Irish Kiss: A Second Chance, Age Taboo Romance (An Irish Kiss Novel Book 1)

by Sienna Blake

  Bitchy? I finished for him in my head.

  “So…curt,” he said.

  That was one way of describing her.

  “Sorry, Saoirse. Let me take you home. I’ll deal with the cleanup later.”

  “But we still have that apple pie.” I tried not to sound so disappointed. It had been warming in the oven while we’d been cleaning the dishes from dinner.

  Diarmuid rubbed the back of his head. “I think maybe we should save the pie and ice cream for another night.”

  “Oh.” I forced a shrug, like my heart wasn’t cracking. “Sure. Whatever.”

  Diarmuid turned the oven off, the light and my hope switching off as he did.

  My heart sank. Stupid Ava, coming in and ruining the best night of my life.

  She didn’t deserve him.

  If he didn’t see it on his own, then I would show him.

  It was silent in the car on the way back. Everything tumbled around inside of me, swelling until I couldn’t hold it back.

  “Why are you with her?” I blurted out, my jealousy spilling out over the rim of my voice.

  He glanced back and forth between the road and me. “What are you talking about, selkie?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, furious with her for existing in his life, furious at him for letting her. “It’s a simple question. Why are you with her.”

  He shuffled in his seat, obviously uncomfortable. “We’ve been together a long time.”

  “Do you hear yourself?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Do you love her?”

  His jaw worked back and forth. “Like I said, it’s complicated.”

  “You don’t even love her.”

  “I never said that.”

  “But you never said you did. Wait for someone special, isn’t that what you told me? Wait for love.”

  “That’s not the same,” he growled.

  “It is the same.” I shook my head. “If you don’t love her, then why are you with her?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Yes,” I said, firmly, “it fucking is.”

  He let out a half-sigh, half-groan. “Please just let this go.”

  I sagged into my seat, leaning against the door. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t right.

  Diarmuid didn’t love her. She didn’t love him.

  How much simpler could it be?

  We pulled up to the sidewalk in front of my apartment, my stomach twisted into knots.

  This was it. As of midnight tonight, I was no longer officially his responsibility. Would he still pick me up for school? Would we spend as much time together? Would he still be my best friend? My thoughts of Ava dissolved under these thoughts.

  “Are we…are we still going to be able to hang out?” My question slid out like a desperate plea. God, I could barely look at him when I asked, too terrified that he might say no, that our time was done.

  He turned towards me, a shocked look on his face. “Of course. But only…only if you want to.” Why did he sound unsure?

  “Of course I want to.” What a stupid question.

  He grinned at me. “Just thought I might not be cool enough for you anymore. Now that you’re only months away from being fifteen and all.”

  I flung my arms around his neck. He wrapped a strong arm around me, closing me into his chest.

  “I love you, Diarmuid,” I said, the secret I’d written into every corner of my journal loosing from my lips.

  His response rumbled into my ear in that deep, gravelly voice of his. “I love you, too, selkie.”

  My heart filled to near bursting.

  He loved me.

  He loved me.

  He loved me.

  35

  ____________

  Diarmuid

  I sat in my truck watching Saoirse walk away as I always did. Upstairs on her floor, she appeared on the balcony. For a few moments we just watched each other. She lifted her hand in a slight wave and disappeared inside her shithole of an apartment.

  Something twisted in my gut. What did it say about you when your best friend was a fourteen-year-old girl? What did it say when she was the one I was most comfortable with?

  I hated grocery shopping. Saoirse had made it fun. I hated washing up, but with her beside me it felt like a game, not a chore.

  She had such a tough life, but she was still so brave and hopeful. She gave me hope.

  I didn’t go straight home after I dropped Saoirse off. I drove around, my mind whirring over Saoirse’s words from earlier. I ended up at the pizza joint we always went to. I ordered a Club Orange, a fizzy orange soft drink, and sat at Saoirse’s and my usual booth, sipping my drink and staring at the spot where she usually sat.

  You don’t love her.

  Why are you with her?

  I took Ava here once. She didn’t like the place. Too casual. She liked places where she got to dress up. I used to as well because she looked great when she was dressed up. But now…when was the last time we even went out on a date? When was the last time that Ava and I even laughed together or had fun?

  I thought over the night that Saoirse and I had. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed so hard or felt so at ease. Had Ava and I ever laughed like that?

  I tried to imagine Ava jumping on the trolley and letting me push her through the aisle. I tried to imagine her dancing with me in the kitchen. But I couldn’t. She just didn’t fit.

  She didn’t fit.

  Dear God. And it took a fourteen-year-old girl to make me realise it. Saoirse was so wise and yet so innocent. A fourteen year old going on thirty.

  You don’t love her. Why are you with her?

  Did I love Ava? Had I ever loved her? We had wanted each other. That much was clear.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  I remembered how I’d felt when Ava had smiled at me.

