she’s gone, I punch Rowen in the stomach.
FOURTEEN
AMBER
It’s taken twenty-five years, a trip to Ireland, and six shots of whiskey to be able to say I’m ready to have a one-night stand with a man. If Rowen hadn’t interrupted us back there, I’d likely be in the middle of that one-night stand right now.
And that’s why I grab Ivy’s arm and tell her we need to leave the second I emerge from the back, my hands trembling. I never would have let a guy I don’t know slide his hands up my shorts within two minutes of our first kiss, and yet with River, it almost didn’t seem fast enough.
I don’t seem to have much control around him, and I like having control.
River and his brother push through the door almost immediately after, River fully dressed again in a properly fitted man’s shirt, smoothing his hair back, his lips slightly swollen. Like I assume mine are too.
Ivy doesn’t argue, hopping off her stool, tucking her credit card back into her purse, the little plastic holder with the bill in her hand. She slings her heavy black studded purse over her shoulder. “I figured you weren’t coming back, so I asked that guy for the check.”
“I told you I wouldn’t ditch you!”
She shrugs. “I also figured you were lying.”
I roll my eyes. “How much was it? I owe you half.”
“Don’t bother. You can get the bill next time. Right?”
The comment speaks volumes. She had fun tonight. She wants to hang out with me again. I smile. “Definitely. Just maybe less whiskey.” I’m going to blame the whiskey for everything. Turning, I find River’s green eyes glowing with a mixture of curiosity and disappointment, the memory of his mouth on mine and his hands on me still very clear and real and now making me blush. “You’re leaving already?”
How do I explain this? That I’m just not that kind of girl, as much as I wish I could be tonight? And guys like River . . . they won’t waste their time on a girl who’s only here for a week and won’t put out. So, we may as well avoid the awkward conversation altogether.
“It’s my fault. I have a client tomorrow morning and if I don’t get home now, her dragon is going to look more like a lizard,” Ivy jumps in, saving me from having to make up a lie. She sets the receipt down on the counter in front of River. “Tonight was enlightening, bartender . . .” She waves a loose hand his way, dramatically, the only sign that she’s been pounding back whiskey for the past couple hours. “Come by when you want that ink.”
I’m not sure if River buys the story, but his focus shifts to
the paid bill, then at Rowen. “What the bloody hell is this?”
His brother throws his hands up in the air. “She demanded the check. So I gave her the check!”
Shaking his head, I hear a mutter of “Just wait a minute . . .” as he punches a series of keys into the credit card machine. A paper churns out and he staples it to the other copy. Stepping out from behind the bar, he hands it back to Ivy. “Consider the whiskey payment for medical services rendered.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” She throws a sly glance my way.
He chuckles and then calls out, “Be back in twenty.”
His brother rolls his eyes, as if he doesn’t believe him, but River looks like he couldn’t care less. His arm finds its way around my lower back as he fishes his keys out of his pocket. And I realize what’s going on.
“We can just take a cab,” I argue. “It’s not far.”
“And let some bastard take two drunk girls in his backseat for a ride that’ll cost them double? Is that a good idea, Rowen?”
“It’s a terrible idea, River. Those taxi drivers mustn’t be trusted.” The excessive frown mocks my protest. I’m no idiot. I know exactly what’s going on here.
“See?” River pinches my side softly. “Relax. You’re safe with me.”
Somehow I know that there’s no point arguing with him.
And if I’m being honest, a part of me doesn’t want to anyway.
“Whose house did you say this was?” River’s eyes roam over the rooms much the same way mine did when I first stepped inside Simon’s place.
“He’s a friend’s brother.” It’s the simplest explanation and, now that the whiskey is going head-to-head with my nerves, the most manageable.
“And where is he right now?”
“Africa, I think. He’s a doctor.” I trail River through the living room and into the kitchen, rambling, “It’s nice, being in a home for a while, after jumping from hotel to hotel across Canada. Have you ever been?”
“I haven’t. I hear that’s a big country.” He pushes a few buttons on the espresso coffeemaker before wandering past it to open the fridge. He pulls out a bag of green seedless grapes. “Healthy.”
I smile. “I try. Especially since I’m traveling.”
His gaze rakes over my body before he smiles and nods to himself.
“Are you hungry?”
He chuckles. “No.” Throwing the grapes back in, he pushes the door shut. “Show me the rest of the place.”
I take a deep breath, leading him upstairs, convincing myself that maybe this is completely innocent, that he’s just curious about where I’m staying. That he appreciates good design.
Stupid Amber.
I never even invited him in. He just climbed out of the car, then trailed me past the gate and up the walkway. I figured he was walking me to the door. When his arm snaked around my waist and he stood there, waiting for me to turn the key, I knew that wasn’t the case at all.
His impressed whistle echoes off the tiles in the bathroom of my en suite, and I silently thank God that I had the good sense to pick my panties up off the floor in there earlier. “It’s nice, Amber. I’ll give you that.” When he reenters the master bedroom and sees me standing in the window, he stops dead. “Why are you so nervous around me?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But right now you’re in my bedroom. That may have something to do with it.”
He walks toward me, his steps casual and slow, his hair slightly tousled, his eyes heated. “I am.” His thumb grazes my bottom lip. “It’s a little nicer than the pub office, wouldn’t you agree?”
