by Amanda Jones
Patrick pushed himself onto his arms and stared down at her. His forehead furrowed. “You just got this really faraway look on your face, sweetheart. I don’t know whether I should be insulted or if I should dial 911.”
“Neither. I just started thinking about real-life stuff.”
“This doesn’t count as real life in your book?”
“I haven’t decided that yet.”
“Oh, I see.” One of his dark eyebrows arched. “Tell me what I can do to take that worried expression off your face.”
“Why do you even care?”
Now he sat all the way up, putting some space between her supine body and his cushion. “What kind of man do you think I am?”
She opened her mouth to tell him just what kind, but before she could share her speculation with him, he interrupted.
“No, don’t tell me. I’ll tell you. I’m good at that, remember? Bartender superpower. I bet you think I go through women like I do paper towels. Endless supply of them coming into my pub, right?”
She cringed. “The thought had crossed my mind.”
“And you’d be wrong. Dead wrong. I’m very picky.”
“You don’t look like the kind of man who has a type.”
That wasn’t entirely accurate. She thought his type might have been female. There was certainly no shortage of those in Durham.
“You’re right, actually. I don’t. I’m too picky to even specify what my type would be. I just know when a woman is right, I act.”
She gave him a long blink. He had to be nuts if he was implying that she was right. Every man she’d ever dated had tried to change her in some way. Her hair had been too short, so she grew out it. It got too long, so she cut it. She hadn’t been fit enough, so she worked out more. Then, she was too muscular, so she had let her gym membership expire. She’d been too quiet. Too opinionated. Too reserved. Too voracious.
Too bitchy.
Never good enough.
She put her hands against his chest and tried, ineffectually, to push him away. “Patrick, I do believe you’re full of shit.”
“Sweetheart, I shoot straight, and I don’t just mean with that Ruger. I don’t waste words. I don’t lead people on. Who has the energy for those kind of games?”
She could think of a few people, but still… “If you’re so straight, why’d you hire an incompetent drunk to manage your bar kitchen?”
She felt like a bitch for even asking, especially after his face fell.
She’d managed to put her foot in her mouth yet another time. To be so damned observant, she sure fucked up a lot when it came to assessing motives.
“That’s…personal,” he said.
She watched the set of his jaw tighten as he pushed himself to standing position, and had no words for him.
She’d never been good at apologizing, and he may have been the rare man who deserved her I’m sorry.
The words wouldn’t come out, though.
He walked to one of the front windows and pushed the curtain aside, standing there for a while, staring out at the rapidly darkening woods.
Good job, Dana.
Usually when she managed to bruise someone’s feelings, she’d shrug it off, thinking perhaps the fault was on their end—that they were too sensitive. She wouldn’t give it more than thirty seconds of mental expenditure, so why was this different? Why did she care what Patrick O’Dwyer felt?
Perhaps it was because he cared about what she was feeling? That was new for her.
“Okay.” She rubbed sweating palms against the thighs of her pants and worried at her lip. It would have been so easy to just let the conversation drop—to move on to other topics. Hell, she could even get her shit and head down the mountain to her hotel for the night and let Sarah take it from there. The case—which technically wasn’t even a case anymore—had taken a far too complicated turn. Shrews were damned good at unraveling mysteries, but not when they hit close to home.
This was too personal.
She forced the words up from her gut and locked her gaze on his back as she said them. “Patrick, I’m sorry.”
He was so still there at the window, she couldn’t be sure he heard her.
Or that he’d forgive her.
Finally, he turned his head and fixed those wise green eyes on her.
“I was out of line,” she explained, wringing her hands. “That’s typical for me lately.”
“Only child, I bet.”
“Close, but not quite. I’ve got an older brother.” The gnawing tension in her gut eased a bit as his smile returned. She hadn’t completely botched this, then.
“He’s much older, my brother. By the time I came around, he was in high school. My parents were tired by then. Too gentle, I guess.”
He raised his shoulders into that elegant shrug again, and slipped his hands into his jeans pockets. “Sometimes we can’t help the way we are. It’s ingrained. Innate. Natural. The nurturing bit just fosters what’s already there.”
“So you’re saying I’m doomed to be an insufferable bitch?”
“Quit it.”
And she did. She pressed her lips into a tight line and watched him pace.
He didn’t say anything else for a while, and just stared at the floor, watching his socked feet make their passage back and forth across the wood planks. He wasn’t looking, so she took that opportunity to study his tall, lean form—her eyes lingering where his sleeves were rolled up his forearms to reveal the very bottom fringes of some intricate ink work. She liked a little ink, especially when it was hidden away and meant to be discovered when clothes came off.
“Patrick, how big are your tattoos?”
He looked down at one arm as if he’d forgotten they were there. “Oh. They go up and over to my shoulder blades in the back and to just above here”—he drew an imaginary line with his finger across his chest just above his pecs—“in the front.”
“Is it done?”
“I don’t know. I started it before I left Ireland and have been adding bits and pieces here and there when inspiration strikes. I guess I’m fresh out of inspiration.” He managed a grin as he rolled one sleeve up a bit more and studied the artwork on that span of flesh. “Do you have any ink?”
