Fighting Irish

by Katy Regnery

  Were you in love with him? Or just in love with the idea of him?

  If she was truly in love with Ben, she knew that her pain should be unbearable now. But it wasn’t; it was bearable. In fact, if she was being honest, there were even moments when she felt more than a twinge of relief, as if part of her had known all along that Ben wouldn’t have been able to make her happy in the long run.

  As the hours on the Summerhaven dock drifted by, Brittany had to admit that what she’d really fallen in love with was a vision of her future that included her adoring pediatrician husband and their two or three lovely children. But while she was daydreaming, she’d lost sight of reality, which included a reluctant, apparently philandering fiancé who was still in love with his ex-wife and had kept his vasectomy a secret from her.

  It only took two days for Brittany to firmly believe what she’d started to recognize the moment she returned her engagement ring to Ben: she had dodged a bullet in losing him.

  Unfortunately, however, that knowledge didn’t totally assuage her pain. Tears still brimmed in her eyes. She was still hurting deeply. And that’s when she realized that her lasting sorrow didn’t stem from Ben’s loss; it was born of a different and more visceral, terrifying place. It was the paralyzing fear of remaining unloved forever.

  Brittany was already insecure after her breakup with Travis, especially after learning of his quick remarriage. Coupled with Ben’s rejection, her self-confidence and self-worth hit an all-time low. Sitting by the lake on her own all weekend, she wondered over and over again:

  What’s wrong with me?

  Am I unlovable?

  Because that’s sure how it feels.

  As she walked back to Lady Margaret from the lake on Sunday evening, she saw Rory’s truck approaching from the main path and paused to say hello when he rolled down the window.

  “Hey, Britt.”

  “Hi, Rory.”

  His beautiful green eyes were troubled but gentle. “I don’t want to bother you, so no pressure…but I’m headed over to Tierney’s for dinner. Just wondering if you’d like to come along.”

  “Oh,” she said, mustering a small smile. “Thank her for me, but I think I’ll stay here.”

  He cocked his head to the side, flicking a glance to Lady Margaret. “There’s no kitchen in there, and I haven’t seen your car leave campus once. What’re you surviving on?”

  “I brought some energy bars from home.”

  Rory pursed his lips and gave her a look. “You can’t live on energy bars. Come on, Britt. Join us. Tierney’s making a roast and mashed potatoes.”

  Mashed potatoes. Swoon. How long had it been since Brittany had dug into a plate of mashed potatoes? Besides, maybe she could use the company of the rowdy but loving Haven siblings.

  “Are you sure? I bet I’ll be crap company.”

  “Ah, Brittany,” he said with an Irish accent that sounded like his mother and made her grin, “our expectations are not pure high. We won’t give out either way. I promise.”

  She wasn’t totally certain what he’d just said, but she had to crack a smile at his persistence. “Okay, fine. I’ll come.”

  “Grand!”

  “Just let me get changed,” she said, looking down and wrinkling her nose at her jeans and T-shirt.

  “No need,” said Rory, hopping from the cab of his truck. “You look fine.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  His eyes started at her feet and slowly tracked up her body, making her feel warm all over. “Positive.”

  Before she could protest again, he pivoted, rounded the front of the truck, and opened her door.

  “I have nothing to bring Tierney,” she said, following him and climbing into the passenger side of his truck. “I hate to go empty-handed.”

  “Tierney won’t expect a thing.”

  “It doesn’t feel right. My mother would throw a fit if she knew I arrived at a dinner party without a hostess gift.”

  “Dinner party,” scoffed Rory. “You’ve got it all wrong. This is just a Sunday supper, not a dinner party. Just a casual family thing.”

  A family thing. Something inside of her squeezed in a way that was painful for a moment and then suddenly lovely, because it was a family thing, wasn’t it? But for once, she wasn’t on the outside looking in; she was invited, she was included, she was welcome.

  “Would you feel better if we stopped at a florist?” asked Rory, backing out of Oxford Row and heading up the main path.

