Fighting Irish

by Katy Regnery

E-mails? Yes. A little number 5 in a red bubble raised her hopes. She pressed the app with anticipation, releasing a sigh of disappointment when she discovered they were all junk.

  Calls? None.

  Texts? None.

  She sighed, cold discontent creeping into her warm, comfy morning.

  Be reasonable, she told herself. You and Ben almost never e-mail, call, or text while he’s working a double. He’s too busy, and you know it.

  And yet…

  She still felt bothered. She’d slept somewhere else last night and he had no idea. Shouldn’t he have known where she was? Shouldn’t they have connected? Why shouldn’t he call her just to say hello? She was his fiancée, after all. A text to say “Miss you. Love you. Good night” would literally take less than ten seconds to type, but it would let her know that she was on his mind, that he was thinking of her.

  Unless he wasn’t.

  Now, if he was thinking about his young patients, immersed in thoughts of their care and treatment? She could accept that. Cheerfully, even. But even Brittany wasn’t that naïve. Everyone had ten unspoken-for seconds in their day. Ben just didn’t choose to spend them on her.

  A soft rap at the door jolted her from her unsettling thoughts.

  “Britt?” whispered a husky, morning-voiced Rory. “You up? If yes, there’s coffee and I’m making biscuits. If no, sleep in.”

  She placed her phone back on the nightstand, screen down, and hopped out of bed, opening the door.

  Rory stood in the hallway, his thick hair sleep-tousled, a rogue, dark-brown lock resting on his forehead. He wore a long-sleeved, navy-blue T-shirt pushed up to his elbows, with blue-and-gray plaid flannel pants. Her eyes, drawn to a vein that wound around his muscled forearm, stared for a moment before she jerked her head up, blinking up at him.

  “Good morning.”

  He smiled at her. “Good morning.” He ran a hand through his hair, then gestured to the kitchen with a flick of his neck. “Coffee?”

  “Mm-hm,” she hummed, but stepping from Tierney’s carpeted room to the hardwood hallway floor made her gasp. “Cold!”

  “Wait,” said Rory, placing his hands on her hips and pushing her back a step.

  He slid his hands away and sidestepped past her into Tierney’s room, opening his sister’s closet and bending down. When he stood up, he was holding a pair of leather slippers lined with fluffy sheepskin. “Put these on.”

  Her body had reacted when he’d reached for her, hyperaware of where he touched her—her breath stolen by the sweet and simple intimacy of it. It left her, inexplicably, longing for more.

  I’m attracted to Rory…but I shouldn’t be. The thought flitted through her head, but she silenced it, ignored it, reaching for the slippers that dangled from his fingers.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Floors are cold year-round,” he said. “It’s nice in August.”

  The timer on the oven started beeping and Rory grinned. “Biscuits. Don’t expect anything too fancy. They’re the kind that come in the Pillsbury tube, but I’ve got comp’ny butter and honey too.”

  Following him into the kitchen, with Tierney’s slippers scuffling softly with her steps, Brittany asked, “What’s ‘company’ butter?”

  “Oh,” he said, putting on mitts before opening the oven door, “it’s butter that’s been left out on the counter all night so it softens. Spreads really easily.”

  “Slutty butter,” she murmured, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “I don’t know where that came from!”

  “Ha!” He chuckled in surprise, shaking his head in bemusement. “Slutty butter. You’re…different from what I thought.”

  Different. Right. I make totally inappropriate comments about breeding and promiscuous food items. I’m different, all right.

  “It doesn’t go bad? The butter?” asked Brittany, turning her back to him as she took the empty mug beside the coffeepot and poured herself a cup.

  “Bad?” Rory placed a cookie sheet of six browned biscuits on the counter. “Nope.”

  When she turned to look at him, a mischievous smile played on his face, making his eyes sparkle. Likely, he was about to make a joke about “bad” butter, but she was grateful he didn’t. She was embarrassed enough as it was.

  He gestured to the table and they sat down across from each other, Rory sliding a white ceramic plate to her that held one perfect buttermilk biscuit. Opening the flaky layers, she inhaled deeply as the butter-flavored steam rose to her nose. Spreading some butter on the hot bread, she watched it melt and pool immediately, her mouth watering.

