by J. L. Fynn
I hoped the grin spreading across my face told her I was excited by her desire to meet my family and not that she’d just given me the opening I’d been waiting for. “I’d be more than okay with it,” I said. “They’ll love you.”
Color appeared in her cheeks, and she smiled shyly. “You think? I’d probably be really nervous and say something stupid.”
“I doubt it, but even if you did, that’d probably just make them like you even more.” I let go of her foot and took both her hands in mine to pull her closer. “I certainly like you better when you get a little flustered. At least then you’re not intimidating the shit out of me.”
She gasped in mock-horror and poked me in the ribs. Laughing, I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her onto my lap. She squirmed against me, though there was nothing in her expression that suggested she wanted to be anywhere else. She’d given me the perfect opportunity to ask about meeting her dad, but instead we were kissing again, following what had become a familiar pattern of slow, deliberate movements that quickly progressed to a more intent—even frantic—need to be close to her. To taste her.
She fidgeted in my lap again and maneuvered one leg over mine so that she straddled me, her hands on my chest. I trailed my fingers down her spine and gathered a handful of her shirt, balling it in my fist so I could feel the exposed skin of her back against my other palm.
“You know, you could skip class tomorrow. You aced your French quiz, so you deserve some time off, don’t you think? Maybe stay in bed all day,” I said.
“As lovely as that sounds, I can’t. I’ve never ditched class in my entire life.” She kissed me, stopping to nibble on my bottom lip for just a second. “But my class isn’t that early. I can definitely stay up for a little while longer.”
She slipped her hand under my shirt, her fingers splayed against my stomach. My ab muscles tightened reflexively, and my pulse thumping in my ears almost drowned out the sound of the phone buzzing on the table beside us.
Spencer pulled her face back, leaning over the arm of the couch to look at the phone’s display. I immediately moved my lips to her throat, trailing kisses down to the hollow of her collarbone.
“Shit,” she said under her breath. “Sorry. Can you hold that thought for just one second?” She flattened her lips between her teeth, her brow pinched apologetically.
“One second,” I said and nipped at the skin of her neck to make myself clear.
“Promise.” She grinned and reached to answer the phone.
I moved my hands to her hips, ensuring she’d stay put during the conversation.
“Hey,” she said to the person on the other end of the line. “What’s up?” She paused, listening. “Yeah, you already told me about that, remember? Like, last week sometime.” Another pause.
She shifted slightly, and I sucked in a breath as her body moved against mine.
“Not much, just hanging out with Moira.”
Her eyes flickered to my face, but I pretended not to notice. Curiosity was getting the better of me, though. Who was she talking to, and why did she lie about who she was with? The thought that there might be another guy on the other side of the conversation sent a possessive twitch through my fingers, and they instinctively tightened on her hips. I wanted to believe that competing with another guy would slow down my plan, but the jealousy gnawing at my stomach told a different story. I tamped it down and forced my face into a neutral expression.
“Yeah. We’re about to watch Project Runway, but I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
Not if I could help it, pal. Even if it meant stealing her phone again.
“Okay.” Pause. “Love you, too, Dad.”
It took my mind a second to get past the word “love” to the word “dad” and still another to realize it had been Tommy she’d lied to about who she was with. Apparently, she was far more excited by the idea of meeting my family than introducing me to hers.
Spencer was silent as she laid the phone aside, and it took her several seconds to look at me again.
“My dad,” she said.
“Yeah, I got that.”
“Sorry,” she said, dropping her eyes. “I don’t—”
“It’s okay, Spence. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
Her head snapped up, and there was real remorse in her soft brown eyes. “No, I want to. It’s just…my dad…he’s super protective. I haven’t really dated much, and whenever I have, I’ve never told him about it.”
“I get it,” I said with a shrug.
“I know it sounds pathetic, but I just feel like I need to protect him, you know?”
