“What is . . . hey, are you crying?” Rowen asks with sincere interest, peering down at Ivy, whose face is ducked in her lap, her compact mirror opened.
“No,” she mutters, running her pinky finger along the bottom corner of her eye.
“You are!” Rowen claps his hands. “I don’t believe it. You, I can see it,” he throws a hand my way, “but I’d never have guessed that this one would be a romantic.”
“It was a sad story!” she hisses, turning to glare at him as she throws a soft punch into his stomach.
River’s return, his hands rubbing my shoulders affectionately as he squeezes around my chair to his, distracts me from the interesting spat across from me. “Your mother did not tell you that story when you were seven years old.”
“She did! At least twice a week. You can ask, I begged her.”
What would River and Rowen’s mother be like? I push that curiosity aside—I’d love to meet her—and ask, “So that must make you a true romantic?”
That earns a smirk. “I guess I am.” He pauses. “Is that bad?”
“No, not at all.”
Tugging my chair closer to his, until our thighs press against each other, River quietly plays with my curly locks of hair as the next storyteller takes the stage.
I try to listen, but it’s hard, my mind constantly wandering to a seemingly far-off place. A place where this thing with River isn’t simply a vacation fling, the expiration date looming. A place where he kisses me and begs me to make it work. Where we lie in bed and make plans for future visits; where he sees the Oregon mountains and fields that I’ve grown up with; where he meets the sheriff for the first time; where I meet the Delaney family. Daily Skype and phone calls and texts that turn into talks of one of us moving. Could I actually move to Ireland? I guess I could . . . if we married. What would I do? Work in the bar? What would I need to do to be certified as a nurse here?
By the time Shannon O’Callahan has stepped off the stage to a round of applause—mine hollow because I didn’t hear a word of her story—my imagination, inspired by a wish, has created an entire life for River and me.
“I’ll make sure Ivy gets home safe,” Rowen offers, holding the taxi door open.
With the slightest eye roll at me, she slides into the backseat. “Call me tomorrow night, if you want,” she says through the open window just as they pull away.
“Why wouldn’t your brother want a ride home?” I ask as River guides me toward his car, his arm roped around my waist.
“You want the truth or the gentleman’s response?”
I answer him with a pointed look and he chuckles softly.
“He’s hoping his night with Ivy hasn’t ended yet.”
The very idea makes me laugh. “What . . . him and Ivy? I thought she was going to stab him with her fork earlier tonight, when he started teasing her about getting emotional. Why on earth would he think she’s interested?”
“Well . . .” River holds the passenger-side door open for me to climb in. “I may have led him to believe that with a few things that I said earlier.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “Because you actually thought Ivy might be interested in Rowen?”
His green eyes are sparkling when he slides into the driver’s seat. “Because I highly doubt she is.”
I start giggling. “You realize that she may actually hurt him, right?”
He cranks the engine and entwines his fingers with mine, and we shift the car into first gear together. “I’m kind of hoping she does. Not too much,” he quickly adds, a cute frown puckering his face. “Just a little bit. The bastard deserves it for the pranks he’s played on me.”
River weaves his car through the narrow streets, deftly avoiding bar revelers—really, there doesn’t seem to be a night when the streets aren’t filled with people enjoying Dublin’s bar scene—whirling around the roundabouts, a comfortable silence settling into the car.
“How much of that story is true?”
River opens his mouth, then hesitates for a moment. “If it weren’t for Marion McNally and Charles Beasley, I wouldn’t be sitting here today, that much I do know. Marion and her sisters all went on to marry husbands and bear children. It was the youngest, Sally McNally, whose lineage I can be thankful for. In every single generation, the first-born girl carried Marion McNally’s namesake. Which is why my ma’s name is Marion. And as fate would have it, she married a Seamus.”
“That’s just . . .” Tears well in my eyes. “. . . an incredibly tragic but uplifting story.” I smile to myself. “That’s why you wanted me to see that monument, isn’t it?”