  “Looks good, right?” he asked, pushing the honey to her. “Have some of this too. It’s local.”

  She took the honey wand from the little pot and drizzled some over the biscuit, watching it seep into the buttery layers. “I never eat carbs, but this looks amazing.”

  As she bit into it, a stream of hot, buttery honey escaped down her chin and she reached for a paper napkin, dabbing at her face.

  “Taking a bath in it, huh?” said Rory, grinning at her.

  “It’s messy.”

  “But tasty,” he said, leaning over his plate to take another bite. “Why don’t you eat carbs?”

  Ben had once made a comment to her about how petite women needed to be careful about what they ate, because it didn’t take long for them to balloon once they started eating whatever looked good. She’d weighed in the next morning to find that she’d gained a few pounds over the months they’d been dating. After that, she went on a strict no-carbs diet, and Ben hadn’t mentioned her weight again.

  “Don’t you find slim women more attractive?”

  “Is that what your fiancé wants? A slim woman?” he asked, his tone cool.

  The answer was yes, but she sidestepped his question out of loyalty to Ben. “I think that’s what most men want.”

  “Then I guess I’m not most men,” said Rory, his eyes darkening as he stared at her over biscuits, slutty butter, and honey, “because I like a woman to look like a woman…and that means curves.”

  Brittany’s breath caught as she got lost in his stormy forest-green eyes. “Really?”

  Rory nodded slowly, his eyes locked with hers. “Yeah. Really.”

  Ruffled by this intense attention, Brittany picked up her coffee mug, concentrating on the warm ceramic in her hands as she took a sip. When she looked up, Rory was drizzling more honey on his biscuit.

  “So,” she asked, “what’s on the docket for today?”

  Rory glanced up between bites. “Breakfast at nine in the north dining room, followed by a presentation. If the rain stops after lunch, Sven and Klaus are leading them in a ropes course. Trust exercises.”

  “Sven and Klaus?”

  “These German brothers who live down in Meredith. They own an adventure business. I hire them for groups.”

  “I didn’t know Summerhaven had a ropes course.”

  Rory nodded. “I added it. Corporate types love it.”

  “Ah-ha. And then?”

  “Afternoon break-out sessions in the south dining room and barn, free time for all attendees, and then the farewell dinner in the north dining room at six. They leave after breakfast on Sunday morning.”

  “Whew,” said Brittany, taking another sip of her coffee. “Busy agenda.”

  Rory nodded, glancing at his watch, then at the leftover biscuits. “You know what? It’s only seven fifteen. I think I’ll run over to Tierney’s real quick. Bring them breakfast.”

  “Oh,” said Brittany, assuming this was her cue to pack up and hit the road. “Well, thanks for having me overnight.”

  Rory was taking their dishes to the sink, but he spun around, his eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t have to go yet, do you?”

  “I thought—”

  “No,” said Rory. “You’re welcome here. You can stay as long as you like…I mean, unless you need to get back.”

  But A Better Tomorrow was in good hands, and her only real “job” from now until M
emorial Day weekend was to plan her wedding. Not to mention, with Ben working, she didn’t have anyone to go home to.

  “You wouldn’t mind if I stayed another night?”

  “Not at all,” said Rory, his face softening, his eyes holding hers. “My rushing off to help Tierney cut short our meeting yesterday. If you don’t have to go yet, I’m happy to introduce you to two local florists. And, let’s see…Pastor Greene at the Congregational Church has officiated in the chapel here in the past. We could swing by his church to check his schedule too. And there’s a photographer in Holderness who’s quite good. We could go see her too.”

  “Yes! I’d like that,” said Brittany, offering him a smile. She tilted her head to the side. “But first, could I…”

  “Could you…?”

  “Could I go with you? To see Tierney and Ian?”

  She didn’t know what had prompted her to make such a request of him; she remembered Ian as a mischievous troublemaker and Tierney as an introvert. Maybe it was just curiosity, or maybe she wanted the chance to see Rory with his siblings. She’d had so little experience with family, and theirs had always fascinated her.