  “I would,” said Brittany. “Oh, but wait! My purse! It’s back at Lady Margaret!”

  Rory chuckled softly. “I’ll make you a loan. I’m fairly certain you’re good for it.”

  Buckling her seat belt, she nodded. “Okay.” She wasn’t dressed for dinner, didn’t have her purse, and had no gift for Tierney. “I’m a mess.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself.” After a few minutes of bouncing along in silence, Rory glanced at her. “Are you doing okay? I’ve been worried about you, but I didn’t want to intrude.”

  “Thanks for that,” she said. “The alone time’s been good for me, actually. I’ve been sorting things out. Getting clarity. And I mean, at least I’m not crying all over you anymore, right?”

  “Never said I minded you crying on me, Britt.”

  “Why are you so sweet?” she asked, blinking away unexpected tears as she looked over at him, her glance resting on his strong, smooth jaw and tracing the lines of his beautiful profile. Her cheeks were still warm from the way he’d just looked at her, but she squelched the tiny thrum of hope from deep, deep within her heart.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Brittany. He’s just being kind to you for old time’s sake, or because you’re a guest at his camp. Don’t read into it.

  You’re nothing special—you should know that by now.

  He shrugged. “I’m nothing special.”

  She would have gasped at the parallel between her thoughts and his words if her whole being hadn’t clenched in protest.

  Rory Haven was special. Always had been. Always would be.

  “Yes, you are,” she said softly, swiping at her tired eyes as she turned to look out the windshield. “Believe me, you are.”

  ***

  As it turned out, coaxing Britt to a family dinner with his siblings was the first step in forcing her out of hiding.

  The next morning, Mrs. Toffle stopped by Brittany’s cabin with a paperback copy of Leylah Attar’s Mists of the Serengeti. She said she hoped that Britt was a fast reader because they’d be discussing it at book group on Thursday night. For the next four days, Rory didn’t see Britt unless she was lugging that beautiful book around the campground.

  From what he heard from Mrs. Toffle on Friday morning, she not only held her own at book club but reduced the other ladies to weeping with her tenderhearted analysis of the main characters.

  More than once he found Brittany standing beneath one of the cottages that Ian was reshingling, gleefully trading insults with his brother like it was her job.

  “…yeah, well, if I see any fancy, hotshot, Boston doctors lingering around, I’ll send them your way.”

  “Oh, you’re so sweet! And if I find a fifth of vodka lying around, I’ll make sure to tell you where you can find it.”

  “Fantastic. Hey, Manion, do you know what shithead doctors and pretentious hotels have in common?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “You.”

  “What do you know? There’s too much blood in your alcohol system.”

  On and on it went—razor-sharp jibes and clever retorts that ended with Brittany giggling and Ian chortling with glee.

  Though Ian’s attention to Britt bugged Rory on one level, he couldn’t help enjoying their repartee. He liked it that Britt wasn’t all sugared peaches and thick cream. She was capable of a little friendly sparring when the mood struck her, and as long as their back-and-forth never crossed a line from sibling-like tussling to something more, Rory enjoyed overhearing it. And he appr
eciated the way her chipper presence seemed to help Ian brood less.

  Two weeks after she’d arrived at Summerhaven, Rory noticed that she’d appear at the north dining room every day at one and leave again a little before two. When he discovered that Chef Jamie was testing new recipes on Brittany, Mrs. Toffle, and his wife, Cheryl, who’d also been coerced into Thursday Night Book Group, Rory made sure to linger near the dining hall around two every day.

  Meeting up with her on the path, he’d walk her back to her cottage, learning little things about her life: where she went to college (Dickinson), the part of Boston she loved best (Cambridge), the name of her first dog (Rodolfo, a grouchy Pekinese), and her favorite ski resort (Smuggler’s Notch in Vermont, which surprised him, since he’d been expecting something tonier, like Aspen or Chamonix). She liked chilled Rieslings from Austria and the occasional Tito’s martini (dirty, with olives). She didn’t mind cold winters but hated hot summers, preferred lakes to the ocean, and chose paperback books over an e-reader because she liked the tactile sensation of paper beneath her fingers.

