Fighting Irish

by Katy Regnery

  “Thanks, Mrs. T,” answered Rory.

  Mrs. Toffle set the walkie-talkie back in its charger before glancing up at Brittany again. “He’s not seeing anyone, you know. He was, but now he’s not.”

  She blinked at the older lady. “What? I didn’t—”

  “Oh, I know you didn’t ask. I just thought you might want to know.” She straightened the reservations. “He also dated someone in college, but it wasn’t serious. I don’t believe there’s ever been someone serious in Rory’s life.”

  Brittany told her mouth to say “How interesting. Have a nice day” and begged her feet to move, but neither obeyed. She just stood at the counter, watching Mrs. Toffle straighten up her desk, hoping for more covert information.

  “Oh?” she prompted.

  “He had big dreams, you know, of starting a chain of camps like Summerhaven. Graduated at the top of his class. Cornell. That’s Ivy League. Yes. He even had funding lined up from some bigwigs in New York City. But then Colleen had her stroke, and Ted wouldn’t leave her side. It was either shut the gates of Summerhaven, or…” She sighed.

  “Wait. A chain of camps?” asked Brittany.

  “Mm-hm. Conference center camps. For business-minded city folks to have retreats and such.”

  Brittany’s mind processed this idea quickly, and it only took a minute for her to realize that it was a solid business plan. Strategically placed within an hour or two of major cities, conference centers based on Summerhaven’s model could be a successful venture. No wonder he’d had funding lined up. Nobody was offering this, but there was a definite market for it.

  “So…what happened?”

  “He made the responsible choice and gave up his dream. He came home and took over the running of Summerhaven. Oh, he implemented some of his ideas here, but he didn’t have time to start a new business while keeping this one afloat.”

  “Oh,” murmured Brittany, her heart aching for Rory. She knew something about giving up on the dreams closest to her heart, and she was sorry he’d had to do the same. Not that she was surprised. For Rory—and all of the Havens—family would always come first. Never, in her whole life, had she met a man who had his priorities so well defined. It made her feel safe most of the time. Except for now. Right now it made her feel sad. “That’s too bad.”

  “He’s a good man,” said Mrs. Toffle, looking up from her desk to meet Brittany’s eyes. “The best. He’d do anything for his family…for the people he loves.”

  “I know that,” said Brittany, thinking about the first day she’d come back to Summerhaven and how Rory had left a conference to her care so that he could help Tierney with Ian.

  “Well, dear,” said Mrs. Toffle, ending their conversation, “that group’s coming in a few hours. Work to do. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course.” Brittany straightened, taking a step away from the counter. “Thanks, Mrs. Toffle.”

  “He’d never have told you, dear.”

  Brittany turned back around. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve worked for the Havens since before Rory was born, and I know that man inside and out.”

  “I’m still not following you, Mrs.—”

  “Rory would never let down someone he loves. Never risk hurting them. Never. As I told you, he’d give up his own dreams before he’d let that happen.”

  …someone he loves.

  Was Mrs. Toffle suggesting that Rory loved her? And that he hadn’t shared his plans with her because knowledge of them could somehow hurt her? Before she could process such an outlandish, breathtaking idea, the phone rang, and Mrs. Toffle answered it with a chipper, “Good morning! Summerhaven Conference Center!”

  Her thoughts swirling in her head, Brittany reviewed Mrs. Toffle’s words as she stepped through the screen door and onto the office porch. As she stood in the spring sunshine, clutching the ghost key for Oxford Row in her hand, her own words, shared with Rory weeks ago, rushed back to her:

  Some men are intimidated by it—the name, the money, the hotels, the fame—and others just want to use you.

  That was it.

  In her bones, she knew it.

  That’s what Mrs. Toffle was trying to say: if Brittany and Rory ever got together, he’d give up on his dreams before he’d let her believe—even for a moment—that he’d used her to make them happen.

