Wild Irish: His Wild Bride (Kindle Worlds Novella) (MacKay Destiny Book 11)

by LJ Garland

How did my life spin so far out of control? Sophie sighed as Dawson pulled into his driveway. Though Pat’s Irish Pub had shut down for the night because of the gun scare, they’d stayed long after. With all the patrons filming what happened and calling 911, it was no surprise with Baltimore PD arrived. Followed by SWAT and the FBI. Pat and Tristan assured them all it was a misunderstanding and there’d been no gun. But then the FBI started questioning bystanders. It hadn’t taken long for them to find her.

  When they asked her what happened, she’d told them. Well, most of it. She had seen a red laser sight dot on Dawson’s forehead. To her, that had meant someone had a gun. But it had actually been a laser pointer—a prank probably by some college student. She apologized for wasting their time.

  When they’d questioned Hugh, she’d hung by close enough to hear the conversation. He’d said he didn’t see much. When they’d asked about his nose, he said he tripped and hit a chair.

  Afterward, she’d taken pictures of the damage—which hadn’t been nearly as much as she’d anticipated—and she’d apologized repeatedly to Pat. He and his son, Tristan, had been so nice, assuring her it would all be fine and none of it had been her fault, that’s she’d been a victim, too.

  But the thing that surprised and impressed her most was how they’d treated her. Growing up, with it being just her and her mom, she’d never had the “big family” experience. The Collins clan took her in as though she were one of their own, asking repeatedly if she was okay and if there was anything she needed. Even Pat’s granddaughter, Ailis, who’d been waitressing, had hugged her.

  She’d also called Jackson. When she told him what had happened and that Hugh was her “stalker,” he’d exploded, ranting for a good three minutes. “After you called me about what happened at the bridal shop, Hugh called and said you were going to meet up but you never showed. He sounded so worried. Later that night, he calls again. Checking on you, seeing how things are. He brought up the stalker, said it was a unique opportunity. ‘How many chances do we get to do a story from this angle?’ he says, and ‘Who could write it?’ and ‘Do you think this would be a story that would even fit at Deep Insights?’” He cleared his throat—a nervous habit she’d noticed over the years. “Smooth talker that he is, by the end of the call, he had me pitching the idea for you to write the stalker story. Bastard told me how brilliant I was. But I swear to God, I had no clue he was behind all this. And what really pisses me off is I was going to pay the asshat a percentage of the advertising fees for the number of page hits the story got.” He’d growled, let loose a couple more strings of colorful verbiage then huffed. “I’m sorry, Sophie. Truly. Can you ever forgive me for being such an idiot?”

  And of course she had. Every word he said had been true to the Jackson Jacobi, owner/manager of Deep Insights tell-all net news site, that she’d know from her first day on the job. It seemed she hadn’t been the only one manipulated by Hugh Cavanaugh.

  Dawson shut off the sedan’s engine.

  Home at last.

  Wait a sec there, Soph. You need to stop thinking that way right now. You have a perfectly good apartment, so there’s no need to mooch off Dawson anymore. Go home.

  Her door opened, drawing her attention. “Hey. You all right?”

  When did he get out? She lifted her head, staring up at his handsome face lit by the car’s interior lights. She nodded. He helped her out of the rental then walked her to the front door, the porchlight chasing off the shadows.

  Just before she stepped up onto the stoop, she stopped.

  A single red rose lay on the doormat.

  “Hugh.” She gritted her teeth. Does he think another rose will fix what he did?

  “Son of a bitch,” Dawson growled. He bent and snatched the rose. “This guy doesn’t know when to quit.” With a quick jab of his key into the lock, he opened the door.

  She entered first, the warm glow of lights in the living room welcoming her. God she was tired, her heart battered more than a little. Dawson locked the door behind them then headed toward the kitchen, mumbling something about getting rid of the flower. When he returned, he strode straight to her and gathered her into his arms. Wanting to be even closer, she pressed her cheek against his chest and snuggled into him, the rhythmic thump-thump of his heart reassuring.

  Warm. Strong. Safe.

  She never wanted to leave.