He pulls my hand to his mouth, kissing my fingers, before setting us back onto the gear to shift around a corner. As if telling me that he’s so happy I understand the deeper meaning. Or, at least, that’s what I want it to mean. “Ma never let us up from the dinner table until every last scrap of food was cleaned from our plates. While Da’s side fared slightly better with the pub to support them, her family struggled greatly. The famine and starvation, the way the English government virtually abandoned us during those years . . . all of that is true, and I could tell you a hundred more stories about it. It’s why Ireland was in a constant state of rebellion for a hundred and forty-odd years after. It’s why the Irish Republican Army began in the first place. It’s why we fought—” He cuts himself off, inhales deeply.
Irish Republican Army. “The IRA.”
“Yeah.”
“So, your family was a part of that?”
He glances at me once before refocusing on the road. “They were, up until the mid-seventies. My great-granddad and his brother fought in the Easter Uprising, back when violence seemed to be the only way that England would listen.”
“I read about the uprising yesterday, at the museum. The British won that, didn’t they?”
“They did. But they executed fifteen of the republican leaders and the Irish people hated them for it. That little uprising of two thousand Irishmen started the revolution. It’s why we’re free of England’s rule today.”
I can hear the pride in his voice.
“And then my granddad and his brothers fought in the civil war. He actually knew Éamon de Valera well. The Republic’s third president,” he adds for my benefit.
“And your dad?”
“Him, too . . . for a while.” He clears his throat. “My uncle Thomas—Da’s older brother—was killed in the Northern riots in ’69, when he was eighteen. So, yeah . . . my granddad and dad were right pissed with anything British or Protestant. They fought with the IRA for a time.”
I’m trying to keep an open mind here, even as I listen to River admit that he comes from a long line of men who fought in the name of the IRA. Does that mean that River’s family members are . . . terrorists? I can’t ask him something like that. Besides, he said that was forty years ago. And it’s not River, I remind myself. It’s kind of like Bonnie’s family, who is German. Her great-grandfather was an actual Nazi soldier in the war—a secret that she’s told only me. That’s not her fault, or her parent’s fault. I need to look at this the same way. “You said they stopped fighting? What changed for them?”
“Times changed. Violence—especially the kind that was happening then, with plenty of innocent casualties—wasn’t the answer anymore.”
“Huh. I bet you have a lot of stories.”
“Some.” He sighs, squeezing my hands. “For another night, maybe.”
St. Stephen’s Green stretches out to the left of us. I haven’t gone back there yet. I haven’t felt the need to, though it’s probably something I should do, for a sense of closure. “The papers said that police suspected the IRA behind that. What do you think?” For a country I was so desperate to visit, I really had no clue about its history. My ignorance is embarrassing.
He stares hard out at the road, his jaw clenching. “Maybe. But if it is, it’s nothing my family stands for.”
I don’t press the topic, leaning over to settle a soft kiss on his
cheek instead. “Thank you for tonight. It’s too bad I lost that bucket list of mine. I had this very item on it. Number thirty-two, I think.”
“Huh . . . Imagine that.” I catch his smile in the side mirror as he checks his blind spot and then changes lanes to turn down my street. In another minute, River’s car is sitting next to Simon’s, the quiet house looming before me as the car idles low.
“So?” His hands rest on his lap. He’s making no move to turn off the engine, to step out of the car, to walk me to the door.
To climb into my bed.
“So . . .”
“So, I don’t want to put the same kind of pressure on you that I unintentionally did last night, Amber. And I’m afraid that me coming inside will do just that.” His gaze flickers to my legs before settling on the hedge out front. “We can say good night right here, and I can come meet you after work tomorrow night, and I’ll be perfectly glad to do so. It’s whatever you want.”
