Kiss of the Irish (Foreign Fling)

by Lauren Hawkeye

  Standing abruptly, he left the tea on the table and circled the apartment, thoughts churning restlessly. If he had his way, he’d drive her out to his parents’ house today to fetch his great-grandmother’s ring and have it on her finger a breath later. It was absolutely to his benefit that the American idiot she’d been engaged to hadn’t see what a treasure he had in front of him, but at the same time, the wanker had made her gun-shy.

  He’d have to prove that he was different, that he truly wanted to make her happy.

  What would make her happy?

  Circling the flat for the third time, he let his gaze rest on her easel. She moved it around depending on the light, but right now it was in the corner of the living room, a short stub of charcoal resting on the ledge in front of it.

  “Well now.” His eyebrows shot up when he noted that it was a sketch of him—a nude one. He whistled through his teeth when he noted the detailed attention she’d given certain parts of his anatomy.

  He wasn’t the type to be bashful, but he’d have to make sure this was put away before Ainsley or Nell came to call. He’d never hear the end of it. And while Sarah was shy about letting most people see her work, she’d relaxed enough to share her drawings and paintings with the two women, as well as himself. And he wasn’t an artist, but he’d have to be blind to miss the talent jumping off the pages that she touched.

  She was brilliant. If she put any of her work up in a gallery, he knew it would sell. She just had to believe in herself.

  And there it was, the idea. The way to show her that he wanted her to be happy, that he was different from her asshole ex.

  Casting a quick glance toward the bathroom, where he could hear her clattering about, he noted the steam still drifting out from beneath the door and figured that he had a couple more minutes before she was done with whatever it was that females did to groom. Tugging his phone from his pocket, he tapped a quick text to his mother.

  Ma, it’s your favorite son. Are you still in contact with that man who made a baseball-shaped dent in your van and who you so kindly agreed to let off without contacting insurance? Didn’t he work at an art gallery? Seems to me he owes you a favor.

  Two minutes later, his phone beeped with a reply, and he barked out a laugh as he read. He’d dragged his mother into current times with a smartphone and had taught her the basics of texting, but she still phrased each text as though she was penning a letter.

  Dear Cian, my only son, the one who hasn’t visited me in more than a month,

  Yes, I have Patrick Donnelly on the Facebook site. What favor would you be needing?

  Love,

  Ma

  Cian grinned, shoving his phone into his pocket as the door to the bathroom opened. Sarah emerged, damp hair pulled into a braid, her curves covered in the black skirt and white blouse she liked to wear while working at the pub. He certainly didn’t expect his staff to wear a uniform—Ainsley would have his head if he tried—but he thought it was adorable that Sarah liked to look professional.

  Making her way to where he was standing, she gestured to his mug of tea. “Are you going to drink that?”

  “It’s yours.” As she picked up the mug, he tried to set his face to hide his thoughts, but she paused before the drink hit her mouth, cocking her head as she studied him.

  “What are you up to?” Those intelligent blue eyes narrowed, and he knew she was rapidly calculating everything about him. She couldn’t possibly guess what he had in mind, but just to be sure, distraction was his friend.

  Rushing at her, he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her off her feet. She yelped, and tea splashed on him before he deftly took the cup from her hand, deposited it on the table, and started down the short hall to the bedroom.

  “Cian!” Kicking her feet, she wiggled delightfully in his arms, which caused her body to rub up against his own in delightful ways. He made a sound of satisfaction deep in his throat when her belly pressed against his growing erection. “I don’t have time for this! I have to get the pub.”

  “It just so happens that you have an in with the boss. But if you insist, we’ll make it quick.” Plan for the gallery momentarily forgotten as his arousal heightened, he stopped his progress and pressed her against the wall, his hand sliding, hot and insistent, up her short skirt.

  He growled when he discovered that his practical woman was wearing a teeny-tiny thong that seemed to be made of nothing more than string. When his impatient fingers tugged those scraps aside, he found nothing but skin and wet heat, telling him just what she’d been doing in the bathroom for so long. “Woman, it was my lucky day when you signed onto that website.”

