Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Acknowledgments
About the Author
If you love sexy romance, one-click these steamy Brazen releases… Rogue
Emergency Attraction
All I Want is You
A Moment of Madness
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Lauren Hawkeye. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Brazen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC. For more information on our titles, visit www.brazenbooks.com.
Edited by Jenn Mishler
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill
Cover art from Shutterstock
ISBN 978-1-63375-793-6
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition April 2017
This book is for two people:
Jenn Mishler, aka Most Patient Editor of all time, for cheering me on (and also for not pitching me overboard).
And for Lynds—you know why.
HomeSwap4U.com
Posted by: WickedWanderer
Luxurious one bedroom flat in Ceanmore, listing 1847.
Surrounded by majestic mountains and green fields, this flat is a scenic drive away from Dublin and within walking distance of the local market and other amenities. Ceanmore is a quiet town, but for a taste of local nightlife, you’ve only to make your way down the street to Wild Irish, the locally owned pub.
Update: The owner of this flat is no longer seeking to swap homes, but simply to rent his own, which leaves greater flexibility in the dates you choose to travel.
To: Wicked Wanderer
From: S_Mercer1990
To Whom It May Concern:
I am inquiring as to the availability of the one bedroom flat in Ceanmore, listing 1847. I am searching for something available immediately, and plan to stay for a duration of two months. Please contact me if you find this arrangement suitable.
Sincerely,
S. Mercer
To: S_Mercer1990
From: WickedWanderer
Thanks very much for your interest! My name is Cian and I own the flat you’re inquiring about. Attached are more photos of the flat than are shown in the listing—buggering site only allows for two photos at first. Also, the flat has cable telly, slow but functional wifi, and is pet-friendly.
To: WickedWanderer
From: S_Mercer1990
I won’t be bringing a pet, but thank you. I rarely watch television, and as long as the wifi works, I can make do. Can you please tell me the rent? I think there’s been a typo in your listing.
To: S_Mercer1990
From: WickedWanderer
There’s no typo. If the amount is too much, I’m open to negotiation.
To: WickedWanderer
From: S_Mercer1990
Too much? That amount wouldn’t get me a week in my condo here in Boston! Speaking of, are you sure you don’t want to do the house swap and take a trip here? I need to know, so that I can make plans.
To: S_Mercer1990
From: WickedWanderer
Here is where I’ll stay, though I thank you for the offer. Thank you also for the credit history, references, and Facebook friendship. Most renters don’t go to such lengths, but I must say, it’s nice to have some idea of the person moving into my flat before they arrive. Especially when the person is as easy on the eyes as yourself. Tell your husband he’ll want to have a word with Billy Gallagher across the hall once you arrive. The man might be eighty, but he’s an incorrigible flirt, and he has an eye for blondes like yourself.
To: WickedWanderer
From: S_Mercer1990
Here’s some advice from the opposite sex: a Facebook profile picture is not overly indicative of what a person really looks like. It’s what the person wants the world to see. I’m sorry for your Mr. Gallagher, but though I’m not married, I think he’s about to be very disappointed.
To: S_Mercer1990
From: WickedWanderer
Well, Ms. Mercer, here’s some advice for you in return: every face that a person puts on has some inkling of their true self in it. When I look at your photo, here is what I see: a serious woman likely posing for a professional headshot. This woman is wearing far too much makeup, but it’s not enough to hide the fact that her eyes—gorgeous eyes, by the way—are a little bit sad. Of course, the picture only shows your head. You could very well be one of those stick insect types who survives on kale. This will disappoint Mr. Gallagher greatly.
To: WickedWanderer
From: S_Mercer1990
I am most certainly not a stick insect. Though, in my experience, men prefer that. Mr. Gallagher must be an anomaly.
To: S_Mercer1990
From: WickedWanderer
I applaud Mr. Gallagher’s taste, myself. A real man wants something to grab hold of in the night.
To: S_Mercer1990
From: WickedWanderer
Too much?
To: S_Mercer1990
From: WickedWanderer
My deepest, apologies, Sarah. I’ve crossed a line. I’ll let you out of your contract, if I’ve made you uncomfortable.
To: WickedWanderer
From: S_Mercer1990
I’m still not convinced you’re telling me the truth. Perhaps your Mr. Gallagher will seduce me into a torrid affair with an Irishman, and I’ll find out for myself.
To: S_Mercer1990
From: WickedWanderer
Mr. Gallagher isn’t the only Irishman available for torrid flings. I look forward to your arrival, Sarah. Stop by Wild Irish, the pub in Ceanmore, for the key when you arrive…and for whatever else you might need.
Chapter One
When a white-hot bolt of lightning speared the ground in front of her, Sarah Mercer decided that she’d officially gone insane.
Hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles were white, she slowly inched forward through the onslaught of rain. Yes, she had to be crazy. Why else would she be driving through a torrential downpour in a strange country at night, on the wrong damn side of the road?
Squinting into the darkness, Sarah swore when the tires of her rental car skidded in the pools of water on the road. If she believed in such things, she might have thought that this rain was an omen, a sign that she didn’t belong here. No, she belonged back in Boston, spending her days as a highly respected curator at a very prestigious auction house, and her evenings in the quiet condo close to Newbury Street, the one she’d chosen so she could wander in and out of the densely packed art galleries as much as she chose.
The young woman she’d sublet her little condo to could be wandering those art galleries now. Would she wander them with a boyfriend? Or would she be by herself, the way Sarah had been since that douche canoe Ross had left her?
No, that wasn’t
fair. Ross had been dissatisfied with their relationship, and so he had done the rational thing by calling off their engagement. She should be thanking him, since marrying someone who felt their partnership was unsatisfactory was hardly the sensible thing to do.
These flashes of pure crimson rage and subsequent panic attacks had led to rash decisions. Not nipping them in the bud was why she’d lost her ever-loving mind and decided to rent an apartment—no, a flat—in the middle of nowhere, Ceanmore, Ireland, for two months.
The prudent, well-cultivated side of her brain screamed at her to turn the car around and hop the next flight back to the States. The other side—and until recently, she hadn’t even been aware that there was another side—told her that she’d come this far, and no way in hell was she going back now.
She’d been abandoned for a newer model, never mind that she was hardly at her expiration date herself. She supposed she was allowed to be a little upset.
Plus, the GPS on her cell was useless out here where it couldn’t pick up a signal—or call anyone for that matter. Logic told her that her destination was probably closer than the three-hour drive back to Dublin. The best course of action would be to continue down the road until she reached a gas station or a house—any place where she could stop for a few minutes to catch her breath. She was tired—the kind of bone-deep fatigue that came from waking up in one time zone and being plonked down in another one hours later. She probably shouldn’t even have driven—the smart thing to do would have been to stay the night at a hotel by the airport in Dublin.
She was sick of doing the smart thing.
A few more minutes of terrified driving and she thought she saw the pale cream color of headlights in the distance. With a lot of deep breathing and only one terrified shriek when she almost went off the road, Sarah finally turned onto the quiet street of what appeared to be a small town. Hands starting to tremble, she pulled the car to the side of the road. And then, realizing her error, she did a U-turn and parked on the side of the road that she was supposed to be on, the opposite one from back home.
This is going to be a challenge.
Yeah. That was putting it mildly.
She closed her eyes for a moment, sucked in a deep breath, and held it until her lungs started to burn, then she exhaled on a giant whoosh, picturing all of the bad things in her life leaving her body.
The breakup. The disappointments. She tried willing it all away, imagining it dancing off into the dark night.
“I’m here.” She might be crazy for coming to Ireland. She might go insane in the quiet of the small village and want to go screaming back to her trendy condo, her comfortable circuit of art galleries, the Chinese restaurant on the corner where she picked up a standing order of wonton soup and tea every Friday after work. But she was here for two months. No high-pressure job at the auction house to worry about, no fiancé to please. For the next few months, she was free.
The notion was absolutely terrifying.
It’s not like I’m wasting months of my life. I need to pull it together.
This was true enough. In coming to Ireland, Sarah had hoped to clear her mind enough to put some energy toward earning her masters in Art History. It seemed like forever ago that she had gotten her undergraduate degree. What Sarah had really wanted was to be a painter herself, but her parents had scared her into going the sensible route. Her art history degree earned her job at the auction house. The position had paid enough for to afford her trendy apartment.
But, somehow, it had never been enough. Sarah was hoping her masters would help to fill the gap. To make her forget how she’d been told she had the talent but lacked the courage to step out on her own.
And these were deep thoughts when she was jet-lagged and completely out of her element. It was in the air, she decided. The air here was so crisp, so clean, so completely unlike the nearly constant scent of exhaust back home.
Her body didn’t know what to do with so much oxygen, and it was making her dizzy.
Opening her eyes, Sarah squinted, trying to see through the rain. She had parked in front of a restaurant with bright lights behind foggy windows, and she could hear the faint lilt of what she supposed was Irish music—a place where she could go in and ask for directions to Ceanmore, or find a room for the night.
Instead, Sarah found herself glued to her seat, the nerves that she’d run across the ocean to escape coiling tightly in her belly and threatening to make her explode.
This—none of this was right. In no version of the plan for her future had she noted “get dumped by fiancé and run to foreign country.” And she was the kind of person who made plans. Plans and lists. Spreadsheets.
She was not the kind of person to rent an apartment over the internet. Not the kind of person to pursue renting that apartment—sorry, flat—after a brief and completely inappropriate flirtation with her future landlord.
