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Marry Me, I’m Irish
Copyright © 2013 by JoAnne Kenrick
ISBN: 978-1-61333-503-1
Cover art by Fantasia Frog Designs
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Also by JoAnne Kenrick
When a Mullo Loves a Woman
1Night Stand Series
Dracula’s Kiss
Sweet Irish Kiss
Shamrocked
Threesome Sweetness
Hot Winter Kiss
The Edge
Tales from The Coffin Series
Strange and Beautiful
All the Pretty Faces
Bittersweet Symphony
Treacle and Treason
Marry Me, I’m Irish
Irish Kisses - Book 5
By
JoAnne Kenrick
Chapter One
Perched on a stool in Bell’s Irish Pub, Liz Grant glanced at the shamrock-shaped clock pinned above the door and tsked.
“I’ve been sat for over an hour, now my bum feels numb.” She stood and rubbed her cheeks back to life. “Devlin promised he’d be done ages ago.”
“Oh, the woes of dating a Bell's barman.” Rachel, the owner’s wife and, for tonight, a server, rolled her eyes. “You need another.”
“Yes, I do!”
“Let me serve these guys and I’ll be right back.” She flitted to the end of the bar, where a group of rowdy twenty-something lads with crew cuts and green shirts waved notes at Rachel. Midafternoon on St. Patrick’s Day, the customers had made an early start to their celebrations by cheering, singing, and lots of drinking.
Green decorations covered every inch of wall and ceiling. Even the cocktail menu had been St. Paddy’s-pimped with Irish Blondes, Leprechaun Kisses, and anything with a wee bit of the Emerald Isle in it. Liz had tried a couple of the offerings while admiring her man. She loved how his muscles flexed when he flipped bottles, how his eyes twinkled as he mixed up concoctions, and how he’d jig along to the bar music, shaking his booty when he caught her looking. The man could move and he knew it. Maybe the Irish in him?
She sat on the stool and glared at Devlin, hoping he’d rid her of boredom with a joke or a wink, but he was serving a woman in her fifties who stank to high-whorehouse-heaven of pungent, musky perfume. Her crow-black mane and over-glossed lips weren’t fooling anyone. Not Liz, anyway. Mutton dressed as whore. She lingered her hand over his while retrieving her change in coins. An extended giggle left her mouth. Then she shimmied, wobbling her double Ds in her flimsy tank top. Liz gritted her teeth but relaxed a little when his attention zoomed past the woman’s boobs and over her shoulder. He gazed out the window where a crowd of people dressed for a wedding or something crossed the busy London street corner.
She knew that glazed-over look well. He’d adopted such an expression when Aofie, his ex, turned up claiming once again she was up the duff with his baby. She’d knocked the Irish out of him for a minute or two. Apparently it was her “thing.” She’d called “fake baby” before. He’d fallen for it once, but that time he’d not been with Aofie for over a year, so all she managed to do was cheese him off.
Ugh, I need that drink now.
She glanced at Rachel. Each of the lads now held a pint of lager, but still captivated the server’s attention by blasting out the Irish anthem in drunken slurs. “‘We’ll sing a song, a soldier’s song....’” They huddled together, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, glasses of brew raised in salute to the Irish god of drunken revelry. They only remained upright because they’d packed so tightly together. If she plucked one free, would they fall like a house of cards. “‘We’ll sing a song, a soldier’s song,’” they began again, as though they’d forgotten they’d already slurred out that first line.
“Rachel,” Liz hollered and waved.
Rachel scurried over. “Sorry about that. Those guys insisted I listen to them sing. What can I get you this time?”
“Next one on the menu I haven’t tried yet.”
“Right you are.” Quick to the drill, Rachel gathered the ingredients needed. “How’s work?”
“Ugh, the writers are too much in love with last-minute changes.” The actress threw her arms up in defeat. “I never know what scene I’m filming from this day to the next.”
“Sucks to be in Britain’s most loved soap opera, hey?”
“You don’t know the half of it. Sometimes, I wish for continuity. To know what I’m doing from this day to the next. Argh, those people stress me out.”
Liz’s phone buzzed. She stood and retrieved it from her jeans pocket. “Hello?”
“Are you sitting down?” Her agent seemed calm, so she had no clue why sitting was a necessity. Unless....
“Yes.” She lied. Just a little white one. Her bum couldn’t handle that stool for another second, but she was keen to hurry the conversation and get to the news.
“You got it.”
“Got what?” She’d been a bit of an audition whore of late, so he could have been referring to anything.
“You got it! You got the romcom.”
“You’re shitting me?” I’m going to be in a blockbuster romantic comedy? Holy crap!