  She whispered her reply against his chest, the words almost lost in her moan as his fingers slid inside her tight heat.

  “No, I think it was my own.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Something was wrong.

  Thunder crackled in the distance as Sarah hurried down the street to the pub, clutching her cardigan around her. She hated being late, but she’d gotten caught up hunting for two of the paintings that she’d done a few weeks ago—the one of the grapes on the windowsill, and one based off a photo she’d taken of Nell and Ainsley on her phone, capturing them both mid-laugh, eyes bright, heads tilted close in friendship.

  It wasn’t like her to misplace things, but she’d searched through the stacks of canvases and they hadn’t been there. Granted, she’d been in a hurry, so there was a chance she’d missed them. Still, it rankled, and she knew it would be a burr in her thoughts, clinging on until the end of her shift.

  As always, the warmth of the pub as she threw open the door to Wild Irish was a sharp contrast to the chill outside. She greeted people by name and nodded at others as she made her way through the late lunchtime crowd.

  Had it really been less than two months since she’d opened that door for the first time? She was more comfortable here than she was back home—more comfortable than she’d been anywhere ever.

  So comfortable, she thought as she made her way to the bar, where she would hang her cardigan on the hook on the wall and grab an apron, that it confirmed her decision to stay here for good.

  Staying for good. Just running the thought through her head sent a thrill rocketing through her.

  She could stay. She could make that choice, could come full-circle on the decision that had brought her here in the first place. She wanted to hug herself, to sit down and have a Guinness and wallow in her delight for a few minutes, but as she reached the bar and ducked behind it, she saw the man waiting for a drink on the other side. Ainsley was busy delivering a tray full of sandwiches to a table of four, and Cian was nowhere to be seen, so she grabbed her apron quickly and approached the man with a smile.

  “What can I get for you?”

  The man cocked his head, eyes the color of dark chocolate studying her so intently that she squirmed a little. He was handsome, with pale toffee skin set off by the crisp gray suit he wore, but something in his stare seemed a little more interested than she was comfortable with.

  “What do you have for craft beer?” He smiled, leaning forward with his elbows on the surface of the bar. She listed the three that she knew Cian kept in the cooler, though none of the locals were at all interested in them, and he nodded and selected the second before offering her a hand. “Patrick.”

  “Sarah.” She smiled automatically as she retrieved the bottle, popped off the cap, and slid it across the bar. “Would you like to start a tab?”

  “Sure.” She was grateful when she heard the door to Cian’s office open behind her. Turning quickly, she reached out for a hug. He wrapped one of those strong arms around her and pulled her forward.

  “I see you’ve met Patrick.” When she looked up at Cian, his eyes were bright with anticipation, and her stomach churned as she wondered what she was missing.

  “I did,” she started slowly, reaching for a rag to mop the bar with, just to give her hands something to do. “You know each other?”

>   Her tattooed, pierced Irishman had nothing in common with the slick man in the suit at first glance, but she knew better than to judge by appearance. Still, something wasn’t sitting right here. Cian’s excitement, the attention the man was giving to her—she didn’t know what to make of it.

  Cian placed his hand at the small of her back, the slightest pressure of his fingers urging her forward again. She planted her feet.

  “Sarah, Patrick is here to meet you.”

  “What?” She arched an eyebrow, but before she could question Cian further, Patrick pulled a business card from his jacket and handed it to Sarah.

  Patrick Donnelly, Acquisitions. Emerald Isle Art. Twin bolts of excitement and dread rocketed through her. “Cian, what’s going on?”

  “I have to admit, when I heard that Deirdre Murphy was calling in the favor owed her by having me look at some paintings done by her son’s girlfriend, I braced myself for the worst.” He chuckled, setting Sarah’s nerves on edge. “But I can’t tell you how happy I am to be proven wrong.”