  “Do you want to talk?” His voice rumbled against her cheek.

  No. Yes. So many emotions clattered around inside her, she couldn’t sort one from another. So, she reduced everything to a shrug.

  Releasing her, he bent and scooped her into his arms. No grunts, no groans, he lifted her as though she weighed nothing. In a few long strides, he sat on the couch and, after positioning her on his lap, laid her head on his shoulder. He kissed her forehead then combed his fingers through her hair.

  “Sucks your co-worker did this. It was a shitty move.”

  His unexpected directness caught her off-guard, and a smile pushed to her lips. “Well, just say what you think there, Dawson.”

  “It’s the truth,” he defended. “He’s one messed up dude.”

  “Yeah. He has some serious problems. You should’ve seen that video he sent.” She shuddered. “Seriously creepy. How do you think he got a picture of himself with that laser sight on his forehead?”

  “Probably Photoshopped it.” He tightened his hold on her. “What weirds me out are the other pictures of you that you said were in the video. He followed you in order to get them. In that sense, he really was stalking you.”

  “I’m sorry you got dragged into it.”

  “I’m not.”

  She sat up. “You’re not?”

  “No. It led you to me.” His bright blues stared at her, steady, deep.

  Man. Her heart stuttered. How can someone so sexy be so romantic?

  “Don’t get me wrong, I still want to beat the crap out of him. Which brings up the question of how you learned to hit like that.”

  She air-quoted, “MMA. Are You a Lover, Fighter, or Both?” then grinned. “I did a story on Baltimore gyms that support mixed martial arts, the people who run the places, and the people who go there. I took some classes, got a few tips.”

  He lifted her hand and gently kissed her bruised knuckles. “Do you need some ice?”

  She flexed her fingers. A little swollen. A couple of light scrapes. But no real damage. “No lie, hitting Hugh hurt like hell. And though probably justified—”

  “No. It was justified. Asshole got off light, and he knows it. He should be sitting in jail right now.”

  “Well, I’m still not proud of losing it like that. I’ve always believed the proverb ‘the pen is mightier than the sword.’ But I have to admit, after the hell he put me through, the sword was cathartic.” She flexed her fingers again. “I think I’ll pass on the ice for now.”

  He grinned, prouder than hell of her. “You know what else would be cathartic?”

  Reaching up, she set her palm against his jaw, the warmth of her touch seeping into him. “Hmm, this?” Tilting her head, she brushed her delicious lips over his.

  And just like that, he wanted her more than his next breath. He set his forehead against hers, working hard to keep his brain functioning. “Go put on the wedding dress.”

  “Wh-at?” The word came out half-gasp, half-laugh.

  She straightened, her frown creating a little vee between her brows. Oh, how he wanted to reach up and smooth it away with his thumb, his lips, his tongue. He needed to touch her, to love her, to possess her so fully and so completely she would stay with him forever. Was that possible? Could she ever feel the way he did about her—could she ever need him more than her next breath? He had no idea. Hell, it’d only been a few days. But apparently, for him that was enough. He knew what he wanted.

  Tonight? He wanted to hear his name on her lips as she flew apart in his arms.

  But first, and more importantly, he wanted to help free her. From her childhood. Fro
m her mother’s choices. From the friend who used and emotionally tormented her. And though he was no psychiatrist by any stretch of the imagination, the way he saw it, only one thing would do that for her.

  “The wedding dress. Go put it on.”

  He reached up to cup the side of her face, but she batted his hand away.

  “Are you insane?” She leapt to her feet then whirled to face him. “After what just happened at the pub, you want me to…put that thing on?”

  He kept his gaze steady, his voice calm. “Yes.”

  “Why?” She tossed her hands out to the sides. “Why would you ask that?”

  “It’s just fabric, Sophie.”

  “Fabric?” Her voice flew up an octave. She gritted her teeth, and panic zipped across her face. “It’s a monstrosity. All that lace and glitter. It’s the most hideous thing ever!”

  “It’s just a dress.”

  “Exactly,” she snapped. “End of discussion.”

  “Wait. Are you afraid?”