  ***

  The flowers Brittany had arranged and placed in the cottages yesterday were a wonderful touch, mused Rory, though he hadn’t had a chance to thank her yet. Between the check-ins yesterday and dinner last night, followed by a campfire with s’mores, Rory had been too busy to do more than wave at her as they passed on the main path.

  Today was just as busy.

  In addition to a buffet breakfast and barbecue lunch, the Carrolls had hired a hay wagon for rides around the camp, and Sven and Klaus were leading some of the older grandchildren and great-grandchildren on the ropes course. The dinner dance tonight required the setup of rentals in the barn, and when the bartender canceled at the last minute, Rory had to ask Doug to step in.

  By the time nine o’clock rolled around, Rory stood outside the barn, exhausted but gratified, watching Carrolls of all ages dancing to music of the 1950s while tipsy revelers occasionally stepped up to a microphone to make an impromptu toast.

  It had been a good weekend all in all, though he hadn’t seen as much of Brittany as he would have liked. Then again, after their dance on Thursday night, maybe she needed a little space from him. The thing was, Rory really didn’t want any space from her.

  After admitting his feelings to Ian, he’d taken ownership of them quickly. He loved her. For the first time in his life, he was in love. And he was willing to walk the tightrope between what he wanted and how best to have it, because in the end—as Ian had said—Rory wanted to be standing with Brittany beside him.

  “Hey!”

  Looking over his shoulder, he was surprised to see the very object of his thoughts—dressed in jeans and a Summerhaven sweatshirt—approaching through the shadows of light cast by the lights they’d hung in the barn. Her blonde hair was back in a ponytail, and she looked so fresh and lovely, his heart lurched and stuttered.

  I love her, it whispered. I love you.

  “Hey,” he said, holding out his hand to her.

  She took it, lacing her fingers through his as she approached the barn to stand beside him. They stood side by side, connected by entwined fingers, watching in the darkness as the Carrolls celebrated a long and happy marriage.

  “Sixty years,” she said. “Isn’t that something?”

  “It is.” Rory nodded. “You know, my parents have been together for thirty.”

  “Mine didn’t even make it to five,” she said ruefully.

  “Their fate doesn’t have to be yours. Maybe someday you’ll be back here celebrating your sixtieth wedding anniversary, Britt.”

  She laughed softly beside him. “At the rate I’m going, I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  It hurt him to hear her pick on herself, but he wasn’t sure how to make it better, so he squeezed her hand gently, hoping to convey that he was there for her, that he was on her side.

  “Everything’s gone great this weekend,” she said.

  When he glanced down, she was grinning at the festivities, her lovely face lit by the lights they’d hung up together. His heart filled with so much love for her, he was surprised that it could still beat, still function. “Yeah. It’s been good.”

  “You’ve been busy,” she said, looking up at him.

  They were still holding hands—for no reason at all except that they felt like it, that they wanted to. He was so aware of the softness of her palm pressed against the callouses on his, he almost couldn’t concentrate on their small talk. The skin-to-skin contact made his heart thrum, made his mind go wild, thinking of other, more intimate skin-to-skin contact he’d like to have with her. And he wondered what it meant to her—did holding hands mean that they were friends who liked each o
ther? Or did it mean infinitely more to her, as it did to him?

  “The work’s a pleasure, though. I love groups like this one.”

  “I haven’t asked you a lot about college,” she said, “but you studied hospitality, right?”

  “I did.”

  “You’re very good at it, Rory. The changes you’ve made here at Summerhaven—they’re wonderful. And the way you handle these groups is wonderful too. You have a knack for it.”

  In all of their conversations, he’d never told her about his plan to open a chain of Summerhaven-style camps across the country. He’d never want Brittany to suspect—even for a second—that his feelings for her were born out of her possible usefulness. She’d had enough disappointment from men: her father, her first husband, her latest fiancé. He didn’t want a place on that list. Until he’d managed to present his ideas and get funding from one of the VC funds in Boston or New York, he didn’t intend to ever mention it to her at all.