  She was dressed to the nines and with her stylish girlfriends. I had never imagined that a girl like that could ever look twice at an ex-juvi foster kid like me. I saw the way she looked at me, a large brute of a man from the wrong side of the tracks, my tattoos and my shoulder-length hair. The lust had been obvious. I thought that lust had turned into love.

  Had it?

  I remembered Saoirse telling me about the frog. That if you throw a frog in boiling water, it will hop out. But let it sit in cold water and turn up the heat slowly, it will sit there and boil.

  Was I the frog? Had Ava and I stopped being right for each other so slowly that we couldn’t see it? Were we boiling alive together?

  Ava and I didn’t connect. I mean, Christ, a fourteen-year-old girl understood me more than Ava did. And when was the last time Ava and I had sex?

  Weeks ago. A quickie in the morning which I felt was almost an obligation rather than the fact that either of us wanted it.

  Was this what long-term relationships turned into? Ava had been hinting at a wedding. Actually, more than hinting.

  If Ava was the right woman, shouldn’t I be thrilled at the idea of marrying her?

  I knew I was in trouble the second I pushed open the door. Ava was waiting for me in the living room, her manicured hands fisted right where I used to love grabbing her.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Just driving around, Ava. Calm down.” I hooked my jacket on the stand, kicked off my boots.

  “Driving around, huh?” Ava followed me into the bedroom where I dropped my keys on the dresser.

  “Yeah.”

  “With that girl?”

  I spun around to face Ava. Her eyes glittered with hatred. How could she hate Saoirse? She hadn’t even given Saoirse a chance. She was the one who cancelled on our dinner where she was supposed to meet Saoirse, a concession I’d allowed her when she’d complained that I was spending too much time with the girl.

  “Her name is Saoirse,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “I tried to call you but you left your phone at home.”

  What
was she trying to accuse me of?

  “I hadn’t even noticed I’d left it.”

  “How fucking convenient.”

  I let out a groan and sank onto the edge of the bed. Fuck. Did we have to fight again?

  We’d always fought. In the beginning it was kind of thrilling; the drama of it, the excitement, the hot make-up sex afterwards. Now it was just exhausting and pointless. I had no energy for this anymore.

  “Jesus, Ava, do we have to do this now?”

  “You son of a bitch.” Ava crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you fucking her?”

  My head snapped up. “What?”

  “Are you fucking that…that Saoirse girl?”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Ava. She’s four-fucking-teen,” I exploded, leaping to my feet. “Do you really think I’d be attracted to a girl?”

  “I saw you two together. I was watching you both before you realised I was even home.”

  My body burned with rage at the thought. How could she accuse me of something so vile? Saoirse was a girl. A child. I cared about her more than I’d cared for any of my other kids, but I never, not once, looked at her in that way.

  “I am going to pretend that you didn’t just accuse me of fucking a fourteen-year-old girl.”

  “She doesn’t act like a girl. And you don’t act like she’s a girl. You don’t talk about her like she’s a girl.”

  That’s because she’s not a girl in her head, I thought angrily before I shoved that thought aside. “For fuck’s sake, she’s like a little niece to me. Like a little sister.”

  “She has a crush on you, you know?”

  “She does not. I’m like a big brother to her.”

  Ava snorted, and it was an ugly sound. “You really are fucking clueless.” She grabbed something from her back pocket and shoved it in my face, the familiar symbols like rubberbands snapping at my skin.

  Saoirse’s journal.

  “This is hers,” Ava said as she waved it in front of my face.

  “Where did you get that?” I growled, snatching it off her.

  “I took it out of her bag.”

  “You went through her bag?” I said, disbelief coating my voice.

  Saoirse carried that journal almost everywhere. She must have brought it with her tonight. Ava must have snatched it out of the bag before I took Saoirse home.

  “Read it,” Ava said. “It’s a fucking love shrine to you.”

  I lowered the journal to my side, my fingers digging into the leather cover, the contents calling to me like a siren.

  I would not read it.

  It was private.

  I respected Saoirse enough to let her keep her privacy.

  Ava did not.

  I stared at the woman I’d shared a bed with for over three years, disappointment filling my body. Funny how the person lying next to you can turn out to be a stranger. But then again, perhaps Ava and I had been strangers for some time. I’d only just let myself see it now.

  I shook my head. “I can’t believe you’d steal a young girl’s journal, that you’d read it, invading her privacy like that.”

  “I had to, Diarmuid. I had to find proof. She wants you and she won’t stop until you are hers. You can’t deny it anymore.” She sounded almost deranged.

  I wiped my face as Saoirse’s words from earlier came back to me.

  You don’t love her. Why are you with her?

  I couldn’t keep lying to myself anymore. I couldn’t keep lying to Ava.

  “Ava,” I said slowly, weighing up my words, “I can’t do this anymore.”

  She froze. “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t do this,” I pointed my finger between us, “us anymore.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No. You are not leaving me for a fourteen year old.”

  I sighed, tired of being accused of a crime I had no intention of committing. “I am not leaving you for a fourteen year old. I’m just leaving you.”