Her expression was so pained that whatever irritation I’d felt quickly melted away. “It’s okay, Spence.” She moved to look away again, but I caught her chin and forced her to face me. “Seriously. I’m more than happy to stick around and show you why I should be the first guy you introduce to your dad.”
A slow smile spread across her lips, and she laid her head against my shoulder. “Thanks for understanding.”
“Of course.” I wrapped my arms around her waist and buried my face in her hair. “I’m not in a hurry.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE HOT OIL gave a satisfying hiss as I spooned the last of the potato mixture into the pan.
“Wait, so what’s this again?” Spencer stood on tiptoes to peer over my shoulder. She slipped her hands around my waist, and I suddenly had the urge to abandon the cooking altogether and show her the attention she deserved. But I’d promised her dinner, and Maggie’s claim that a man could make any woman fall in love with him if he knew how to cook kept me focused on the task at hand.
“You’ve never heard of boxty? I think you better get started on that letter of resignation from your Irish sorority now.”
She dug her fingers into my waist. “We don’t all have Irish mams, you know.”
I laughed, squirming away from her tickling. “Boiling hot oil here.”
“Oh, fine. Be safe and boring.” She kissed the back of my neck and wandered down the line of cabinets that made up the galley kitchen.
I’d been pretty lucky in terms of finding accommodations. The apartment was in the converted loft of a detached garage about a mile from the Balanova campus. The space was small but cozy, and the owners allowed me to rent by the week, which suited me fine.
“So what is boxty?” she asked as she hoisted herself onto the countertop by the sink.
“It’s a kind of potato pancake. There’s lamb stew in that pot.” I gestured to the back burner. “Together, they taste pretty amazing.”
“Lamb? Really?” Spencer pulled a face. “Like, fuzzy, adorable, baaaah kind of lamb?”
I laughed. “Is there another kind?”
“No way am I eating that,” she said and crossed her arms to punctuate her declaration.
“What are you, six? At least try it. I promise you won’t be sorry.”
She frowned, still skeptical, but I could tell I’d won the exchange when she sniffed at the air again. “Fine. I’ll try it.”
“And like it.” I winked.
“No promises,” she said, though she beamed at me. “Did Maggie teach you to cook?”
“She taught me everything I know.” I deftly flipped the potato pancake. “There’s this old rhyme that goes something like, ‘Boxty on the griddle, boxty in the pan. If you can’t cook boxty, sure you’ll never get a man.’ But Maggie always changed it to, ‘if you can’t cook boxty, sure you’ll never be a man.’“
Spencer giggled. “The more I hear about Maggie, the more I like her.”
We grinned at each other. I knew Spencer liked me, and it was only a matter of time before she’d warm up enough to tell Tommy she was dating someone, but I also felt a small pang of regret that I’d never get to introduce her to Maggie.
“So what’s with the unmade bed?” Spencer asked. “Everything else around here is spotless.”
I slid the boxty from my spatula onto a plate and glanced over my
shoulder to the corner where the bed was tucked under the slopping roof. The thick blue-and-green plaid comforter was jumbled to one side of the bed, revealing the twisted sheets beneath, and the pillows were thrown into a haphazard mound.
“It’s my way of avoiding a restless night.” An image of Spencer and I spending a restless night together on the bed’s plush surface filled my mind, and I smiled to myself before turning to look at her.
She quirked an incredulous eyebrow. “How’s that?”
“When I was growing up, Maggie had all kinds of superstitions for everyday tasks. She told me once that if I got distracted while making my bed, I’d spend a restless night in it. I decided the best way to avoid that would be to stop making it.”
Spencer laughed. “And she was okay with that?”
“Not really, but I think she appreciated my ingenuity.” I flashed her a grin and turned the knob that extinguished the gas flame under my pan. “So are you ready to broaden your culinary horizons?”
She laughed and slid from the counter. “Do I have a choice?”
