by Frankie Love
And 2) I should look away because the man who was shouting is also delicious. Possibly more delicious than the beer, if you brush aside the whole yelling thing. Which I’m not going to do. It’s rude to yell.
I take a sip of the beer and it slides down my throat, and for a moment my shoulders relax and I think: Okay, calm the fuck down, Clover. Tomorrow you’re gonna go find a rainbow. It will make up for the last month of no rainbows; of an entire life of black cats and bad omens. None of that is going to matter anymore because now you’re gonna get it. You are gonna get what you’ve always been after. Luck.
Some good fucking luck.
“Lass, come take a seat with me, my friends won’t be coming back over here.” He pats the stool next to him. Gah. Should I sit with the Irishman, with the shouting and the beard and the delicious looking face that I could just eat?
My stomach growls.
I’m pretty hungry. I turn back to the bartender, ignoring the sexy Irish man and ask, “You have any food?”
The bartender looks at me like I’m a fool. Which I probably am. “Would you like a meat pie?”
“Yes,” I answer promptly. “I would love a meat pie.”
The Irishman next to me grins, patting the stool again. Which, come on, that’s pretty aggressive. Pretty cocky. He thinks because he has a yummy face and sexy accent that I’ll just sit next to him?
I scrunch up my face, offering him a visual of my thought process.
I have a beer and a meat pie and a backpack that’s literally falling off my shoulders.
And I was on a shitty bus all day, all alone. Sitting next to this guy wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
Not that I’d tell him that.
So, being the independent woman that I am, I roll my eyes, drop the pack to the ground, throw my map on the bar, and sit next to this shouting, delicious man.
“You want a meat pie?” he asks. “Because I have one I could offer.” He grins knowing he’s as cute as I think he is.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve come to learn that is the problem with Irishmen. They know their accent makes women’s pussies dripping wet and their ovaries melt. These men know their eyes sparkle. And this one? He seems to have the sparkliest eyes I’ve ever seen. Eyes that look like they are up to no good.
“Is meat pie like a euphemism for penis? Because honestly, it’s not that funny,” I tell him, offering an intentionally blank face because I don’t play games. Not anymore. Not now. Not after Julian and his lies and the mess of my life back in New York. Not after failing so many times.
I stopped playing games the moment I bought the ticket to Ireland.
I stopped playing games because they got me nowhere. Me? I’m going to turn my luck around without any games.
I’m certainly not going to eat anyone’s meat pies. I’ll stick to my own meat pie, thank you very much.
Look, I’m not saying I’m going to eat myself out or anything. First, I’m not that bendy, and second, the only thing I wanna eat right now is the literal meat pie the bartender is serving me.
And I plan to eat it like a normal, rational woman with an appetite for flaky, buttery crusts and warm, tender morsels of beef.
Why does this all sound so sexual?
I look up at the sexy Irishman. Oh.
Instead of saying something I’ll regret, I pick up my fork and take a bite.
It is mouthwateringly delicious.
Just like the Irishman’s face.
Have I mentioned how edible he looks?
“Okay, lass, you don’t have to eat my pie,” he tells me, laughing, and then picking up a fork of his own and digging into his own meat pie.
Oh. It wasn’t a euphemism.
I look up at him, watching the forkful pass his kissable lips.
Okay. So, I’m an idiot.
He smiles, winks, wiggles his brows, and dammit he was talking about his dick. “What?” he asks, his voice all charming and smooth. “I was willing to share is all.”
I huff at him, rolling my eyes.
He sets his hand on my arm, tilting his head to the side, shrugging so slightly, it’s like he knows he is handsome as hell. “Don’t leave, lass, let me buy you a drink first.”
His friends have long since stood from the floor, and they’re now looking at us a little maniacally, but the Irishman just brushes them away, turning to me.
“They’re drunk as fools. That’s my brother, Patrick.” A man with a slender face and the same light hair as the man on the stool next to me waves as if I amuse him. “And the other lad, that’s Sean. He’s been my friend since I was wee.” The sexy Irishman waves a hand, indicating he’s known this Sean dude, forever.
Sean grins and claps him on the back.
“Pleased to meet you both,” I say with a raised brow, surprised at their interest. I never meet guys like this––Julian says it is because I carry a dark cloud with me everywhere I go. Not my fault––you don’t choose to be unlucky. So, it feels nice to have the undivided attention of these three men. “And what’s your name, Mr. Irishman?” I ask the man with meat pie on the mind, my lips curled up in a smirk.
“Oh, so you want to know my name, Ms. America?” he asks, clearly finding something amusing.
Sean laughs, cutting to the chase, “His name is Conor. But lots of people call him ‘lucky bastard’. Has a ring to it, you know? Conor here is the luckiest man I’ve ever known.”
“Oh, yeah?” My eyes narrow, not having words for this serendipity. Good for you, Mr. Lucky Leprechaun Man with a face so handsome I could lick it; with a meat pie in his pants and hands that wrap around his pint in a way that I wouldn’t mind wrapping around me.
He’s flirting and I’m suddenly horny AF––three months flying solo will do that to a woman––and if this is the man I get to go home with, well, yes, please.