  “What?” She flapped her hand at him. “Pft. No.”

  “You are afraid.”

  She lifted her chin, emerald eyes glinting. “No. I am not.”

  “Then put it on.” He smirked. “I dare you.”

  “W-what?”

  “I dare you to put that dress on.”

  She gave him a hard stare, fiery steel. Dawson met her with what he hoped was a relaxed, self-confident look that dared her to take his challenge. Would she?

  After several long seconds, she threw her shoulders back. “Fine.”

  She turned toward the guest bedroom.

  “Wait.”

  She rounded on him. “What?”

  “I have to see you in it.”

  She cocked her hip and set her hands on her waist. “You think I won’t do it? You want proof?”

  “No. I just want to see you in it again.”

  “Fine.” She headed toward the guest bedroom again. “Just know, if you laugh, my knuckles don’t hurt that bad.”

  “One more thing,” he called, and she twisted to peer over her shoulder. “The veil, too.”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t dream of not putting that on, too.” Sarcasm rippled her tone.

  As she marched off to the bedroom, she grumbled under her breath. Then she closed the door—a little harder than required, but he couldn’t quite call it a slam.

  An image of how she looked the day she ran out of that alley and fell into his arms flashed into his mind. His heart rate kicked up, and his blood shot south. His shaft hardened, painfully pressing against the zipper of his pants. How long would it take for her to change into the gown? He checked his watch. Thirty minutes should be more than enough.

  He shifted on the couch, adjusting his jeans to give his growing hard-on more room, and settled in to wait. After five minutes of no sounds coming from that end of the house, he glanced at the door she’d disappeared through. He toed off his shoes then padded down the hallway.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Everything okay in there?” he called to her.

  “Fine. I’m fine. It takes time to put this thing on.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, doubt and lust warring inside him. Will she actually follow through on the dare?

  Man, I sure hope so.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I don’t think I can do this.

  The dress still lay sprawled across the bed where she’d tossed it when she finally got it off. The veil draped the pillows. Lace and tulle and sequins and beads and—

  She squeezed her eyes closed. Took a breath, forcing air into her constricting lungs.

  He’s right, she told herself. It’s just material.

  She forced herself to walk toward the bed…then just kept right on going, stopping near the large mirror over the dresser. “Snap out of it, Sophie. You can do this.” She snuck a glance at the reflection of the sea of white behind her. “Just put it on.” She took her shirt off, folded it, and set it on the dresser. “You can wear it for two minutes.” Toed off shoes, removed socks. “You wore it longer the first day you put it on.” Off with her pants, folded, and set with her shirt. “Hours, in fact.” She unhooked her bra and added it to the pile.

  Leaning forward, she patted her pallid cheeks then met her gaze in the mirror. “Putting on this dress doesn’t even compare to having a stalker, and you survived that.” She nibbled her bottom lip. “Just do it.” She picked up her stilettos and slipped them on. “In five minutes, ten tops, you’ll have proved your point and be back in your jeans.”

  She took in a deep breath, turned, and faced her nemesis. Marching to the bed, she grabbed the dress, determined to wear it one final time. Then she’d be done. Finished. Kaput. Over and out.

  Taking care not to rip anything, she stepped into the dress. She slipped it up her legs then had to wriggle to get it over her hips. She’d done it before, and she did it again. One at a time, she speared her hands through the thin shoulder straps and hoisted the gown up. Then, leaning forward, she adjusted the bodice, tucking and shifting till her boobs filled the sewn-in cups. At last! Straightening, she reached behind her and tugged the zipper. Up and up.

  “Thank God it isn’t buttons,” she muttered. “I swear I’d go insane.”

  Finally, she got it all the way to the top. Apparently, getting the zipper up was easier than down. She faced the bed, eyeing the veil. “Almost there.”

  After gathering the massive volumes of satin and tulle, she went to the head of the bed and snatched the pearl-studded netting then marched back to the end of the bed. She set the headpiece in place tucking the combs into her hair. Moving backward a bit, she stepped on the skirt and teetered for a heart-skipping moment before she caught herself.