I study his profile for a long moment—the way his Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow, as if those words were difficult to say; the way that strong jaw clenches slightly; the way his right hand isn’t really resting on his lap, but gripping it, as if keeping it at bay.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was torn by desire and indecision. Tonight, that same desire is raging, coupled with a newfound mass of emotions, unspoken thoughts, and compelling curiosities. But that indecision? That dissolved as if it had never existed. I don’t believe I’d feel differently about River in three weeks than I do tonight. I’d only feel more.
I don’t have the luxury of weeks or months or years with him. I have only days, and I don’t want to regret how I use them.
“What do you want?” I ask softly.
A weak chuckle escapes him, his head falling back onto the headrest for a moment. “Do you really need to ask?”
Reaching over, I turn the key and the quiet rumble dies.
Heat flashes in his gaze as he turns to look at me, and then we both climb out of the car. Hand-in-hand, we walk toward the cherry-red door, the only sound my beautiful but painful heels clicking against the concrete.
“Thank God we’re home.” I groan, my fingers twisting the deadbolt shut once inside. “These shoes are killing me.” They looked so perfect, sitting next to the dress at the boutique where I bought the outfit.
River steps in close and leans forward, peering down at them. “Those shoes?”
“Yes. They’re pretty, but they—ah!” River suddenly slings me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Gently, of course, one arm gripping my thighs. A breeze against my skin warns me that my dress is likely hiked far above any respectable level, but there’s not much I can do about it at this point. Besides, it really doesn’t matter. I’m sure I’ll be losing it entirely soon enough, a prospect that leaves me with nervous flutters in my stomach. The good kind, this time.
“These are pretty,” he agrees, carrying me up the stairs through my playful shrieks. He needs no directions to my bedroom, where he flicks on the muted bedside lamp. Strong hands somehow gracefully maneuver my body off his shoulder, setting me down on the bed. His fingers skim the length of my legs, from my thighs down to my ankles, hooking around the heels to flick them off. They thump against the hardwood. “But you’re right. Completely impractical.”
His eyes have changed color—from that lush, bright green to a much darker shade. A fact I realize as he stretches out on top of me, forcing me down onto my back. His gentleman’s hesitation in the car earlier is gone, replaced with a confidence that provokes.
“So is this,” I whisper, curling my fingers around his shirt, desperate to admire his muscular body again. He lifts his arms above his head, allowing me easy access to slide the material over his head, tossing it on the floor. Giving my hands access to his chest, his skin hot to the touch.
My heart races.
He simply watches my face as I roam his upper body, propped up on one elbow to allow for it. “What happened here?” I trace a long, thin line over his top rib.
“A scuffle between me, my brother, and a fence.”
Of course. I shake my head. “Who won?”
“Some would say my brother, but I’d say the fence.”
“Rowen?”
His fingers slide gently along the curve of my neck. “Aengus.”
That elusive older brother that he doesn’t like talking about. I continue my wanderings, to a scar on his collarbone. “And here?”
He gives me a sheepish smile. “A scuffle between, me, Aengus, and a hay wagon.” His head dips, warm breath skating across my skin. “The wagon definitely won that one.”
I start laughing—a deep belly laugh that cuts off with a light gasp the second his mouth finds my neck. I lose all interest in my investigation, happily roping my arms around his body.
He tenses, suddenly, as my nail catches a stitch.
“I’m sorry.” I completely forgot. I can’t believe I forgot.
“Doesn’t hurt,” he murmurs, grasping first my one hand, and then the other. Kissing my fingertips one at a time. “But you do have nails, so . . .” He threads his fingers between mine and pins both of my hands above my head. And he stares down at me, his erection pressing hard against my thigh. “I could just lie here like this all night.”
I’m pretty sure that I can’t, not with this intense ache between my legs. “Liar.” I lift my head off the bed to skim my tongue over his lips in answer, teasing him. He groans, forcing my head back into the pillow as his tongue slides into my mouth with a deep, warm kiss and his body shifts to grind against me.