“I kid you not. The contract is in my hands as we speak. Time to celebrate. You’re heading to the big time. Just don’t be broadcasting this until the producers give you the go ahead.”
Liz squealed. Half the bar snapped their attention to her. Including Devlin and his slapper.
“You finally made it, way to go—” She hung up before her agent had the chance to spiel one of his infamous go-Liz speec
hes. She had to process the information before she could listen to that. Her dream had finally happened. All she’d worked toward, all she’d ever wanted, was about to happen.
If it didn’t pan out, she’d become a TV writer instead and dictate what would and wouldn’t happen.
Devlin would be stoked to say he was dating a film star. He’d been insisting she was movie material since they met. She’d tell him later, though, when they were alone. She wouldn’t want anyone to overhear then call the paparazzi before the production company was ready with a press release.
Now she had something to celebrate besides St. Patrick’s Day with Bell’s the perfect place to indulge. Music, drink, and fabulous company.
“Hurry with that drink.” Liz tapped out Rossini’s “William Tell Overture” on the bar and hummed along. Damn her excitement; how was she supposed to keep such great news to herself?
“Who was that? Looks like you just got some pretty wild news. Good or bad?” Rachel poured and mixed and shook and stirred her drink.
She leaned forward, whispering, “Coffee in the morning. I’ll tell you then.”
Rachel nodded.
Liz pivoted and called to her sweetie. “Got a quid for the juke box?” She paid for everything via credit card, so was always coinless.
The slutty woman chatting to her guy snapped her glance to Liz and slitted her eyes.
She took it as a warning to back off and snorted. “The cheek.”
Devlin shrugged and mouthed “sorry” to her.
“Another of those sexy crimson cocktails, please,” the customer crooned. “What’s it called again? Orgasm? What do you say, wanna give me an orgasm?”
Ugh, puh-lease. I think I'm going to puke.
“There’s only one woman in the whole world who can handle more than one orgasm from me, and that’s me Lizzie.” He retrieved a pound coin from the cash register and gave it to Liz, but he continued to gaze into the distance. She didn’t think he’d even notice if all the women in the joint stripped down or if the shamrock bunting collapsed on his head.
“Thanks, baby. Shall I play our song?” she asked, not sure he heard her. But the woman had. She glared at Liz.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure.” He curled his mouth into a smile and leaned over the bar to plant a smacker on Liz’s cheek. She melted. A smile. A kiss. A flicker of desire in his gorgeous greens. That’s all he had to do. She sighed. Yeah, I’m in love. No doubts there.
Devlin’s customer sulked to the back corner of the bar where her friends sat in a cozy alcove. “He’s taken.” She slumped onto the chair and gave a heavy sigh.
Proud of her efforts to stake claim on her man, Liz grinned and shimmied toward the jukebox to the left of the woman and her friends. Sliding a coin into the slot, she overheard their chat-up suggestions. The rest insisted any man was fair game who wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
Nice bunch of ladies. Oh, well. Karma’s a bitch.
An old Irish song belted out the speakers, lyrics speaking of a country cottage waiting for lovers to settle down in. It was a joke between them. Her an actress. Him an almost-rock star. Neither of them country folk. Moving wasn’t in the cards for them. Not anytime soon. And she definitely had no plans to live in the middle of nowhere. If anyone dared take her hair straighteners and high heels away, it wouldn’t be pretty.
Rachel placed a cocktail on the bar. “Liz, drink’s up!”
She skippety-skipped over and took a sip of the Frisky Whisky. Smooth liquid glided down, warming her tummy. Sharp twist of whisky, sweet honey liquor, and something else she couldn’t pinpoint. Whatever the mysterious ingredient was, she’d found her cocktail for the rest of the evening. Delish!
“How much do I owe you?”
“Don’t be daft. How many times have I told you, on the house. Like I could charge you?”
“Thanks, you’re so awesome,” she chirped.
“Awesome? You’ve had too many.”
“Stop it. I’m just happy.”
“With a man like Devlin head over heels for you, I’m not surprised.”
“You think he is?”
“Heck, yes.”
“What about the customers. You think he dotes on them, too?”
“Nope. I couldn’t believe the nerve of that slapper trying to chat him up.” Rachel glanced over at him and wagged a finger at Liz. “You’re good for him, you know? The old Devlin would have played along and egged her on. Probably would have given her multiple orgasms, too.”
The huge rock on Rachel’s finger caught the light and shone in an array of colors. A twinge of jealously snaked around her heart. How silly. Like she wanted a ring? She was not the marrying kind. Neither was Devlin. Their country-cottage joking told her so. Must be the cocktails messing with her head and heart.
“He’ll take you ring shopping one of these days, you’ll see.”