She shook her head. “I like it on other people, though. It’s one of those things like having pink hair or wearing leather pants. I can appreciate it on other folks, but it wouldn’t suit me.”
“Ah. I don’t know if I agree with you on the leather pants bit, though.”
He started pacing again.
She couldn’t tell if he was still annoyed at her for that tactless insinuation about his staffing choices, or just anxious in general.
She probably would be if someone had made a snide remark about one of her girls, though. They were a rough crew, but they were hers.
Maybe a peace offering?
Shrews didn’t grovel, but negotiating came easy.
“What do you have here to drink besides whiskey, Patrick?”
He stopped pacing. “What do you have against whiskey?”
“It’s a bit rough going down for me. I’m more of a wine kind of girl.”
“Like to curl up with a glass in a bubble bath, huh?”
“Don’t go getting any ideas,” she said, even as her lips peeled back into a broad smile.
Actually, a bubble bath right around then didn’t sound like that bad of an idea. Something to slake off the chill she’d picked up outside and relax the tense muscles she’d acquired over the past few soggy, wintery weeks. Maybe a backrub while she sipped a nice dry white.
At home, she never wanted to spend the time pampering herself. It seemed a wasteful endeavor when she could be getting in her half hour of cardio or completing some of the never-ending pile of Shrew & Company paperwork she brought home.
Maybe at the hotel, if the tub is clean…
“I don’t have any wine here, but I have beer.” His voice shattered her bubble bath daydream. “I could drive down to
the store, if you want. I think they’re still open. If not, I can go into—”
“No, that’s okay. Beer’s fine, as long as it’s not green.”
“What do you have against green beer? That’s my biggest moneymaker for the year.”
She made a face. “I just like the things I consume to be the color God intended.”
“Tattooed men excluded, huh?”
Her cheeks burned as he strode to the kitchen, and she was glad he couldn’t see it.
What is this man doing to me?
She dragged her sweater sleeve across her forehead and blew out a breath as she stood. Distraction seemed like a good idea—to think about anything besides the way Patrick O’Dwyer’s lips curved when he spoke or how good his ass looked in a pair of loose jeans.
She walked the perimeter of the living room and memorized the floor plan of the cabin. It was a basic square—living room comprising the front, the small kitchen in the back-right corner, and a second closed-off room in the back-left. She imagined that door would lead to the bedroom and bathroom.
She’d never been one to let her imagination do all the work, so she found her hand on the doorknob, and was turning it as Patrick’s crackling energy filled the room.
Ashamed, she dropped her hand from the knob.
He held out the de-capped beer. “Go on. You won’t find anything scandalizing. I haven’t had a chance to move in much stuff because I thought I was going to sell the place.”
She wrapped her fingers around the neck of the bottle and drew it close, narrowing her eyes at him as she took the first sip.
He grinned. “Well, go on. I know you’re just dying to.”
I hate how easily he pegs me.
Normally, she would have walked away as if the idea had been the furthest thing from her mind, but just whom did she think was she kidding? He hadn’t lied. He could read her like a book.
It was damned refreshing.
She opened the door and stepped into the dark room.
He followed her in and flicked on the overhead light.
The room was spartan. It contained only a heavy pine bed covered in a patchwork quilt in green tones, a wide dresser against the front wall, one battered nightstand, and a chair in the corner that had an open duffel bag dangling precariously over the edge.
“What do you think?” he asked as he leaned against the doorframe.
“It could certainly use a woman’s touch.”
“You available for the job? I can pay you either in booze or carnal favors.”
Carnal favors sounded nice.
She perched on the edge of the surprisingly comfortable bed and brought the beer to her lips again. The cold, strong brew made her chest tighten on the way down and she could tell the resulting effects would show in the thighs she spent so many hours exercising. Alcohol wasn’t a match for her enhanced metabolism, but carbs certainly were.
He laughed from the doorway, shaking his head as she scraped her tongue against her top teeth’s edges. “Robust, huh? It’s kind of like drinking oatmeal.”
“Yeah, I was just sitting here thinking about all the calories I’m going to have to run off. You really like this stuff? I’d rather drink cod liver oil.” She brought it to her lips again and tried another sip.
Nope. Still gross.
“Watch it, woman. That’s my favorite beer.” He pushed away from the wall he’d been holding up and strode to her in four easy lopes, hand extended.
She gave him the beer. “Be my guest.”
“There’s a huge variety of beer out there for you to try if stouts don’t do it for you.” He sat close on the bed’s edge so their thighs touched and brought the bottle to his lips.
Suddenly very tired, she leaned back against the mattress and fixed her stare on the wood paneled ceiling. It made the room seem very dark. If she had her druthers, that’d be the first thing to go during renovations. A nice coat of white paint would do wonders, as would getting rid of that god-awful wicker ceiling fan.
“Why does it sound like you’re trying to convert me into a beer-drinker?” she asked.
He leaned on his right elbow, and stared at her while sipping the remaining beer with his left hand.
He was close enough that she could feel the gentle exhales from his nose tickling her forehead.