  “I was going to wait for another night,” she looked up, her eyes flashing, “but this can’t wait.”

  “Ava, just let it go. It’s over.”

  “No, it’s not. I have something to tell you…”

  36

  ____________

  Saoirse

  Now—Limerick, Ireland

  The week dragged. I found myself counting down the days until the next Friday in between replaying every single glance, every single word from our last encounter.

  A truce with Diarmuid Brennan.

  Truthfully, I wasn’t sure whether this had been a good idea.

  He’d gotten under my skin.

  Who was I kidding? He’d never gotten out.

  I was lying on my bed early Thursday morning. My father had already headed out to his farmhouse. I didn’t have work today so the whole day stretched out in front of me.

  My phone beeped with a text. I reached out to grab it, my stomach doing a flip when I saw who it was.

  Diarmuid: Slight change of plans tonight. Wear something nice rather than gym gear.

  I sat up, my head spinning from the sudden movement. Wear something nice. Was he…taking me out? My stomach flipped. On a date?

  Jesus, don’t be stupid, Saoirse. It’ll probably be as innocuous as your old breakfasts together.

  Still, I couldn’t help my fingers trembling as I typed out a response.

  Me: Where are we going?

  His response came back almost instantly.

  Diarmuid: Dinner at my old JLO’s house.

  See, not a date. His old JLO’s house? Was this like a double-team intervention effort?

  Me: Why?

  Diarmuid: Because.

  Me: Diarmuid…

  Diarmuid: Because Brian wants to meet you.

  He’s been talking about me to his old JLO?

  He’s been talking about me. To his friend. His old mentor. I knew how much Brian meant to Diarmuid. Brian was the reason that Diarmuid is the man he is today.

  And Brian wanted to meet me.

  Another text came in.

  Diarmuid: Brian is a stubborn bastard and won’t take no for an answer.

  Me: Okay…

  Diarmuid: He likes to meet my kids.

  His kids. His assignments. This wasn’t a special invitation to dinner. This was something he did with everyone. As my stomach coiled with bitterness, I shot him another text.

  Me: Whatever.

  The bastard didn’t reply.

  If I was going to this dinner, I was going armed. In the best armour I knew. I slid on a tight pair of skinny jeans, my favourite brown ankle boots and a fitted pale-green jumper that always made my eyes stand out even more. I wore my waist-length hair in loose curls that fell over my shoulder and finished off the look with grey eyeliner and mascara, gloss on my lips.

  At two minutes to go until he was due, I stood in front of the mirror.

  I looked damn good. And at least twenty-one. So there.

  I grabbed my jacket and bag and was out the door in seconds, locking up behind me because my da was still out doing God-knows-what at his farmhouse.

  Diarmuid was already waiting for me, leaning against the passenger door of his truck parked slightly farther down the road, looking down at his phone.

  Damn, he looked good. In his usual denim jeans, showcasing his strong thighs, and grey long-sleeved jumper that clung to his wide torso, rounded shoulders and those achingly perfect arms. His shoulder-length hair was tied back into a low man bun at the nape of his neck.

  “Hey,” I said.

  He looked up and froze. The heat that flashed in his eyes caused a flush to go up the back of my neck.

  Then he blinked and the cool mask was back on.

  “Hey.” He opened the passenger door for me and smiled.

  God, this felt too much like a date. The edges of my nerves started to jangle as I walked the final steps towards him. He stepped aside so I could get into the car.

 
I flinched when he placed his hand on my elbow, just like he used to when I was younger, and helped me into the seat. I was too surprised to say anything.

  It was only when he’d gotten into his own seat and we were driving down the road that I spoke up. “You didn’t have to help me into the cab. I’m not fourteen anymore.”

  Diarmuid let out a low breath. “No, you’re definitely not.”

  His voice, all breathless and hushed, made the hairs on my arm stand on end. I rubbed my arms and instructed myself to calm the hell down.

  “So, your old JLO—”

  “Brian.”

  “Brian. Right. What does he know about me?”

  Diarmuid glanced over, his look piercing me, before he focused back on the road.

  “I mean, does he know that we used to know each other from before?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  Diarmuid let out a long huff. “Look, I wouldn’t have brought you but he insisted. And he would have thought something was weird if I didn’t bring you.”

  “Well, sorry you were put out so much. It’s not like I want to sit through an entire dinner with you either.” I scowled and crossed my arms over my chest. God, that stung.

  “Ah shit, I didn’t mean it like that, selkie.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Diarmuid let out a sigh as we pulled up in front of a small terraced house. He put the truck into park.

  “I’m sorry, I just…” He ran his hand through his hair, mussing up his bun and causing pieces of it to fall out over his forehead.

  I wanted to reach out and push those locks back behind his ear. Instead I clamped my arms to my body.

  He ran his hand through his hair again.

  Oh my God. That was his tell when he was nervous.

  Diarmuid was nervous.

  Why?

  He turned to me, a small crease between his brows. “Can we start over? Pretend that the night just started?”