  “My paintings.” Those warring emotions, terror and excitement, jousted in her stomach as she looked up at Cian. “The grapes, and the one of Nell and Ainsley. I couldn’t find them. You took them.”

  “I wanted to surprise you.” He looked so happy, so absolutely elated, that Sarah almost felt guilty for the thread of anger snaking its way through her veins. “I knew that you were too shy to show your work, but I knew it was good. It’s good, isn’t it?”

  “You have a rare talent.” Patrick grinned at Sarah, oblivious to everything churning around inside of her. “And because of that, I’m happy to tell you that Emerald Isle would like to take these two pieces on consignment. And we’re definitely open to more.”

  What?

  “On consignment?” Her voice squeaked as an emotion she couldn’t quite put a finger on clawed at her chest. “Like, for sale?”

  “Sarah, what is it?” asked Cian. Patrick may not have known Sarah well enough to detect the signs that she was getting upset, but Cian did, so she wasn’t surprised when he took her by the arms and forced her to look up at him. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” she repeated stupidly, as if it would help her to make sense of it. What was wrong? A gallery wanted to show her work. Thought they could sell her work. A gallery in Ireland, which just added to the desire to stay here.

  She should be over the moon. Instead, she felt as though she was going to choke on the thickness rising in her throat.

  “I need air.” Pushing away from Cian and out from behind the bar, she shoved through the crowd. Ignoring Ainsley’s shout of concern, she shoved through the front door of the pub and outside, where she wrapped her arms around herself and gulped in great mouthfuls of cold, crisp air.

  “Sarah, what the hell?” Cian was right on her heels. “Are you sick?”

  “No, I’m not sick!” The words came out louder than she intended them. Her immediate reaction was to pull back, to quiet down, because she wasn’t the kind of person who shouted.

  To hell with that. She was going to shout.

  “I’m not sick,” she repeated, her voice getting louder still as he blinked down at her. “I’m upset, Cian. How could you blindside me like that?”

  “Upset?” Temper snapped through his eyes, ratcheting her anger up further. “I thought you’d be pleased. A gallery wants to sell your work!”

  “I’d be pleased if you’d asked me first!” Oh, there it was—the reason the anger inside of her was growing.

  Nothing in her life had ever been a choice. Nothing except this trip to Ireland, and now he’d tainted that by acting like every other person in her life—expecting her to act a certain way, to be a certain person, to react as she was supposed to.

  “If I’d asked, you’d have said you weren’t ready!” His own voice rose, the Irish in it thickening as he stared down at her with disbelief painted across his face.

  “Because I wasn’t ready, and that’s my choice to make!” A young couple exited the pub, cigarettes in hand, and blinked at the argument. With sidelong glances at one another, then at the sky where drops of rain were beginning to fall, they turned and went back inside.

  “Does it really matter if it was your choice when you’re happy with the results?” His voice was a growl. He stepped toward her, seemingly unaffected by the rain that was quickly picking up in intensity. “Admit it. You were excited to hear what Patrick had to say. I saw it on your face.”

  “Of course I was excited.” Temper burned away in a bolt of lightning, Sarah dragged a hand through hair that rain and wind had blown into her face. “But if you think that that means it shouldn’t matter whether it was my choice or not, then you don’t know me at all. Don’t you see that?”

  Hope mocked her as she pushed water from her eyes and searched his face for comprehension. Irritation, confusion—those were there. But no clue that he understood what she was saying.

  “Don’t you think maybe you’re overreacting? I was trying to do something nice for you! Something that would make you see that you belong here!”

  Something he’d arranged to make her stay. Something that he could have made happen just by talking to her and telling her the three little words she wanted to hear.

  The pain was searing, crackling over her skin as Cian reached for her and she stepped away.

  “I can’t be with someone who doesn’t understand that I am quite capable of making my own decisions in my own life.” Reaching behind her to untie her apron, Sarah threw it at him before turning on her heel. “Come see me when you get that straight.”

