by Katy Regnery
As much as she wished she could, Tate couldn’t deny the fact that she’d gotten attached to Finian during their weekend together. And going up there for St. Patty’s would just reinvigorate her crush, right? Right.
“So you’re not going,” she muttered. “That’s that. Get over him.”
Get over him. Hmm. Get over him?
But how will you get over him if you don’t go back up there and find some closure?
The idea snowballed in her head, the merits of the plan asserting themselves far more loudly than the disadvantages.
Here were the facts: since returning from New Hampshire, she hadn’t had a date, hadn’t screwed around, hadn’t fucked, hadn’t even kissed a man. Nothing. Nada. She was frozen because every time she contemplated getting physical with someone, she’d think of Fin.
She’d remember some funny thing he said or the way his face looked when he was sleeping. She’d think about the way he’d touched her—gentle, then rough, then gentle again—or the way he’d kissed her. She’d cross her legs remembering how divine it had felt to have his cock full and throbbing inside of her. She’d think about his sisters and brother and wonder if he was a good mechanic. She’d wonder how many he’d fucked since her, and it would make her so sad that her appetite would wane and her lust cool.
And without even meaning to, she’d step back from whatever liaison she was considering.
But maybe…just maybe…she’d idealized him from a distance.
Maybe his eyes and smiles weren’t as sparkly in real life as they were in her memories.
Maybe he wasn’t as effortlessly funny.
Maybe the sex wasn’t as good as she remembered.
Maybe he was just some boy who’d captured her imagination for one sweet, sexy weekend, but her memories were making him into something he wasn’t. At any rate, her memories were making it impossible for her to move on.
“So…maybe you should go back,” she said, opening her laptop again and hitting “reply” before she could play devil’s advocate and talk herself out of it. “Go back up there and get him out of your system, Tate.”
Hey, Britt,
It’s Tate here.
I’ve been slammed with charters since New Year’s, but my schedule just opened up, and if the invitation is still open, I’d love to come for St. Patty’s.
Let me know!
She pressed send, then refreshed the screen. Over the next hour, when she should have been rescheduling the charters she needed to cancel, she packed up her belongings and refreshed the screen…over and over and over…until there it was: RE: Spend St. Patty’s at Summerhaven!
Gulping softly, Tate clicked on the message, rubbing her sweaty hands together and chewing on her bottom lip as it loaded.
Tate, we always have room for you!
See you on the 14th and YAY!!
Britt
“Yes!” she hissed in victory, clapping her hands together.
Yes, said some salty part of her brain that wasn’t a bit fooled. It gave her side eyes. It pursed its lips. It called her out on her bullshit. Good luck with that…closure.
***
“Ooo! Yay!”
Finian looked up from the long table in the Summerhaven office where he was folding flyers and stuffing them into envelopes. Across from him, Mrs. Toffle was running the envelopes through a stamp machine, and in an hour, Ian would be back to take bins to the post office before it closed.
“Good news?” he asked Brittany, who was sitting in the adjacent sitting room by the fireplace with her laptop on her lap.
Well…what was left of her lap. At almost seven months pregnant, she had more belly than lap at this point.
“Yes!” She looked up and nodded. “One more for St. Patrick’s Weekend.”
“This late in t’ game? Cheeky fucker, whoever it is.”
Mrs. Toffle looked up with a gasp and scowled at Fin. “Language, Mr. Kelley!”
“Sorry, Ms. T,” he said.
“Though Finian does have a point,” she continued, agreeing with him. “The festivities are in two weeks. Surely they could have given you more notice?”
Brittany shrugged. “I don’t mind. It’s just one more person. Besides, it’s Tate! I barely got to visit with her at the wedding, so—”
“Wait!” Finian’s neck snapped up. “Wha—who?”
Brittany’s blue eyes focused on his, surprised by his reaction. “Huh?”