I open my mouth just slightly, allowing him a sliver of access. He takes it, his skin scraping against my bottom teeth. “I don’t know. That office had a certain charm.” My wavering voice makes my playful banter sound awkward.
He frowns, but he’s smiling, moving his hands to grip either side of my hips. “Is it that calendar with the birds in bikinis that does it?”
I start to giggle, partly because I can’t wrap my head around this term birds that it seems everyone in Ireland uses instead of girl or woman. He takes that opportunity to lean in farther, to lay a kiss along my jawline. “Or maybe Rowen’s smelly runners dangling by the string beside the calendar.”
“I did notice that,” I admit. That office was the size of a walk-in closet, windowless and dimly lit, papers strewn all over the place as if two twenty-something-year-old brothers run the place.
In that office, I was the one who initiated the kiss. But here, in my house, in my bedroom, it’s completely River, capturing my mouth with his, his strong hands beginning to confidently wander over my body, as if we’ve already become accustomed to each other, as if no part is off-limits, quickly finding the space between my panties and the inside of my shorts. He seems to really like that part of me, toned from years of horseback riding.
Before I know it, we’ve picked up exactly where we left off not long ago, in the place that made me temporarily lose control. Except now there isn’t a busy bar behind us, or the possibility of a poorly timed interruption from his brother to stop us.
Instead, there’s a neatly made bed with crisp white sheets and a plush blanket. It may as well have a red carpet to go along with it, because I know that if this continues, I’m going to forget who I am very soon.
And I’m not this girl.
Suddenly I’m more nervous than I should be. More nervous than I’ve ever been with a guy. A hundred times more nervous than the night I lost my virginity. That night wasn’t even about nerves, really. Neil and I were at Tory Masters’s seventeenth birthday party—an epic outdoor bash in the summer, the field behind her house scattered with tents and illuminated by a blazing bonfire. Neil and I had been dating about eight months by then, the progress to that final intimate step slow and steady. Slow enough that I was more than ready. I’d had enough time to consider my feelings, my motivations, and what the “after” might mean. I was confident that I’d spent enough time weighing everything out and that it wasn’t a rash decision. Neil and I knew each other well enough that I didn’t worry about being “good” at it. Neil wouldn’t be comparing me to anyone else because it was new to him, too.
Then there was Brody, and the progress in the physical part of our relationship was reached in stages as well, though faster. Aaron and I had sex a month after that first impromptu cafeteria lunch date, after four dates and at least a dozen meals at work.
I’ve slept with three guys in my life and all of them were planned-out occurrences, decisions I made when I was sure that I would have no regrets. Spontaneity and I have never been fast friends, especially when it comes to big decisions like intimacy.
And yet, here I am, standing in a bedroom with a guy I met mere days ago, shared our first coherent words with a little more than twenty-four hours ago, and just kissed for the first time less than an hour ago. Whose hands are now dangerously close to finding out exactly how attracted I am to him.
“It’s too fast. I can’t do this,” escapes me between kisses.
Just like that, as if he were waiting for the words, River breaks free, his hands leaving my skin cold as they slide up to settle on either side of my waist, an intimate but respectable touch. Giving me a light squeeze as his breath skates over my face through a tight smile.
And then his hands drop abruptly and he’s moving past the door and down the stairs. “I need to get back to work. Rowen’s had a long day. I shouldn’t make him deal with closing alone.”
“Oh, okay,” I hear myself mumble, trying to process exactly what just happened. Thirty seconds ago, his brother and the pub seemed to be the farthest thing from his mind.
It’s not that I don’t want him. That’s far from the case. My body is still wire-tight and humming from his touch. But does he understand that?
I reach the landing in a haze as he’s tugging his shoes on, moving pretty quickly to get out. “So, how often do you get locked on Jameson?”
>
The unexpected question throws me off. “Uh . . . what does that even mean? Get ‘locked’? You said that earlier.”
He smiles, one hand on the doorknob. “It means get drunk.”
“Oh . . .” Weird Irish slang. I can’t wait to use that on my dad. “Never.” I usually drink wine. Beer, on occasion. “And I’m not really drunk anymore.”
“Either way, make sure you drink lots of water.”
“River, it’s not that I don’t want to . . .” I convey with my eyes what I can’t seem to do with words. I didn’t ask him to drive me home. I didn’t invite him in. I didn’t lead him into my bedroom. If anything, I should be annoyed with him for running so abruptly. And yet all I’m worried about right now is if I’m going to see him again.
“I know,” he says with a cute, crooked smile. “You’re just not like that.” He hesitates and then leans in to place a chaste peck on my cheek. I don’t let him off with just that, though, my hand capturing the rough edge of his jaw to pull his mouth into mine. Afraid this may be the last chance I get. He complies, deepening it for three . . . four . . . five seconds before pulling back, my ears catching his hard swallow. “No more kissing tonight. That lip looks angry. And drink your water. Please.” He turns to leave and my stomach clenches, the familiar sight of his back, the fear that this is goodbye, unpleasant and unwanted. “Hey, I keep meaning to ask you . . . did you by any chance take a piece of paper from my wallet the other day?”
“A piece of paper?” He pauses, a deep frown touching his brow. “No, I don’t think so.”
He’s a good liar. I know for a fact that he did. “Are you sure?”
He smooths my hair back off my forehead, studying my entire face. “Why? Was it important?”
I play along. “No, not really. Just a list of things to do while I’m traveling.”
“Things to do . . . huh.” His expression reveals nothing.