  He squeezed her hand a little tighter. “I was sorry our dance got interrupted on Thursday night.”

  She gulped softly beside him. “Me too.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to.…” He bit his bottom lip, taking the plunge and hoping like hell that his timing wasn’t off. “Would you like to go out on a date with me?”

  “A real date?” she asked. “Like, the romantic kind or the hanging-lights kind?”

  “The romantic kind,” he said, chuckling softly at the memory of her insisting that Thursday night wasn’t a date.

  “When?” she asked, and he knew her well enough by now to hear the warmth in her voice, the happiness that he so wanted for her.

  “Monday night?” he asked. “I’m free if you are.”

  The guests would be gone by then, and he could focus all of his attention on Brittany.

  “You know I am,” she murmured. “And yes. I’d like that a lot.”

  A bolt of something awesome shot through him like lightning, and he felt electrified by the sensation.

  She said yes. And right this second, yes was the best word in the whole wide world.

  “Yeah?” he asked, stepping in front of her so that his body was facing hers, blocking some of the light from the barn with his back.

  “Yeah,” she said, staring straight ahead at his throat as Sam Cooke’s “You Send Me” started playing in the barn.

  Reaching forward, he placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his. Shiny and dark in the dim light, her eyes met his, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

  This time, he wasn’t missing his chance to kiss her.

  Cupping her cheek in his palm, he lowered his head, his nose nuzzling against hers. He breathed her in—the light scent of her vanilla shampoo, the tea with honey she must have had after dinner before walking over to the barn. Her breath hitched and held, and he encircled her waist with his arm, pulling her closer as his lips touched down on hers for the first time.

  Honey and tea, sweet woman and requited longing. The softness of her lips beneath his as he brushed his softly over hers. Her fingers unclasped his, sliding up his bare arm and sending shivers down his spine. Her other hand met its mate at the back of his neck, and she laced them together, holding him closer and urging him to deepen the kiss.

  Wrapping both arms around her, he slid his tongue into her mouth, seeking hers, groaning softly when she answered his silent plea. She whimpered into his mouth, her back arching as he tilted his head the other way, sealing his mouth over hers again. Their tongues danced in sensual rhythm until the song neared its end and they drew apart from one another breathlessly.

  “I wanted to do that on Thursday night,” he said, the words gritty with emotion as he gazed into her eyes. “God, Britt, I wanted to do that so badly.”

  “Me too,” she sighed, resting her head on his shoulder, her body molded perfectly to his.

  The rocked back and forth to the last strains of “You Send Me,” still holding each other when the music ended.

  “Was it worth the wait?” she whispered, her voice warm and sweet, her breath dusting the base of his throat.

  “Yeah, it was,” he murmured, his heart beating wildly against hers. “It’s late. I should get you home.”

  When the music switched to something upbeat, Rory stepped away from her, keeping her hand in his as he steered them toward the path in the woods that led to the office. They didn’t speak much on the walk back to Lady Margaret, but Rory felt the fullness of his heart as she walked beside him, the promise of their upcoming date doing crazy things to his insides.

  When they reached her door, they stopped in front of each other, with Rory looking down at her upturned face.

  “I keep having these flashbacks to being a teenager,” he said.

  “We never did any of this when we were kids.”

  “We did in my dreams,” he admitted. Fuck, that was cheesy. But then Britt made it all better by confessing:

  “Mine too.”

  He grimaced. “I’m dying to kiss you again, but if I do, I’ll want to stay for hours and kiss you all night long. And unfortunately, I need to get back to the Carrolls.”

  She smiled at him, her face luminous in the moonlight. “What time on Monday?”

  “I’ll pick you up at six?”

  She nodded, pulling her key from her hip pocket. “Perfect.”

  “Night, Britt. Mo mhuirnín.”

  “Good night, Rory,” she whispered.

