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

by Sienna Blake

  I had to get out of here. I couldn’t be here when Diarmuid came back in the room and told me that he was getting back together with his wife.

  His fucking wife, Saoirse. He has a wife. What did you think was going to happen?

  That he and I would be together? That’d we’d get a Happily Ever After?

  I should have known better. Should have known that Happily Ever Afters were not for the daughters of criminals and whores.

  I pushed open the window, a blast of cold air wafting in, and froze.

  Stop, I told myself. Give him a chance to explain.

  Running away was for children. Tantrums were for children. I was a woman. I would act like one.

  I shut the window and lowered my bag down to the bed. I wasn’t going anywhere. I wasn’t running.

  I would stay. And I would fight for him if I had to.

  I was sitting on the bed when Diarmuid finally opened the door.

  “Sorry I took so long.” He could barely look at me.

  I looked past him expecting a sullen Ava at his heels, but he was alone.

  He spotted the bag next to me, my shoes on and realisation came over his eyes as they finally snapped to mine. “Do you know who was at the door?”

  I nodded.

  “Did you hear us?”

  I twisted my fingers together in my lap. I would not cry.

  I nodded again.

  Diarmuid let out a long breath, stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him.

  “I’m sorry, selkie.”

  He was sorry.

  I was sorry too.

  I told myself that I wouldn’t cry, that I would be strong, but my heart was breaking. Shattering. Again. I was just as unprepared for it the second time as the first.

  But this time it was worse. This time I knew exactly how well Diarmuid and I fit. I knew how he felt underneath my hands, how he felt inside me. In his arms I knew love, I felt peace. I would never feel that again. I’d loved him since I was thirteen. I’d love him until I died.

  Once the first tear rolled over the rim of my lashes, the rest followed, like a dam bursting.

  “Saoirse!” He started towards me. “What’s wrong?”

  “I know you’re still married,” I began to blubber, “and I know she wants you back; who wouldn’t? And I know how you feel about doing the right things and your morals. But she doesn’t deserve you. And—”

  “I want you.”

  I sucked in a breath, trying to blink my vision back to clear. “What?”

  Diarmuid sank to his knees in front of me.

  “I want to be with you.” His hands cupped around my face, and they brushed aside the wetness on my cheeks. “Only you.”

  My head spun. I couldn’t believe what he was saying to me.

  “I know I’m still married,” he said quietly. “And it is such a process to get divorced here. Ava and I have to be separated for four years before I can start the proceedings.”

  “Which means she’s your wife,” my voice cracked on the word, my guts twisted with jealousy, “for now.”

  He nodded. “And in the eyes of society…”

  “…this, us, we are wrong,” I finished for him.

  He nodded. “I don’t care anymore.”

  “You…don’t?”

  “I’ve tried to do what’s right for most of my life. Most of my life I feel like I just keep fucking up instead. Being with you is the most right I’ve ever felt.” His face screwed up with pain. “I just don’t think it’s fair to ask you to bear the brunt of society’s judgement if we were together. You don’t deserve it.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Saoirse.”

  “Diarmuid.” I flung myself down to the carpet so we were both on our knees. I wrapped my hands around his neck so he could do nothing but look right into my eyes. “I. Don’t. Care.”

  He let out a long breath, like he was relieved. Did he come in here thinking that I could have walked away from him?

  “I want you. Have always wanted you.” I ran my fingers through his hair. “You have my skin, remember?”

  Diarmuid gave me a half-smile. “Your father won’t like it.”

  My stomach turned cold.

  My father.

  “He can’t know.” He could never know. I chewed my lip. “Your work. They won’t like it either.”

  His face became serious. “If my supervisor found out about last night, I’d lose my job. Probably do jail time.”

  “So, we’re hiding this…us?”

  “I don’t want to hide you, you know that, don’t you?” he asked, his brows furrowed in concern. “I want to scream your name from the very top of the Carrauntoohil mountain.”

  “As long as we’re together. I don’t care that we have to keep us a secret.”

  My insides melted as he wrapped me up in his strong, sure embrace. I would be happy being tucked away here in his arms forever. My harbour. My home. My family.

  “We’ll figure it out, selkie,” his voice rumbled against my cheek. “Together.”

  He claimed my mouth firmly, a promise sealed in a kiss.

  My body lit up like a flash fire, as it had done earlier, before we were interrupted. All other thoughts floated away as he lowered me to the carpet.

  For a moment, before he stripped me of my clothes, a stark feeling of dread came over me. Diarmuid and I might be together, but it was a thread made of thin silk. We had to be careful.

  There were so many things—so many people—waiting to tear us apart.

  Diarmuid and I spent a glorious Saturday in bed. That night we watched The Dark Knight on his couch, eating takeaway pizza. Well, we watched part of the movie, the other part we spent making out—and more, oh God, so much more—on his couch.

  Sunday morning Diarmuid dropped me off a few blocks from home. I was supposed to go into the lab today. I told Diarmuid I had to work. Technically, I didn’t lie. He just assumed that I was working at the café. I didn’t correct him. And hated myself for it.

  My da was sitting at the breakfast table with a black coffee and a cigarette in his hand when I walked in. I wished he would at least open a window when he smoked in here.

  “Hey, Da…”

  My voice was shaking, as were my hands. Why was I nervous?

  He looked up from his paper with a smile, fag hanging from his lip.

  “Hey, baby girl. Where you been all weekend?”

  I forced a smile. I had texted him on the evening of the party letting him know I was staying with a friend. I didn’t specify who. He replied, reminding me that I was working Sunday. He didn’t ask who the friend was.

  “Just with a friend, Da. I told you.”

  I hoped that he didn’t notice I was wearing the same dress from Friday night’s party. Washed, of course.