“Well, Conor, it’s your lucky day,” I say, smiling now, knowing this is my in if I want to take it.
But I’m not gonna make it too easy. I’ll make it fun, but not easy.
“I’m Clover,” I tell him. “Wanna show me your shamrock?”
At this, Sean and Patrick start rolling all over again. Conor simply pulls out some bills, throws them on the counter, and looks directly at me. "What are you waiting for, Clover? It’s time we got lucky.”
3
The moment they chose her, I knew I was in for a night of fun. Her dark hair is untamed, her eyes fiery, and she may not be a redheaded Irish woman, but there’s a spark in her that appeals to me at my core.
And her name is Clover.
The moment I throw the bills on the table, though, and reach for her hand, she pulls back, as if her flirtatious words were just an act she isn’t ready to play out.
It’s true that I like a challenge, but I’ve never found one with a woman.
My challenges in life have come from other things. Like starting my business and overcoming the judgment from my friends and family for the choices I’ve made.
I took my grandparents’ old barn and turned it into a house, not wanting to live in town in a shitty apartment. Everyone thought it was mad to live in the woods alone, not understanding how I’d prefer it there.
And then, no one believed this tourism company I thought up was worthwhile, but I was determined to combine my love for my country with the thing I am best at: Showing people a good time.
But the idea of having this woman, who is immediately trying to back out, gets my cock hard before she’s even given her consent to leave with me.
Sean and Patrick, of course, are laughing like the fools they are. Little does Patrick know––he’s the fool in this scenario. I’m getting exactly what I want.
Sure, I have my shitty cabin up there on his piece of property, but it isn’t mine to build on. I’m never going to build a decent place to live, so long as I don’t have permission to build.
“What are you waiting for, lassie? Finish your meat pie and let’s be off.” I grin at her, but the cocky
smile on my face is immediately replaced with a frown.
Clover isn’t having it. My charm is not going to be the way I win her heart this week. My words alone aren’t going to get her to love me.
And that is the challenge at hand. I’ve got to make this woman my lover if I want what I’ve always dreamed about.
“You think I’m just going to leave this bar after five minutes, and go with you to... where exactly?” She scowls again, and her eyebrows furrow and the truth of the matter is that I find it all sexy as fuck.
“I’m thinking you might want to join me in my cabin,” I say, leaning closer with my trademark devilish smile. “Perhaps we can have a little late night romp in the woods?”
“A romp in the woods? Is that a line that actually works on anyone?” She picks up her fork again and begins shoveling more bites of meat pie in her mouth with abandon. There’s something about her unabashed appetite that causes my cock to twitch, not once, not twice––no, three times a charm.
“It seems to work with most of the ladies,” Sean laughs. At this point, the boys have found themselves seated on stools once again and ordering another round. This time, I ask the barkeep for some water instead. I need to stay clear-headed if I want to get this woman home.
Besides, it’s obvious that drunken games are not going to work on a woman like Clover.
“All the ladies?” she asks. “So, you do this a lot? Pick up girls in bars?” Clover’s lips are pressed together and I know she’s trying to make herself appear more irritated than she really is because there’s a hint of a smile on the side of her lip, her dark eyes gleaming.
She’s interested. She just doesn’t want to admit it yet.
Patrick laughs. “My brother doesn’t pick up girls at pubs. It’s your lucky day to find him here in town.”
“You don’t live in Dublin then?” she asks, her curiosity genuinely piqued.
“Can’t say that I do. But, I’m only about 30 miles from here. I’m telling you, Clover, finish that pie of yours and let me take you home. I heard you asking the barkeep where you could stay for the night––that you’re just traveling through.”
Clover twists her lips as if trying to figure out what kind of answer she wants to give me before she speaks.
But it’s already too late.
She knows that I know she has nowhere to stay tonight. Sure, she can traipse up and down the streets of Dublin, looking for an empty bed... but from the way she’s leaning closer now, licking her bottom lip with interest, we both know where she is ending up.
She’s just not ready to admit it yet.
“Yes,” she relents. “I am traveling through. But,” she says, holding up a finger. “I’m an independent woman, Conor. And I don’t need handouts from strangers at bars.”
I pull back in mock indignation. “I’m not a stranger, though; you met my brother and my best friend. You know my name.”
“I know your first name, Conor. And what’s your second?”
“Conor McGregor.”
“I’m Clover O’Malley.”
“You’re an Irish girl after all?” I shake my head looking her over once more. But then I see it, she may not have the freckles and red hair, but that fire in her eyes? Now I can place it. She may not be quite so far from home as she thinks.
“Good. It’s all settled,” I tell her. “We know each other’s first and last names, we know you’re traveling, and that I’m here for good.”
“Good?” she asks. “You’ll always stay here, you think?”
“Why would I ever leave? Ireland is the greatest country on Earth. I’m the luckiest man to be living here. And now, I’ve got you, my four-leaf Clover, in the flesh.”
At this last line, Clover throws back her head in a full-on belly laugh––directed at me.
This is not what I need my brother or Sean to see. Once again they’re holding their bellies, really loving this fiery girl. Sure that their pick is a guaranteed win for them.