  Rory sighed. “Ian’s not going to look good.”

  “One of the foundations I started in Boston is called A Better Tomorrow. We work with recovering addicts, helping them get their lives back on track once they’ve chosen sobriety,” she said gently. “I don’t have any expectations. I just…I don’t know. Maybe a visit would cheer him up? I’d just like to help.”

  Her words rang in her ears, absurd and embarrassing to her as she reviewed them. She didn’t know Ian Haven. She wasn’t a doctor. She was an heiress who’d thrown some money at a few good causes. That didn’t mean Rory Haven would or should feel comfortable bringing her to his sister’s house to visit his brother.

  Her cheeks and earlobes burned, no doubt scarlet. Why would Ian Haven want a visit from some girl he probably didn’t even remember? God, how incredibly presumptuous of her to even ask.

  “I’m out of line,” she said in a rush. “I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

  But when she looked up at Rory, he was staring at her with a soft expression, his eyes almost tender.

  “Not at all,” he said softly, taking a step toward her. “I’m glad you did. I’d love for you to come.”

  CHAPTER 7

  If anything can lift Ian’s mood and encourage his sobriety, thought Rory as his truck bumped over the dirt path form the office to Summerhaven’s exit, it’s a visit from beautiful Brittany Manion.

  At least, that was Rory’s hope.

  Unlike Rory, who’d followed their mother’s instructions about “no fraternizin’” to the letter, Ian had secretly dated a couple of Summerhaven campers during his teen years, though Rory was fairly certain that Brittany wasn’t on the list. Fairly.

  Hmm. He glanced over at her, wearing the same chic clothes she wore yesterday, and grimaced. The idea of Ian and Brittany together—ten years ago or at any other time—made Rory want to clench his fists and slam them in Ian’s face.

  “Hey,” he said, eyes on the road, “you, uh, you never dated my brother, did you?”

  “Irresistible Ian?” she asked, invoking the nickname Rory had often heard whispered. “No, sir,” she said, shaking her head. “I might have been a relatively naïve teenager, but I knew trouble when I saw it.”

  “And Ian was trouble?”

  She turned to him, giving him a deadpan look. “Do bears poop in the woods?”

  Rory chortled merrily, surprised to hear the word poop drop from Brittany’s lips. “Yes. Yes, they do.”

  “Besides,” she said, grinning at him for a moment before looking out the window, “he wasn’t my type.”

  Who is?

  The question sat right on the tip of Rory’s tongue, but he swallowed it. He already knew the answer: Boston doctors with successful careers who liked their women skinny.

  “Tell me about your fiancé,” he said, already disliking the guy more than he had a right to.

  “Umm…well, he’s a doctor.”

  “Right. You told me that.”

  “And he has two daughters.”

  “Yep. That too.” He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel as he turned onto the main road. “How’d you meet? What’s he like?”

  “Oh,” she said, clearing her throat. “We met at a bar on New Year’s Eve. He, um, he works a lot. He’s an emergency room pediatrician.”

  Rory was silent. Maybe she was just warming up to the topic, but she wasn’t really telling him much. If anything, she was giving him a brief résumé of Dr. Not-Good-Enough, not a sketch of their relationship, which was what he wanted.

  “What do you two do for fun?”

  “We, um…well, when he’s not working, we have dinner together. And, you know, watch TV or read before bed.”

  “Does he play sports?”

  “Yes! He’s on a hospital softball league.”

  “And you?”

  “I love skiing, but Ben doesn’t ski, so…”

  So you don’t anymore. Well, that sucks. Couldn’t he have made the effort to learn?

  “I love skiing too.”

  “You practically have to, living in New Hampshire,” she said, grinning at him for a moment. She looked out the window and sighed. “I guess we don’t do a whole lot together, but he’s a good man. He saves children for a living, and he doesn’t mind, you know, about me. About who I am.”

  “Doesn’t mind about what? What are you?”

  “I’m…” She gestured to herself loosely with her hands, finally placing one palm flat on her chest. “…you know…”

  Rory idled at a stoplight, turning to look at Brittany. “A gorgeous, smart, kindhearted woman?”