Who flirted with someone they’d never met? This Cian Murphy seemed fine with it, but it was yet one more thing that cast Sarah so far off-balance she was surprised she didn’t fall.
But when she forced herself to wrench open the car door, when she made herself step out into the never-ending freaking rain to be promptly drenched from head to toe, she stood solidly. The wind that chilled her cheek was cruel enough to have her scurrying on stiff legs to the door of the place, where a sign proclaimed it Wild Irish.
The pub Cian had told her to stop at to collect her keys. Which meant, she supposed, that he was in there to collect the keys from.
There were those butterflies again, dancing a jig in her belly. Only she would get flustered by an online flirtation that the man himself probably didn’t remember.
Other than the lilt of music and the patter of the rain, the street was utterly silent. It was so very different from what Sarah was used to. Back in Boston, in her über-chic neighborhood, the noise outside her bedroom window was nonstop—cars honking, people shouting and laughing, music drifting into the air from the bars and cafes and the buskers on every corner. There was so much sound, all the time, that she hadn’t realized how much she’d tuned it out until just now, standing in near silence.
That silence, and the startling contrast of it to home, seemed suddenly so loud that her ears rang. The realization was enough to make her yank open the door of the building and step into the pub.
After the wet chill in the street, the noise indoors was like a warm embrace. Standing just inside the door, she looked around with wide eyes, taking in the details and cataloging them in her brain the way she’d always done.
The room was large but cozy, with a smoky-smelling fire burning in a fireplace big enough for her to stand in. It cast interesting shadows throughout the dimly-lit room, flickering over and lending warmth to the faces of the patrons. The walls, wide stripes of weathered wood, had darkened with age, and Sarah guessed that if she pressed her nose up to the rough grain, they’d smell of the smoke and whiskey they’d absorbed over the years. Scarred wooden tables with mismatched chairs were crowded throughout without much thought to symmetry. Her fingers started itching to move them into some sort of order, but here the result was more charming than messy, as was the semi-circle of squishy armchairs surrounding the fireplace, all occupied by wizened men with gray hair, and gnarled fingers curved around tall pint glasses or short tumblers of whiskey.
At the far end of the room was a large bar with racks of gleaming glasses suspended upside down above it. On a shelf behind the length of polished wood sparkled a row of bottles in emerald, amber, and sapphire. The entire scene seemed designed to invite a person to order a pint and curl up in front of the fire to wait out the rain.
But she wasn’t here to while away hours in a warm, cozy haven. That wasn’t the kind of person she was. No, she would get her directions and continue along to her destination, then get settled in. That was the logical thing to do.
She looked back at the bar. A tall man now stood in front of the row of colorful bottles, laughing with a patron as he
poured what appeared to be a crisp, cold beer into a pint glass.
“Whoa.” The word escaped Sarah’s lips without conscious thought, but damn, something about the man made an impact. When he turned, giving her the full view of his face rather just a profile, she saw just what a man he was. Over six feet tall, she was pretty sure, and every inch packed with tight, lean muscle—the kind of body that would look good in the well-cut suits that the businessmen at her auction house favored, but that was even better dressed casually, the plaid shirt and worn jeans hinting at what he’d look like stripped-down.
That same flannel shirt was rolled up to the elbows and showed off a rainbow of ink decorating his arms, gem-toned hues contrasting with skin gone bronze in the shadows of the fire. When the man leaned across the bar to slide the pint to an elderly man, his muscles rippled, sending the tattoos dancing and making something Sarah wasn’t entirely familiar with tighten in her belly.
Was this Cian Murphy, he of the inappropriate online flirtation? It was hard to be sure—she’d added him as a friend on Facebook so that he could verify that she was a real, normal person, but when she’d looked at his profile in return—scrolling guiltily through his photo albums—she’d found mostly scenic images taken in locations around the world. There had been a few group shots with his name labeled, but they’d all been in bright sun or in shadow, making it hard to get more than a general impression.
That was probably for the best. If she’d known that those flirty little emails were being exchanged with this man—if this was, in fact, Cian—she’d have lost her nerve entirely. Men who looked like fallen angels didn’t flirt with women like her, and with the lean planes of his face, blue eyes so dark they were nearly black, and full lips that curved in a devilish grin, she called to mind his screen name.
WickedWanderer. How could a man who looked like that be anything else? But she just bet he was wicked in all the right ways.
As she watched, the man—Cian?—smiled at his customer, and the light of the fire winked off a piercing in his eyebrow. An actual piercing. In his face.
She had no reference for this kind of man—the ones she knew at home were all on the more conservative side. Suits. The kind of man who drank wine she couldn’t pronounce instead of tall pints of beer. So yes, he was fantastically hot, but not her type at all.
Kiss of the Irish (Foreign Fling) Page 1