This connection between us is so much more intense than last night, now that I’m sure.
I’m so very sure that I want this, and him.
So sure that I curl my shoulder when his hand slips under my back to unzip my dress. So sure that I help him by tugging it up and over my head as he kneels, watching. So sure that when he slides my panties over my hips and all the way down my legs to my feet, his gaze taking in my body without shame, I reach for his belt buckle, his button, his zipper, slipping my hand into the front of his jeans to grasp him before he’s had a chance to touch me so intimately.
I don’t think I’ve ever taken the lead on that.
River seems to like it, though, helping by peeling the rest of his clothes off, giving me free access. Only he’s not patient. With a gentle but aggressive move, I find myself lying on my back again, with his mouth and reverent hands wandering over every square inch of my body, inside my body, touching me with more skill than I’ve ever experienced before. In fact, every other experience I’ve had pales in comparison to the one I’m sharing now with River.
By the time I hear the tear of a foil wrapper, I feel like I’ve been waiting an eternity.
By the time he pushes into me—such a full, wonderful sensation—I feel like I’ve known him forever.
And by the time our raspy breaths slow, our limbs coiled around each other, our bodies sated and spent, I’m thinking of cancelling plane tickets and spending the next three months exactly like this, with River.
I open my eyes to catch a glimpse of River’s bare and perfect backside a second before it disappears into his boxer briefs. The morning sun shines through the window beyond him. It’s nine thirty and I knew he’d have to leave to get to work. But it leaves a hollow ache in my chest all the same.
I’m addicted to him. I certainly acted like it last night. And this morning. Twice.
The truth is, I’ve never felt even remotely like this about any guy before. That’s kind of scary, seeing as I’ve had three long-term relationships and I had actually convinced myself that Aaron was it for me.
It scares me that he could have been. That I might not have ever known what this feels like.
“I can take those stitches out for you, when they’re ready. If you want,” I offer, my voice scratchy.
He peers over his shoulder at me, flashing a smile more devastating today than it was yesterday. “Better your han
ds than Rowen’s.”
“Did your doctor tell you when they could come out?”
He picks his jeans up off the ground, the curve and ripples of his stomach bringing back flashes to last night. I squeeze my thighs together with the memory. “A week or so.”
“So . . . Wednesday. It’s a date.” That’s two days from now. I hope I see him before then. I’d be quite happy to spend the next six days in this bed with him. I don’t need to see any cliffs or quaint Irish towns while I’m here.
He stretches across the bed, leaning in until his face is only inches away from me, whispering, “That sounds like a very romantic date,” before stealing a deep kiss, his tongue prodding. I give it access. Happily. I didn’t even do that for Aaron, my fear of foul morning breath outweighing desire every time.
I trace the big tattoo—kind of like an eagle but not quite—on his chest with my fingertip. River’s the first guy I’ve been with who’s had any sort of tattoo. I’m not the kind of girl to swoon over them. But now . . . I’m attracted to anything and everything River-related. “Do you really have to go?” I hear myself murmur, my voice pleading and annoying and . . . I don’t care.
Seizing my fingers and kissing them once before letting go, he stands again and pulls his jeans on. “I do. Rowen’s got class on Mondays until one.”
“Right.” Rowen mentioned something about taking summer business classes at one of the universities. I hesitate. “What about you? And college, I mean.”
“Me and college?” He sighs. “I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know what I’d do. Plus, Delaney’s will get passed on to me, to own and run. I have a responsibility to keep it alive.”
I frown. “Really? Just you?” That hardly seems fair to his brothers.
“Tradition says it always goes to the eldest, to keep the feuds to a minimum. My uncle Thomas—the one killed in the riots—was supposed to inherit it, instead of Da. Their other brother—Uncle Samuel—would be helping run it, but he passed on when I was ten. Tumbled down a flight of stairs one night, drunk. That was the end of him.”