  She gasped softly, eyes wide, her parted lips tilting up in a growing smile. “You’re very nice.”

  “I’m just being honest.”

  She dropped Rory’s eyes, staring down at her lap for a moment before looking up. “Ben doesn’t mind that I’m a Manion.”

  Rory wasn’t positive he hadn’t heard her correctly. “Excuse me?”

  “That I’m a Manion. He doesn’t mind.”

  “Mind? Why would he mind in the first place?”

  “Are you kidding?” she asked, her voice so low and serious it made a knot form in his stomach.

  “No. I’m not kidding.” Why the fuck would Dr. Douche give a shit what her last name is? What does it matter?

  “Do you have any idea how many times Paris Hilton has broken up with someone because they were just using her to further their own interests? She just got engaged. At thirty-six. I mean, that’s not young, Rory! Her sister, Nicky, married a financier a few years ago. Someone as wealthy as she is—no doubt in part so that she wouldn’t have to worry about his motives. Some men are intimidated by it—the name, the money, the hotels, the fame—and others just want to use you,” she said, taking a deep, ragged breath and letting it go slowly.

  He’d hit a soft spot. He owed her an apology.

  “Britt, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”

  “Ben’s financially comfortable,” she continued. “He makes a good living as a doctor and he has a bit of inherited money. I don’t have to worry about him.”

  But is he right for you? Why was it that Rory couldn’t shake the feeling that Ben was all wrong for her?

  “I get it…” said Rory.

  “So, you understand why I—”

  “…but I also think you could be letting fear make your decisions. You’re a Manion. Okay. Fine. But you’re a lot more than a last name, Britt. You saved my ass yesterday. And this morning, you offered to come and cheer up my brother. You’re kind and you’re helpful, and I think…I mean, I don’t know you that well, and you could be a nightmare in disguise, but…”

  Her brown eyes seized on his, hanging on his words. “But what?”

  “From what I can tell, you seem pretty awesome. And frankly, I care more about who you are than who you’re r
elated to.”

  The light changed to green, and he pressed on the gas as she shifted slowly in her seat to face him. He felt her eyes on him, steady and searching. In his peripheral vision, he could see the swell of her breasts rise and fall, as though testing the air between them, like it could tell her if he was being truthful. When he didn’t look back at her, she rested her back against the seat once again, facing front.

  “A nightmare in disguise, huh?” Her voice was warm and soft, tinged with humor. “What does that look like?”

  Nothing like you. You’re all daydream, mo mhuirnín.

  Pulling up the gate at Moonstone Manor, he punched in his code, recalling Brittany’s use of Ian’s old nickname, “Irresistible Ian.” He doubted that his brother would be very irresistible today. As the old gates opened, he turned to her, eyebrows raised in warning.

  “I think you’re about to find out.”

  After parking, Rory hopped out of the truck, then circled it to open Brittany’s door, offering her his hand and grateful when she took it. It was small and soft in his, and when she stepped out of the truck and dropped it, the contact ended all too soon.

  “Remember,” he said as they approached the cottage, suddenly worried about the greeting she was about to receive, “he’s only been—”

  “Damn, Rory!” boomed Ian’s voice. “Who’s this fine piece of woman?”

  Snapping his neck toward Tierney’s house, Rory found Ian, in sweat pants and a T-shirt with a patchwork quilt around his shoulders, holding the door open. Ian didn’t look great—his skin was sort of a grayish color, and his eyes were weary and bloodshot—but he grinned wolfishly at Brittany, then winked at Rory.

  “Ian,” said Rory. “Behave yourself, eh?”

  Ian snorted at his brother, refocusing his attention on Brittany. “I am the much more handsome and much more fun of the famous Haven brothers. Ian Haven. And you are?”

  “Brittany Mathison—er, Manion.”

  “All riiiight.” Ian’s eyes took a leisurely sweep of her body. “Brittany Manion.”

  “In the flesh,” she answered. She stood on the stoop outside the cottage with her back to Rory, facing Ian. Over her shoulder, Rory gave his brother a look, telling him to back—the fuck—off, and stepped a little closer to Britt.