“Are you kidding me? The only ring Devlin would ever be caught buying is a—”
“Cock ring.”
Liz broke into fits of laughter. As did Rachel.
“What are ya girls talking about over there?” He prowled toward them, his brow knitted.
“I’m admiring this lovely ring,” she announced. Rachel widened her eyes, fits of giggles seeming only a breath away.
“Wanna put a ring on me?” He winked.
The two women exchanged a glance.
“I’ll take that as a no? Or a yes?” He stalked toward them, slinging a bar towel over his shoulder. Oh, she’d like to grab that cloth and spank his bum with it. Give him a good telling off for working overtime. Although how he’d managed to get the night off on tonight of all nights, well, she should have guessed that wouldn’t be so easy to get away with.
“The question is, Devlin, do you think you need a ring? Or is she satisfied without one?” Rachel brought her hand to her mouth, but still, her silent chuckles were evident through her shaking shoulders.
He leaned over the bar and rasped in her ear, “Erm, I dunno. Liz? Do I need a ring?”
“Nope, no ring needed.” Heat rushed to her face and down her neck, and she gulped. “You last pretty long on your own efforts.”
“Ah, that kinda ring. Ya bad!” He smiled, so wide his eyes gleamed. “Sex on the mind twenty-four seven! That’s why I love ya.”
Liz blew a kiss at him. The sweetie caught it and patted it on his crotch then winked. “Sweet, a blow job while I’m working. I’m such a lucky guy.”
“You’re a crude bastard.” Liz rolled her eyes.
“It’s why ya love me right back.” He wasn’t wrong. That and his toy box of tricks and constant need to take care of her both in and out of the bedroom. She wished he’d kick the habit of needing to take care of others, though.
A group of men entered the bar looking all businesslike, and Devlin nodded in their direction. “I should be finished here in a minute, Liz. Ya wanna go freshen up before I join ya customer side of the bar for the night’s celebrations?” He inched toward the suits.
“Hey, are you saying I need a freshen up?” She slammed hands to hips and stared him down. The cheeky sod. She shook her head. Him and his wild Irish ways. But she loved him for everything he was, sass and all.
He shooed her out the way then caught up with the guys dressed like a gang of solicitors or perhaps music producers. Whoever they were, they meant business with their serious expressions and handshakes.
“No, baby, ya look gorgeous. But, but,” he stuttered over his words, “a little help, Rachel?”
“Yeah, Rachel. A little help?” She was now curious why her friend had been pulled in to save him.
“He’s arranged a li'l something for you, so go get your lippy on. Trust me, this isn’t for a bag of fish and chips and a DVD rental.” Rachel dashed to the customer side of the bar and edged Liz toward the ladies’ toilets. “You’ll want this to stay a surprise.”
“Oh, Devlin, what have you done?” She swallowed hard and butterflies danced in her tummy.
“Just go
with Rachel.”
Chapter Two
Rachel turned the key and ushered Liz through the door. “After you.”
“What, was it locked?”
“Never mind. Come on, get in here.”
An emerald-green velvet gown hung from the back of a toilet door.
“Pretty dress. Yours? I can see why you wouldn’t want anyone coming in here now. It’s beautiful, looks expensive.” Liz traced her hand over the lush material and admired the brocade trim.
“Nope. Yours. Come on, chop chop. Time to get spruced up.”
It wasn’t a salon, or the least bit pretty. She’d only dressed in the loos once before, and that was to confuse the paparazzi. She’d never done it by choice. Hunting green glossed doors, all graffitied up, and old subway tiles provided the decor. Not high glamour. And the sharp scent of pine cleaning fluid. Lovely.
Rachel locked the door behind them then tugged and pulled at her clothes. Liz wiggled and moaned, but her friend ignored her pleas to stop and had her stripped down to her underwear in seconds.
“Freaky girl, what’s going on?”
“No time to waste. Hurry, slip into the dress.” Her friend retrieved a huge make-up box from one of the stalls and laid out a collection of tricks and tools across the table next to the sinks.
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ll do you a deal. I’ll tell you in the morning when you dish your secret.”
“Pfft, I give up.” She threw her arms up in defeat then wriggled into the dress. Rachel zipped her in then helped her into a pair of silver open-toe heels.
The ribbed bodice squeezed and pinched, but faked the perfect hourglass figure. Gliding her palms over her curves, she admired her new form. She just hoped whatever Devlin had planned was worth the stabbing pain digging at her ribs.
Rachel pulled and tugged on Liz’s platinum ringlets, twisting in tiny crystals and arranging them so curls cascaded to her shoulders. She watched in the huge mirror, mesmerized by the fluid movements her friend made. A natural at dressing things up, she’d made Liz over in record time.
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