  Turning to leave, he walked a short distance away from her cottage before whipping back around and covering the space between them. He grabbed her by the waist and hauled her up against his body before she could disappear inside. Dropping his lips to hers hungrily, he captured them in a fierce, wild kiss.

  Her arms were trapped between them, her hands on his chest, but her fingers curled into his shirt as the kiss deepened, as he explored the hidden recesses of her sweet mouth, claiming them and making them his. She moaned her pleasure, and Rory reached for her ass, lifting her against the door, groaning when she wrapped her legs around his waist.

  She tangled her hands in his hair, arching her back so that her breasts rubbed against his chest, wild images of her naked making him so hard that there was no way for her to mistake his arousal between them.

  She whimpered into his mouth, slowing their kiss while sliding her hands to his cheeks and palming his face tenderly. She smiled at him, her lips red and slick, her eyes drugged and deep.

  “Rory,” she whispered, feathering her lips along his jawline to his throat where she kissed his throbbing pulse before pressing her lips to his one last time. When she drew back and spoke, her voice was breathless and needy. “I want you to stay…but I know you should go.”

  “Monday,” he murmured, hating all the seconds between now and then.

  Slowly, he loosened his grip on her so that she slid down his body, though he kept his hands on her waist until her feet touched the ground. Only when she was standing on her own did he let go and take a step back from her.

  “Good night.”

  Her chest rose and fell quickly as she waved good-bye, leaning back against the cottage door as he disappeared into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 13

  “So, you mean to tell me that you’re holding my ice cream hostage?” asked Brittany, giving Rory what she hoped was a very disapproving look.

  He grinned at her with a devilish gleam in his eyes. “Yep. And you don’t get it until you kiss me.”

  “Are there no levels of deprivation you won’t stoop to?”

  “For a kiss? From you? Hmm.” His lips twitched and he squinted his eyes as though in deep thought. Finally he shook his head. “Nope. I’m pretty much willing to do anything.”

  She giggled, then bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling. “Well…I do love ice cream.”

  “And it’s your favorite flavor too,” he said nonchalantly, blocking the TV show they’d been watching as he stood in front of her with two bowls of cookies and cream. />
  “Giffords?”

  He scoffed like she was being ridiculous. “We’re in New England. Is there any other kind?”

  Unable to hold back her smile anymore, she uncurled herself from her cozy position on his couch and took the two bowls from his hands. She set them down on the coffee table, then wound her arms around Rory’s neck, looking deeply into his eyes.

  “Want to know something true, Rory Haven?”

  His arms encircled her, holding her close, his eyes darkening as they looked into hers. “Yep.”

  “I like you more than Giffords cookies and cream.”

  He licked his lips, his eyes alighting on her mouth and lingering. “Is that a fact, Brittany Manion?”

  “Mm-hm,” she purred. “In fact…” She leaned up on tiptoes and kissed his right cheek. “I like you more”—she drew back only to press her lips to his left—“than anything.”

  His arms tightened around her as his mouth crashed down on hers possessively, claiming her fiercely, completely, his tongue meeting hers with a practiced sweep that came from the dozens of kisses they’d shared since Saturday night and their date on Monday. Brittany melted against him, the hard wall of his chest pushing against the softness of her breasts, a low sound of longing rumbling up from her throat. If she thought that she’d experienced happiness prior to this week, she knew it was only a crumb compared to the feast before her now. He had shifted the entire tilt of her world on its axis, and she saw everything from a different angle than before, like she’d been reborn or reprogrammed, like she’d never truly known how it felt to be loved before now.

  His fingers curled into fists on her lower back and she arched against him, leaning her head to the side so that his lips could blaze a trail down the column of her throat, making her shiver with want. She threaded her fingers through the silk of his thick, dark hair, inhaling sharply when he sucked her ear lobe between his teeth and bit gently before claiming her lips again.

  Finally he drew back, pressing his lips to her forehead before pulling her against him. His voice rumbled, low and thick with emotion, when he said, “I’m mad for you, Britt.”