“I’m good at my job. My job’s to keep people drinking. If they give up after the first beer that doesn’t do it for them, I won’t be able to keep them on their stool long enough to order one of my expensive hamburgers.”
“Savvy.”
“A guy’s gotta earn a living.”
“Maybe you can give me some tips. My business is in the black, but I’d like to buy a house at some point. I’m barely paying myself, and if I keep taking jobs for free”–she gave him a nudge—“I’ll be stuck in Apartmentland forevermore.”
“Dana, you’ve only been in business a couple of years. The fact you’ve got a staff of…how many?”
“Five, including myself.”
“A staff of five, yet you’re managing to turn a profit only two years in? You don’t need my help, sweetheart.”
She shrugged, or at least tried to. It was hard with her being horizontal. “I had a lot of start-up capital, though, from the class action suit against the drug company and my unemployment claim after the police department canned me.”
“Still. The first couple of years are sort of make or break, and you’re hanging in there. This time next year, I bet Shrew & Company will claim the largest market share for private detective work in the area.”
“Well, don’t go blowing a girl’s head up.” She laughed. “You hardly know me. Maybe I’m an awful boss and won’t retain my staff that long.”
When he didn’t respond, she turned her head and saw him frozen, beer at his lips, but not drinking. His eyes were locked on her cleavage, which had slipped toward her neck when she got horizontal. It wasn’t quite a peep show, but there was a lot of flesh showing at her collar. She cleared her throat.
He blinked and sat up. “Sorry. I think it’s the cat part of me. I’ve started fixating on things—wanting to pounce. When you laughed…”
“Oh. Don’t worry about it.”
Her adjustment period after the mutation was rife with awkward situations, at least on her end. She’d always reacted with her usual brash brush-off, so other people didn’t know the extent of how uncomfortable she was. Inside, she’d been crumbling.
Patrick must have felt the same way, judging by the way his face reddened and he sat up to rest his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. For some reason, I think you’re usually a little more discreet with your ogling.”
“That’s a skill most teenaged boys learn in short order, so you’re right.”
She actually didn’t mind him looking. Maybe even liked it a little. And why not? Patrick O’Dwyer was gorgeous, industrious, intelligent, and like her—seemed to have a low bullshit tolerance. That meant for hers, too. He didn’t get angry about the way she was. He just redirected her and made his limits clear, and he didn’t seem to have many.
Perhaps he could even be in control without taking away hers.
As if on their own accord, her fingers found the base of his spine and made a gentle press of the ridges there, drawing his gaze to her face again.
His eyes had widened, but whatever thoughts he had, he kept to himself.
She let her fingers dance up his strong back, making lazy, tickling circles that made him suck in air when she reached the middle, then continued to the top where his neck met shoulders. Her hand seized the back of his shirt collar and gave it a playful pull.
He set his empty bottle on the nightstand and turned his brooding gaze to her.
She pulled again. “Patrick?”
“Yes?”
“This is me giving you permission.”
That statement made him turn slightly to the right, putting his collar out of reach of her hand, but allowed him
straight-on eye contact.
Amazing eyes. Old soul.
“Permission?”
She nodded. “Yes. I’m not generally so accommodating. I want you to know that.”
“I read that vibe.”
“Good.” Now she pushed up onto her elbows and tried to impart her consent with her expression, her gaze. Did she really need words for that?
Or would a touch do?
Slowly, she reached out and trailed the back of her hand along the stubble on his jaw, his chin, and dragged one finger along the crease between his soft lips.
He took her hand in his, kissed it front and back, and glided his mouth over the pulse point over her wrist, licking it with hot tongue and growling out his impatience as he pushed her cuff up her arm. “Why are you wearing so many clothes?”
“Same could be said for you, Paddy.”
“You asking me to strip?”
A grin pulled her cheeks and she knew even without seeing it that it was probably quite evil looking. “It would be nice if I weren’t the first one naked for a change.”
“I see.” He dropped her hand, with some reluctance, and immediately clutched the bottom of his shirt.
Please don’t disappoint me.
He didn’t. The chest beneath that shirt was decorated not just with colorful, thoughtful tattoos, but also with hard-earned muscles.
Her cheeks burned as he stood before her, his knees skimming hers through their pants, as he manipulated the fly of his jeans. Black fabric peeked through the gape when he let down the zipper, and suddenly she felt very young. Very inexperienced, though that wasn’t it.
He certainly wasn’t her first, second, or even third, but this felt brand new, and the novelty of it—the heightened anticipation, was making her head swim.
She gulped and clamped her teeth together, hoping doing so would quash the quivering of her lips. “Slow down, lover. I want to see what I’m getting.”
“I can go slow, sweetheart.” He dropped his jeans so all that was left were snug boxer briefs that left very little to the imagination.
Paddy O’Dwyer was hung.
The rock hard muscles of his abdomen shifted as he lifted one leg, then the other, out of his jeans and nudged them aside with his foot. He insinuated himself between her thighs at the bed’s edge and leaned her back once more. His hands pressed onto the bed on either side of her head as he hovered close. “Slow is fine, but how do I know you’re not going to get me naked and then change your mind? That doesn’t seem fair.”