“You, uh…you said…” His tongue darted out, and he licked his lips, trying to ignore the sudden and almost painful hammering of his heart. “Tate’s comin’? Tate?”
“Yeah. Tate. My friend from camp? Small? Blonde? She was at my wedding. Ringing any bells?”
Fin ignored her sass. “She’s comin’ here?”
“Um. Yeah. For St. Patrick’s Weekend.” She laughed softly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Maybe just heard about one,” he muttered.
Tate.
Feckin’ Tate, who left me at the Druid, with my heart bleedin’ all over my sleeve.
Feckin’ Tate, who, despite my pathetic hopes, hasn’t called, hasn’t written, hasn’t so much as liked one of the stupid, feckin’ clickbait pictures I’ve posted on Facebook and Instagram in the months since she left.
Feckin’ Tate, who was the hottest feckin’ girl I’ve ever known, who’s haunted my bloody dreams near-nightly, makin’ me so feckin’ horny by mornin’, my knob is like to snap off.
That Tate. Was coming back. To Summer-fucking-haven.
And frankly, despite the way his heart had screeched to a halt at the very mention of her name before starting up again like it was off to the damned races, Fin didn’t know whether to smile or frown at the prospect of seeing her again. Did he want to kiss her or wring her neck?
It had been a long four months since she left, and respecting her wishes not to reach out to her had been brutal. But she was clear from the beginning—she’d told him: Don’t get attached. And what had he bloody well done? He’d fallen for her. Well, fine. That was bad enough. He certainly wasn’t going to act the eejit, chasing at her heels like a lovesick puppy and wishing he could have her when he couldn’t.
Believing that he’d never see her again had been one of the only things making their separation easier. He thought about her a lot, sure, but he also knew that he had an airplane ticket back to Ireland dated March 20, and he’d likely never cross paths with her again. She’d be a distant and sweet memory of a whirlwind weekend in the States, fading with time and eventually releasing whatever unwanted hold she had on his heart.
Now? Knowing that he’d be seeing her again in two weeks? He was thrown. All of the hot, consuming lust he’d been trying to ignore for the last few months came brimming back up to the surface now as Britt and Ms. T discussed which cabin was available for Tate’s use. Yeah, he wanted her. On a physical level, he wanted her bad. No, that wasn’t true. On every level, he wanted her bad, which, frankly, was a problem.
Finian had had plenty of time to think since Tate left, and he’d come to a realization about himself that had initially surprised him: while he didn’t want a clingy, uppity lass like Cynthia on his arm, it turned out he wanted something considerably deeper than Tate was willing to offer. With the right girl, he wanted the possibility of love. He wanted the possibility of commitment. He even wanted the possibility of forever.
Love. Commitment. Forever.
Three things that Tate was 150 percent not interested in having or offering. The fact that Finian wanted the possibility of those things with Tate was his problem, not hers.
So regardless of the fact that she looked like an angel and fucked like a demon, he could do them both a favor in two weeks when she arrived at Summerhaven.
He could stay the fuck away from her.
CHAPTER 6
“Pick up Tate at t’ airport, wouldja, Finian?” he mumbled in a high-pitched, wheedling voice, adjusting and readjusting his sweaty fingers on the steering wheel of a
Summerhaven truck. “I need Rory to fuck me some more before we’ve got a wailin’ brat runnin’ ’round t’ place.”
Blowing out an annoyed breath, Fin pressed the brake at a red light and glanced at the GPS. He was minutes away from the Manchester airport, which meant that his plan to stay the fuck away from Tate had pretty much been blown to shite right out of the gate. It wasn’t like he could say no to a woman seven and a half months pregnant, now, could he? No. So he’d answered yes. Yes, Britt, I’ll pick her up. But how was he supposed to avoid Tate when he was about to be trapped in the cab of a pickup with her for the next bloody hour?