  “Okay. Note to self, don’t walk backward in a wedding gown.”

  Tucking, poking, yanking, adjusting. This is ridiculous. My boobs are all but falling out of this dress. I can’t breathe! More than ready to get on with it, she shook her head. Good enough.

  She angled toward the door and set her hands on her hips. “Ready!”

  Dawson opened the door.

  Lord have mercy.

  The room spun as all the blood rushed from his head and went south. Talk about instant boner.

  Before him stood the sexiest bride he’d ever seen.

  “Sophie.” Her name came out in a hoarse lust-laden tone he couldn’t have hidden if he’d wanted.

  She pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

  “Never.” His gaze shot to her face, her lovely face…with tight crinkles around her eyes and lines bracketing her grimace.

  “Okay. You’ve seen it. Now, get over here and unzip the damn thing.”

  He held up his hand. “Just one more minute.”

  Her breasts heaved against the low-cut neckline with her every breath. White satin outlined her curves, showing off her narrow waist and flowing over her flared hips. He licked his lips and then twirled his finger in the air. “Turn.”

  “What? Are you insane?” She flapped her hands, indicated the rivers of white at her feet, the tracking ring’s crystal gem on her finger winking at him. “I can’t turn in this.”

  “Sure you can.” He crossed his arms over his chest to keep from touching her. “You sprinted down an alley in it. You can turn for me.”

  She arched an eyebrow, doubt saturating her eyes. “Then you’ll unzip it?”

  “Promise.”

  “I’m holding you to that.” Fisting satin, she lifted the skirt a little and began to rotate. “Just remember what happens to people who lie to me.”

  Oh yeah, he remembered. “No worries. Your knuckles are safe.”

  She rounded farther. The veil played peek-a-boo with her shoulders, driving him nuts, and the back of the dress flowed like honey over her rounded bottom. He swallowed, longing to taste every dip and curve. As she came around and faced him again, silky auburn strands framed her face, the ends curling and brushing the top
s of her creamy breasts.

  Lush lips he wanted to lick and kiss. Soft skin he wanted to taste. Emerald eyes he wanted to lose himself in.

  She stared at him for a moment, the pink tongue peeking out to wet her bottom lip. “Okay. I’ve proved I can wear this dress again. Now”—she twisted away from him, one hand reaching back to sweep her hair and the veil aside, exposing her shoulders and back—“unzip me. Please.”

  He moved behind her, willing his heart to slow from its hammering gallop. “I need you to turn a little, so I don’t step on the dress.” Sliding his hands onto her shoulders, he angled her around a little. She stiffened and tried to turn more, but he stopped her.

  “Dawson, I….” She tried again, but he held firm.

  “Hold still.”

  “I-I can’t,” she whispered.

  “You can.”

  She closed her eyes, her body going rigid.

  He moved closer. “Open your eyes, sweetheart.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, I want you to watch.”

  Her eyelids lifted, and she met his gaze in the mirror. “Watch what?”

  “This.” Leaning down, he pressed his lips to her bare shoulder. “And this.” He moved to the side of her neck where he kissed her again.

  “Oh.” Her breathy response encouraged him

  He peppered kisses higher and higher until he nuzzled just behind her ear, her shiver his reward. Inhaling, he took in her unique scent. Vanilla and spice and the promise of passion. He glanced at the mirror.

  Hot emerald met his gaze.

  “I’ll unzip the dress now,” he murmured then nipped her earlobe. “Okay?”

  She gave him a small nod.

  “Keep your eyes on me.” Skating his hands along her shoulders, he hooked a finger under each of the dress’s slim straps and slipped them down her arms. Moving to her upper back, he found the zipper and eased it halfway down. Not enough to free her from the dress…yet.

  At last, he did what he’d wanted to do the first time he unzipped this dress—he slid his hand beneath the satin, laying his palms against her silky skin.

  He watched her in the mirror for any hint of distress or indication she wanted him to stop. Seeing none, he skimmed both hands over her ribs and around to just below her breasts. He lowered his head again and drew a line along the shell of her ear. “I’ve dreamed of doing this to you from the moment I saw you in this dress.”