“I’m telling you, Conor McGregor, your lines won’t work on me. There may be plenty of girls you romp around the woods with, but I have a feeling I’m not one of them.”
“Oh, Clover,” I say, clucking my tongue and shaking my head at this woman who landed in my life by mere chance. “Rarely are things how they seem.”
I look down at my ice water for a moment, grateful it’s not liquid courage because I know that were I to drink one more whiskey or one more Guinness I might say more than I ought.
I might say that I’m not exactly who I seem either.
I play the fool, but deep down I’m grounded. I know who I am, I know where I come from. I know where I want to stay.
Maybe she knows that already because she stops laughing, I reach for her hand, and our eyes meet. There’s a spark I wasn’t expecting, and I feel it something fierce.
She must feel it too, because she wipes her pink lips with a napkin, and nods her head. I see the rise and fall of her breasts through her jumper and all I want is to rip it off, see her in the flesh, take her body in my arms.
She swallows, as if deciding her next move, but I know it before she does. I slip a hand around her waist and draw her hips nearer mine. I hear a trace of a moan; a moan I know she’d never admit to.
But I heard it alright, and she isn’t pulling back anymore.
“All right, Conor McGregor,” she says slowly, “take me to your woods.” She closes her eyes, giving me the slightest shake of her head as if she can’t quite believe how quickly I’ve worked my way into her heart.
And if not her heart, at least her filthiest thoughts.
I get off the stool, my arm still around her. No way in hell am I letting this lass go. “And you’ll let me show you how I romp?”
She nods.
That’s the only yes I need. Without pause, I grab her backpack from the floor and sling it over my shoulder; I clap my brother and Sean on the back and wish them Godspeed.
Then I take Clover’s hand and show her the way home.
4
I know I’d been playing hard to get, sitting on this stool acting like I don’t want the thing I do want.
So, when Conor makes the move, I let him.
It’s a relief, actually.
I don’t know why, but my immediate reaction to someone coming close to me is always to back away. It certainly isn’t a good way to get the things in life I want, and considering it’s been my modus operandi for the last 24 years, it’s never worked well.
But when Conor takes my hand, I let him. I came to Ireland because I need a change, after all.
And when he grabs my backpack and leads me out of the bar, the cool March air washing over me––I breathe it in. In this moment, I’m determined not to push away.
Because I always push away. Julian would say, “Clover, you say your day is going to shit, but maybe the problem is your attitude.”
Easy for him to say––the apartment we shared was paid for by his parents, and they bought him all the fanciest camera equipment––so to say he’s entitled, is an understatement.
But the thing that really irritated me was that he was sorta right. I did walk around with a chip on my shoulder. It’s always been me against the world and that hasn’t gotten me anywhere.
I lost the fight.
I blamed my shitty luck on everyone else, and then added to it by pushing away every time things were hard or new or scary or out of my comfort zone.
Using sarcasm as a defense mechanism, I pretended not to want the things I craved.
A warm body to hold me.
A partner to help me through life, not try to compete with me every step of the way.
A man who accepts my flaws, all of me. A man who offers safety and security.
And now I’m standing in Dublin, on a dirty street, somehow having ended up at a nondescript bar very far from home.
Conor still has my hand and he’s rubbing it with his thumb and for some reason that makes me feel less alone. I exhale, knowing I’
m not going to be the girl I’ve always been.
I’m not backing away from him tonight.
“Clover,” Conor says. “You still here, lass?”
I nod, blinking as I return to the moment. It’s been a long month. No one has touched me like this in so long.
“I lost you for but a moment, Clover, and we can’t have that.” His accent once again makes my insides gooey, but also, it’s the way he says my name. Slowly and drawn out, like he doesn’t want me to leave either.
“Can we go now?” I look up at Conor, into his warm eyes and his ruddy cheeks, his scruffy beard that I want to bury myself against.
I think the beard hides his cheekbones, but then he smiles down at me, and I realize that the scruff isn’t hiding anything at all because Conor looks like an open book––one that wants to be read.
So even though it’s scary to just say yes and go all in, I know I must if I want my luck to change. If I want my life to change. And isn’t that why I took a trip looking for fucking rainbows in the first place?
“Back in the pub, I was thinking you were one of those lassies who always likes to put up a fight. But not now. Now I can see that you are an American, after all.” Conor laughs, pulling at my waist; drawing me to him as if he knows me in ways he can’t yet.
But that he already does.
“Are you saying American girls are easy?”
He grins easily, and in that moment, I know his charm really must get him everything he wants in life. Right now, I can’t imagine denying this man anything.
“American girls may be easy, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what are you talking about, Conor?” With my body pressed against him, I finally take in the sheer size of Conor. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and has a presence that is commanding, yet isn’t intimidating. That must be why he’s so lucky with the ladies––he’s all man, yet approachable.
Fuckable.
He looks down at me, squeezing my waist as if he knows how the night is going to end. I like the way I feel in his arms. And even though I have curves, a double-digit waist, and an ass that rappers write rhymes about, it’s like in his arms … I fit.