And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst of it was that for the past two weeks, he hadn’t been able to think of anything but seeing Tate again. His bloody wanker had been wanked so much, he wondered that he had any cum left in his balls. And he’d been distracted—so fucking distracted—that his cousins had started to notice, happy to give him shite about it because they were all cunts and that was the truth, even though he loved them hard.
“He’s not even fluthered, and he’s out of it!” observed Rory.
“Are ya knackered after doin’ nothin’ all day?” asked Ian.
“Nah, he’s just got an early bout o’ spring fever!” said Tierney.
Ha. The only fever Finian had was the one with Tate Jennings’ name on it.
And man, but he fucking hated it.
“Stupid man wantin’ what he can’t have,” he muttered, turning into the airport.
He had a quick choice to make. Did he want to park the car and meet her in the terminal? Or did he want to pull up and wait for her in the arrivals area? He decided on the latter, hoping that it would seem more casual and disinterested than waiting eagerly at the foot of the escalator as she slowly descended. Pulling over to the curb by the baggage claim area, he scanned the sidewalk for her platinum head but didn’t see her waiting, which made sense because her flight shouldn’t be landing for another five minutes. He cut the engine, hoping the airport police would leave him alone to wait, and checked his reflection in the rearview mirror.
His brown hair was cut short, and he wore a light beard covering his jaw. He had the trademark green Kelley eyes, and a smattering of freckles across his nose.
Yer man looks cla, he thought with grim satisfaction, twisting his neck to see the sliding doors open, then looking away as a businessman exited the airport.
His heart thumped with anticipation as he checked out the clock on the dashboard. 4:35. She’s landing now.
Reaching for the tuner, he turned on the radio, turning the knob until he settled on “Castle on the Hill,” by Ed Sheeran, who, for all that he was born in England, was one quarter Irish through his father, which was good enough for Fin.
Listening to the catchy, U2-style ballad about childhood friends and going home had Fin in a proper reverie, playing drums on the steering wheel and singing along with Ed, when a sharp knock on the passenger-side window made him jump a foot high.
And there she was. A good ten minutes early.
“I miss the way you make me feel, and it’s real,” sang Ed as Fin stared in surprise at her expectant, slightly amused face.
Opening the door, she grinned at him from the sidewalk. “Ed Sheeran?”
Fin nodded, barely able to get his mind around the fact that he was hearing her voice in person once again.
“Yeah,” she said. “He’s good. No shame.”
He reached for the radio knob and switched it off. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
Her hair had grown out a bit since he’d last seen her—it was past her shoulders now but as light as ever, with one aqua streak, the exact color of her eyes, framing her face. And it was dead sexy.
“Yer hair’s blue.”
“Not all of it,” she said, a spot of pink appearing on each cheek.
Was she feeling shy around him? Hmm. That’d be new.
“Got a suitcase?”
She nodded.
He slid from his seat and walked around the back of the truck, careful not to make eye contact with her as he took it. Collapsing the handle, he hefted it into the back, then opened his door and climbed into the truck. Next to his hip, she buckled her seat belt.
Turning the key in the ignition, he glanced at her briefly. “Ready to go?”
Her eyes searched his face for a minute, grave in their own way, before she gave him a fake half smile and nodded. “Sure.”
“Grand,” he snapped, pulling into traffic and pointing north.
***
It wasn’t the greeting that Tate had expected.
But then again, what had she expected? For him to pull her into his arms and kiss her passionately? For him to say something funny or try to make her laugh or otherwise try to engage with her? For him to make some comment about the fact that they hadn’t stayed in touch, but how glad he was to see her?
She wasn’t sure, but there was a palpable awkwardness between them that she didn’t like at all; especially since Fin had made her feel so comfortable the last time she’d seen him.
See, Tate? You were right! During your time apart, you made him into something he wasn’t! You made the right choice to come up here and dispel all the silly longing in your heart! Well done!
Except her pep talk was totally false.
She didn’t feel any sense of victory.
And her longing for Fin was as sharp as ever.
But maybe…just maybe…he didn’t feel the same about her?