“Not even a little.” I spooned a generous amount of the thick stew onto the boxty already waiting in its dish and handed it to her. She used her foot to pull a chair out from under the small kitchen table that served as a divider between the kitchen and the rest of the apartment and sat down. I sat my own stew down on the placemat across from her.
“I’m going to make some tea. Want some? I also have milk, a few cans of beer, and some flat soda if that sounds more appealing.”
She smiled, shaking her head at me. “Tea sounds great.”
I filled the kettle and set it on the already hot burner, then opened a cupboard door and pulled down two of the plain white ceramic mugs that came with my rental. I packed a tea steeper with a flaky mixture from the battered tin Maggie had pushed into my hands before I left.
“Is this Maggie’s famous tea?” Spencer asked.
I turned to answer, and my elbow caught one of the mugs, sending it crashing to the floor. It broke into several large pieces and scattered across the linoleum.
“Dammit.” I bent to clean the mess. Spencer knelt down to help, but I held up a hand to stop her.
“Careful. I don’t want you to cut yourself.” I reached for the largest chunk of ceramic, then sucked in a sharp breath and withdrew my hand. I inspected the gash on my palm. It welled with blood, and I closed my fingers again to keep it from dripping onto the floor. “Kind of like that.”
Spencer grabbed a towel from the counter and took my hand. She wrapped it tightly with the towel and tucked in the end. “Keep it up like this.” She pushed my arm toward me so it bent at the elbow.
She stood to search for a first aid kit, found one in the back of a drawer next to the sink, and carried it to the table. Then she pointed to one of the chairs. I cradled my injured hand against my chest, obeying her silent orders. Spencer pulled the second chair closer and sat across from me. She took my hand and rested it on her knees, then unwrapped the towel to inspect the cut again. It was deep but wouldn’t need stitches as far as I could tell. I watched her as she tore open a small packet with her teeth and pulled out an alcohol swab. She swiped it across my palm, and I hissed through my teeth.
Spencer grinned. “Now who’s six?”
She lifted my hand and blew on it to take away the sting. I would’ve been happy to recover with her cool breath on my open palm, but she produced gauze and tape from the kit to finish the job. When she finished wrapping and taping it, she turned my hand from side to side to look over the dressing. Satisfied, she bent her head and kissed my palm. “There. All better.”
“Nicely done.” I wiggled my fingers as if she’d reattached a limb rather than bandaged a cut. “I’m lucky you were here, or I may have bled to death.”
Spencer chuckled. “Yeah, well, I think you would have pulled through, but you can thank my dad for the first-aid skills. I was constantly hurting myself as a kid, so he had lots of opportunities to demonstrate his technique.”
“Same here, although I’m not qualified for much more than a Band-Aid. I was usually too busy fussing over my injury to notice what Maggie was doing.”
“Worst childhood injury?” Spencer asked.
“Broken nose when I was twelve, courtesy of my brother. But I totally deserved it.”
“Yeah?”
“I was annoyed he wouldn’t let me skip school to go with him on a trip, so I told Maggie about the Playboys he had hidden in his dresser.”
Spencer laughed. “You ratted out your own brother?”
“I know, I know.” I hung my head. “I’m the worst.”
The teakettle whistled, and I hopped out of my chair to answer it. I poured the boiling water into one mug, got another from the cupboard, and filled that too. “Here you go.” I brought them to the table. “Just let it sit for a few minutes before you try it.”
“Honey?”
I scowled at her with feigned horror. “Honey? Normal tea needs honey. Maggie’s tea doesn’t need anything but a mug. Trust me.”
Spencer put up her hands in surrender. “So sorry. I didn’t realize I was dealing with a tea sommelier.”
I grinned at her as I retook my seat. Her chair was still pulled close, and our knees brushed together as I settled into mine. “What about you. What was your worst injury as a kid?”
“Couple broken bones, lots of cuts and scrapes.” She thought for a second. “Oh, maybe it’s not the worst, but this one is the grossest.” She held out her left hand to me, palm flat. She pointed to the silvery outline of a jagged circle.