  After her third Sunday dinner at Tierney’s, Rory strolled over to her cabin on Monday morning with an old, but working, coffeemaker for her room. Not that she’d asked for it, but her gratitude had sure made the gesture worthwhile.

  “Thank you!” she gushed. “I love it.”

  “It’s not a Keurig or anything.”

  “Yes, but now I can have hot coffee,” she said, gesturing to the small army of Starbucks single-serving bottles on her windowsill that she’d been purchasing from the local gas station.

  “And I have something else for you,” he said, hoping that he wasn’t being too forward with his next gesture.

  He knew that she ate breakfast in her cabin, lunch in the dining room with the ladies, dinner with him and his siblings on Wednesdays and Sundays and with the book group on Thursdays, but he wanted her to have a place where she could make herself a meal anytime she wanted.

  Pulling a key to his apartment out of his pocket, he offered it to her. “I want you to use my kitchen anytime you want. You can keep groceries in the fridge and use the stove or microwave. Just come and go as you please, okay?”

  She stared at him, frozen, then glanced down at the key.

  Shit. Was this too much? He wasn’t trying to make a move on her…was he? Fuck, his motivations were getting cloudier by the day.

  “Um. You don’t have to…”

  He started to pull his hand back, but she reached out and covered his hand with hers, gently wrestling open his fingers to reveal the key.

  “You’re awfully good to me, Rory.” His breathing hitched from the tenderness in her big brown eyes, from the way her hand cradled his. She took the key and smiled at him as she slipped it into her pocket. “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said.

  “It’s something to me,” she said softly, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

  “I should have thought of it sooner.” He felt his cheeks flushing and took a deep breath, turning away from her. This woman. Damn, but this woman was so far under his skin by now. “So, uh, come by anytime.”

  The following evening, she’d knocked at his door.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said when he answered.

  “Why didn’t you use your key?” he asked, taking the two bags of groceries from her arms and walking them into the kitchen.

  She shrugged, smiling sheepishly. “Felt funny.”

  “You shouldn’t,” he said. “You should have somewhere to fix yourself something when you’re hungry.”

  That evening, she’d tried making her first frozen meal in the oven but hadn’t removed the food from the plastic container or pulled away the cellophane covering. They were watching an episode of This Is Us when s terrible smell started wafting into the living room from the kitchen, followed by a billow of gray smoke. When Rory had opened the oven, he’d found her dinner in a melted heap of macaroni, cheese, and plastic.

  After he made her a quick omelet and buttered toast so she wouldn’t go hungry, she’d fallen asleep on the couch beside him with her head on his shoulder, the scent of her vanilla shampoo making it impossible to concentrate on anything except for the sweet woman beside him.

  For someone so wealthy, she was surprisingly tender and vulnerable. All Rory wanted to do was wrap her up in his arms, safe and secure, and never let her go. The longing in his heart had become a living, breathing thing that grew day by day until he didn’t live his life by a calendar and watch—he lived it by Brittany.

  At eight, Britt takes her coffee to the dock…

  At ten, Britt takes a jog…

  At one, Britt slips into the dining hall…

  At two, Britt and I take a walk…

  At five on Wednesdays and Sundays, I pick her up for dinner…

  At six on Thursdays, she goes to book club…

  And on and on.

  Little by little, she laughed more and sighed less, her lips tilted up in a warm smile for everyone in the small community of Summerhaven employees. In fact, at some point over the three weeks she’d been staying in Lady Margaret, she’d somehow become the heart of the camp.

  And yet, when she didn’t think anyone was watching, he noted that melancholy was never far behind her sweet smiles and musical giggles. Infinitely less broken than she’d been on the day she arrived, she still seemed cautious, as evidenced by the way she’d shied away from accepting Rory’s first invitation to dinner at Tierney’s or the way she’d scanned his face before accepting the key to his place. Like a puppy who’s been hit one too many times and flinches from a well-meaning hand, he could see that Brittany didn’t quite trust the people around her, though he sensed that she desperately wanted to.