Only one way to find out.
“So…” she started, holding her hands up to the heating vents to warm them, “how have you been?”
“Fine.”
A one-word answer. Hmm.
“I’ve been busy,” she offered, when he didn’t ask. “I worked nonstop through the holidays and then through January and most of February too.” When he didn’t respond, she hurried to fill the silence. “How about Summerhaven? Busy there?”
With one hand on the wheel, he shrugged. “Not bad.”
Ooo! Two words. Improvement.
“Any big groups? Weddings?”
He stopped at a stoplight and gave her the side eye. “No big groups.”
She’d only asked the question to find out about weddings. At some point over the last few months, she’d tried to convince herself that Fin probably chose a different girl at every wedding and fucked around with her. It was one of the ways that Tate had assured herself that she wasn’t special to him and should try harder to get over him.
“Um…any weddings?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically timid.
He was staring straight ahead, but the muscle in his jaw flexed before releasing. “Two since Rory’s.”
She’d been holding her breath as she waited for him to answer, and now she exhaled, taking a deep breath as she ran a hand through her hair. Two since Rory’s. Hmm.
It was an interesting combination of words and made her wonder: Did he want to talk about what had happened at Rory’s? He was acting really cool. Almost bitter.
Was he angry with her? But why would he be? She’d never asked for anything. She’d never promised him anything. He didn’t have a right to be angry with her…
…no more than she had a right to feel possessive of him and where—or with whom—he’d been spending his time. But it didn’t lessen her yearning to know.
“Meet anyone interesting at the other two weddings?”
He cleared his throat. “How about some music?”
Without waiting for her to answer, he reached for the radio knob and turned it to the station he’d been listening to before. A super emo Shawn Mendes song filled the cab of the truck, and Tate huffed softly, turning to stare out the window.
Why was he acting like this?
And maybe more importantly, why did she care?
But fuck. She did. She did, and she hated that she did.
Reaching forward, she turned the radio off, then shifted in her seat to face him.
�
�Look, I’m not sure what’s going on here, but I don’t want things to be awkward.”
“Then leave the radio on—”
“Fin, come on—”
“—and when we get to Summerhaven, I’ll drop you off at Trinity. I’ll help you bring your suitcase inside, and then I’ll turn around and walk away. And that’s how it’ll be all weekend. I won’t look at you. I won’t talk to you. I’ll leave you alone…just like you asked me to. Just like you want.”
Her bottom lip slipped between her teeth, and she bit on it lightly, considering his words, trying to ignore the way they made her ache with loneliness when she thought about the last time they’d spent the weekend together.
“Turn on the radio,” he said softly, the unmistakable color of anger threaded through his tone.
“No,” she answered.
“Turn on the radio,” he growled.
“No! I don’t want you to leave me alone.”
“Really? Because it felt like you did. Yeah, I’m pretty sure you did. Remember in Boston when you told me not to call?” He paused, clenching his jaw as he stared at the highway. “Turn on the goddamned radio, Tate.”
“Please,” she said, her heart skipping beats. “I just want to talk to you.”
“Damnú air! About what?” he asked, his tone incredulous. “What the hell do you want from me, woman?”
“I want—I just want—I want to—”
He pulled the truck over to the side of the highway, the tires screeching to a stop. “Do you even know what you want?”
“I—I just…Why are you so mad at me?”
“Because I had to fight m’self every day not to call you, not to text you, not to message you on goddamn bloody Facebook. Because four months of wantin’ someone sucks balls. Because I tried to feckin’ forget you!” he cried, shifting his body to stare at her. “And I was almost out of the goddamned bloody woods, and you show up again!”
She gulped, looking at things from his point of view, through his eyes.
“Tell me this, Tate. How come there’s one set of rules for me and another for you? I’m not allowed to call or text or reach out after you leave…but you’re allowed to come back? If I hadn’t fucked ya, I’d think you had balls of steel to pull a trick like that.”