“What’s it from?”
“I was eight, just learning to ride a bike on my own, and I was lucky enough to fall straight onto a bottle cap. It went so far in it had to be removed in the ER.”
I winced, imagining the metal cap where the scar now marked her palm. “Nasty.”
She smiled, probably glad her story had had the desired effect. “Yeah, but the worst part was the tetanus shot. Right in the ass, and those things hurt.”
“Aww, want me to kiss it?”
She smacked her scarred palm against my chest. “Shane!”
I laughed. “Oh, come on, you walked into that.” I caught her hand and kissed her palm as she’d done for me.
She didn’t pull her hand from mine. “Okay. Favorite book?”
“To Kill a Mockingbird.”
“I love that one. But my favorite is The Secret Garden.”
I laughed. “Really?”
She shrugged. “What can I say? I love it, and true love lasts a lifetime.” She lifted her mug from the table and took a sip. Her eyes widened, and she flashed a delighted smile. “This is really amazing.”
“I told you.” I took a sip of my own tea. The sweet tang of citrus and mild spiciness warmed my throat. It made me miss home. “Any pets?”
“No, although I always wanted a dog. My dad said it was too much hassle since we moved so much.”
“I love my dogs.”
“What kind?”
“Irish Wolfhounds,” I said. “Yeats and Beckett.”
She smiled. “Figures.”
“I know. I’m such a stereotype.”
“So, we’ve established that you love your dogs and your mother’s tea. Oh, and you’re obnoxiously proud of your Irish heritage. How many girls have you been in love with?”
“None,” I answered right away.
“Is that ‘none’ as in, you’ve never really been in love, or ‘none’ as in you’ve never even felt like you were in love.”
“I’ve liked plenty of girls, but I’ve never been in love. Jimmy likes to joke that my dogs are the only living things I’ll ever say the word to. It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not too far off, I guess. What about you?”
“Pass,” Spencer said with a shake of her head.
“No way. I told you about my deep and enduring love for the wolfhounds.”
“Right, and I told you about my love affair with The Secret Garden,
so we’re even.”
“For now,” I said.
“Moving on then. Beatles or Stones?”
“Van Morrison,” I said as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.
“What? That wasn’t even a choice.”
“It should’ve been considering that Astral Weeks is the greatest album of all time.”
“That’s high praise for an album I’ve never even heard of.”
“Agh.” I grimaced. “You’re killing me. You know who Van Morrison is, right?”
“Of course,” she said. “‘Brown-Eyed Girl.’ It’s cute if you like that sort of thing.”
The dishes rattled as my head thunked against the tabletop. “Why is that the only song anyone knows? Are you seriously telling me you haven’t heard ‘Domino’? ‘Into the Mystic’? ‘Sweet Thing’?”
“I may have,” she said, lifting one shoulder.
I gave her a mock-stern look.
“To be honest, they don’t sound all that familiar.”
“All right,” I said, getting to my feet. I pulled her along with me. “We’re fixing this.”
She laughed, letting me drag her into the living room. “You can play them, but you’re not going to change my mind about the Stones. Exile on Main Street is clearly the best album ever.”
“Just wait,” I said. I flipped the cover of my laptop open and pushed some keys to wake it up. My music library was already open on the screen. I tapped the trackpad, and Van immediately started strumming the opening chords of “Sweet Thing.”
“It’s nice,” Spencer said, but I held up a finger to stop her.
“Shhh.” I sat on the sofa and pulled her down onto the cushion next to me. “Just close your eyes and listen.”
Spencer gave me a dubious look but leaned back into the sofa and closed her eyes. Van continued to play, and chirping flutes joined in as he sang about a girl so sweet she made him feel like he’d never grow old. I watched a smile spread across Spencer’s face, hesitant at first, and then full of the same contented delight I always felt when I heard the song.
When he sang the last lyric, Spencer turned hers to me. “Okay, I admit that’s pretty damn good.”