  As far as he could tell, she hadn’t talked to Dr. Douche since arriving at Summerhaven three weeks ago, but he was certain that the gentle but omnipresent melancholy that surrounded her had a great deal to do with the loss of the fiancé she probably still loved.

  Sometimes it annoyed Rory that she missed him. Why should she feel sad about someone who didn’t deserve her? About this asshole who’d hurt her?

  She sighed in her sleep, snuggling closer to Rory on the couch, and his body, already on fire for her, tightened, his blood sluicing to his groin and pooling there like liquid heat. He had feelings for Britt, but he was also wildly attracted to her. Glancing down at his crotch, the uncomfortable evidence of his arousal bulged against his jeans and he grunted softly, easing himself away from her.

  Gently lowering her head to the couch, he slipped a pillow under her blonde waves and covered her body with a blanket. Then he turned off the TV and the lights, taking a long look at his beautiful Brittany before whispering, “Oíche mhaith, mo mhuirnín.”

  “Night, Rory,” she whispered back in her sleep. “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Even though he’d insisted about a hundred times that she should just use her key and walk in the door of his apartment, Brittany still felt like she should knock on the door when she knew Rory was home. As days turned into weeks, she’d compromised by cracking the door and calling, “Rory? It’s me” every time she stopped by, which was almost every night.

  “In here,” he called from the kitchen.

  “Sorry to bother you,” she said, hanging her jacket on a peg by the front door and toeing off her shoes before walking through the living room toward the sound of his voice.

  “You’re not a bother, Britt. You know that.”

  She peeked around the doorway into the kitchen. “I was hoping to make myself a grilled cheese for dinner.”

  He looked up from where he sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, surrounded by paperwork, and so handsome, he took her breath away. His eyes sparkled when he grinned at her.

  “Are you going to take the cellophane off the cheese slices first?”

  “That was over a week ago!” she protested. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are yo
u?”

  “Probably not,” he said, smiling at her over the rim of his coffee mug as he took a sip. “Is this one of Jamie’s recipes?”

  “Nope. Cheryl. But I promise you, it’s so good, you won’t believe it. You want one?” She put her hands on her hips, giving him what she hoped was a sharp look. “If you say no, you’re missing out, boyo.”

  “Boyo? Now where’d you pick that up from?”

  She chuckled, squatting down to open the cabinet that held the frying pans. “Ian, probably.”

  “Bad bloody influence,” muttered Rory.

  Brittany looked up in time to see him checking out her ass and gave him a sassy look as she stood up. “See anything you like?”

  “Plenty,” he said, his eyes darkening just a touch.

  “Cheeky,” she replied, turning around to face the stove so he wouldn’t see the bloom of pleasure in her cheeks.

  She lit the burner as Rory had taught her and let the pan heat up as she turned to the refrigerator and withdrew a loaf of multigrain bread and deli-sliced packages of cheddar and gruyere cheese she’d purchased from the gourmet market in Holderness.

  “So?” she prompted, leaning over the table to grab the butter that sat in a dish near his papers. “You want?”

  “I want,” said Rory, his voice low, his breathing deep and audible as she picked up the butter, straightened, and stepped back from the table.

  A dozen of butterflies took flight in her stomach at the look on his face.

  “Rory?” she murmured, wondering if you could drown in someone else’s eyes.

  He stared at her for a beat before looking away and answering with a gravelly voice, “Yes, I want a sandwich.”

  She turned back to the stove, her heart galloping as she put the sandwiches together and placed the first one in the frying pan. “You’re working hard.”

  His voice was back to normal when he answered. “Mm-hm. The Carrolls. Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Carroll are celebrating their sixtieth anniversary here this weekend…with fifty of their closest friends and family members.”