  …

  Whiskey burned his throat as he tossed back one shot and then another. He eyed the rapidly depleting liquid sloshing inside the bottle as he sat, shell-shocked, behind his desk, and decided he might as well finish the lot.

  The bottle was nicked from his hands as he moved to fill his glass again. Scowling, head already fuzzy, he squinted up to find Ainsley perched on the other side of his desk, sympathy and irritation in equal measures on her face.

  “I always wanted to be an only child.” He grabbed for the bottle, but she tucked it under her arm and out of his reach. “God save me from stubborn women. There’s an epidemic.”

  “Strong isn’t the same thing as stubborn, you idiot.” Taking a sip of the whiskey herself, Ainsley sighed when he again reached for it, then made him yelp when she leaned over and swatted him upside the head.

  “Not you, too.” Frowning, he terrified himself when anger rapidly shifted into misery beneath his sister’s sympathetic stare. “Ains, I fucked up. I only wanted to do something nice, and I messed it all up.”

  “Oh, you did, indeed. You fucked it up but good.” She smiled cheerfully and took another sip before her expression sobered. “Now, are you ready to listen to the sage advice of your favorite sister?”

  “You’re my only sister,” he grumbled, but nodded, slumping in his chair.

  “Sarah has spent her entire life doing what other people want her to do, being what other people want her to be. Would you agree that this is a fair summary?”

  He nodded again, the movement hurting his head.

  “I think you’re well aware that choosing to start working on her art at all was a huge step for her, a way of saying to herself that it was okay to be who she wanted and not who she was expected to be. Still with me?”

  He grunted, and she swatted him again.

  “So when a big oaf comes along, steals the work that has come from her heart, and arranges for that work to be sold without her consent, even factoring in that this oaf did it with the best of intentions, it’s rational for her to be a wee bit upset, yes?”

  He scowled. She arched an eyebrow.

  “Oh, Cian.” Considerately Ainsley poured a splash more of the whiskey into his glass before screwing the lid on tight. “Don’t you see? To Sarah, this looks like you were trying to take away her choice to stay or go.”

  Yes, he saw. He saw that he�
�d been a fantastic, absolute jackass.

  “I didn’t mean to make her decision for her.” His voice raw, he shot back the whiskey that she’d poured for him. “I was trying to show her that I could make her happy.”

  Ainsley rolled her eyes, and his spine stiffened. “You idiot. Can’t you think of one little thing that might make her happier than some elaborately orchestrated plot?”

  Brow furrowing under the weight of the whiskey, he stared up at her. She sighed with exasperation before sliding off his desk and heading for the door. Just before she slipped back through it, she turned and spoke over her shoulder.

  “Have you ever considered all that she wants is to hear is that you love her?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sarah eyed a bottle of wine that Nell had left in her kitchen, but knew that ultimately it would just make her feel worse.

  A bath. She should take a nice, hot bath. Do a face mask. Or maybe channel her emotions into a painting.

  Instead, she sat frozen on the edge of her couch, palms flat on her thighs, unable to move as her mind raced in frantic circles, chasing its own tail.

  Her work was good enough to hang in a gallery.

  Someone who worked in a gallery thought it was good enough to sell.

  Why couldn’t Cian have just asked to take her paintings?

  Why didn’t he see that this wasn’t an overreaction?

  Did it really matter, when she knew in her heart that she wanted to stay anyway?

  A pounding at her door make her jump and shriek, clasping a hand to her chest. It was likely Ainsley or Nell, checking in on her. She’d thank them for their concern and tell them she just wanted to be alone.

  But when the door swung open, there stood Cian. His skin was flushed and she could smell just enough alcohol coming off of him to tell her that he’d imbibed, but was not yet drunk.

  Though, as she watched him reach for the hem of his soaking wet T-shirt and lift it up and over his head then toss it aside, she wondered if maybe she’d misjudged.

  “Cian, I told you I need some time—” Her mouth fell open as he quickly undid the zipper of his jeans and dropped those, along with his boxers, right there in the hallway.