  I shouldn’t have been worried. My father was already distracted by something in the paper.

  “Damn Garda.” He flicked his fingers at the grey sheet. “They seized another fucking batch last night. Just outside of Dublin.”

  I froze. “Oh.”

  “Sons of bitches. I’d fucking love to give them all a good—” He made a stabbing motion.

  My guts twisted as if he’d stabbed me. I swallowed down the lump in my throat. “I was thinking, Da, I’m not sure I should work for you anymore.”

  My father’s face snapped to mine, a glint of something dark flashing in his eyes before it disappeared so fast I may have been dreaming it.

  “Baby girl…what are you talking about?”

  I smoothed down my dress. “I just… I think that what I’m doing is…well, wrong.”

  My father’s eyes narrowed. “You like living here?”

  “What? Yes, of course.”

  “You like eating the food I stock the fridge with?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You want to go to university?”

  “Yes—”

  “This work you think is ‘wrong’,” he marked the word with finger
quotes, “is paying for all this stuff. For you.”

  “But—”

  Bang! His fist came down on the table. “I don’t want to hear any more of this fucking quitting bullshit,” he roared.

  I gasped, tears rimming my eyes. My first thought was to run. To run. From my own father.

  He stood and grabbed me, wrapping me into a suffocating hug. I wanted to push him away. Instead I just stood there, frozen.

  “I’m sorry, baby girl.” He kissed my head, his breath stinking of smoke. “You have no idea how much is riding on our new investment.”

  He never called it drugs or meth. He only ever called it an investment. Our investment.

  “I didn’t mean to yell,” he said into my hair, his voice taking on a softer tone. “You just made me so scared, I got mad. You see, I already made promises to some…important people. Some important people who will not take too kindly to me, and my family, if I don’t deliver.”

  I understood exactly what he was doing.

  He was threatening me.

  Threatening me with injury to him and me if I didn’t do what he told me to.

  Oh God. Why did I say yes in the first place? Why did I agree to get involved?

  My father pulled back and cupped my cheeks, his cigarette still trapped between two of his fingers, the smoke stinging my eyes.

  “You’ll keep with the agreement, okay, baby girl.” It wasn’t a question. “One year, you work for me.”

  I nodded, because there was nothing else I could do.

  One year.

  How the fuck was I going to keep working in my father’s lab for one year without Diarmuid finding out?

  63

  ____________

  Diarmuid

  “See ya, Nina,” I called to the office girl as I made my way out of the station that Monday evening.

  Nina shot up from behind her desk. “Holy shit.”

  I spun towards her. “What?”

  Nina pointed a purple-painted finger at me. “You’re…” she leaned in, peering at me. “Holy shit, you are! You’re actually smiling.”

  Damn. So I was.

  It had everything to do with the blonde angel who I was going to see later tonight.

  She’d worked late last night. When I called her during her break, she refused to let me pick her up from work, telling me she would be too tired and that she’d see me tonight instead. I told her that I’d just pick her up and drop her off, making sure she got home safe. But she claimed she already had a ride. I’d almost ignored her wishes and driven over to the café to pick her up anyway, I missed her so fucking much. That was before I slapped myself internally and told myself not to scare her off.

  Saoirse and I were going to make dinner together. I had a few hours to kill so I was going to grab my gym stuff, swing by the boxing gym, then shower before it was time to pick her up.

  I shrugged at Nina. “It’s a good day.”

  Nina’s eyes widened, her glittery purple eyeshadow catching the light. “Who the hell are you and what have you done with Diarmuid Brennan?”

  I chuckled. “Can’t a guy smile once in a while?”

  “Guys, yes. You, never.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Did you hit your head or something?”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Get replaced by a robot?”

  “Have a nice evening.”

  “Have a nice evening?” Nina’s eyes bugged out of her head.

  I waved at her and strode down the hallway.

  “You’re freakin’ me out, Diarmuid,” she called after me.

  I stuck up my middle finger at her over my shoulder.

  “That’s better,” she yelled.

  This late in the year the sunset was creeping earlier and earlier. It was already dusk by the time I pulled up into my driveway after the gym. I peered through the windscreen wipers and the drizzle of rain.

  There was a figure standing huddled at my door, her arms wrapped around her body, wet hair plastered to her head. I’d recognise her anywhere.

  Saoirse.

  Why the hell was she here? A shot of fear went through me.

  Something was wrong.

  I slammed my truck into park and yanked up the brake. I didn’t even turn off the engine as I pushed my way out of the cabin. All I could see was her.

  “Saoirse!” I ran towards her, cutting across the grass, ignoring the wet earth squishing under my feet. My only concern was getting to her.

  As I neared, I could see the smudge of mascara under her pale green eyes. Was that the rain or had she been crying?

  I grabbed her and pulled her against me.

  She let out a low cry. “I’m wet.”

  Wet was an understatement. She was soaking. She must have been standing here for fucking ages. Fuck, why didn’t I take my phone with me?

  “I don’t care,” I said. I pulled back to look at her. The pain etched in her eyes cut me to the core. “What’s wrong?”

  “I tried to call you,” she said, her lip trembling, accusation in her tone.

  “I was at the gym. I left my phone. What’s wrong?”

  “My ma…” her face screwed up, “she’s dead.”

  64

  ____________

  Saoirse

  Moina called me.

  And told me.

  It had been an overdose. I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  I was surprised at how I reacted. By breaking down. With huge gulping sobs like I was drowning, clutching at my kitchen counter like it was my lifeline.

  Then somehow through blurred vision, I was calling Diarmuid. My world was cracking up underneath my feet, and he was the first and only person I wanted to be with.

  And with every missed call, my heart began to tremble.

  So I ran. Through the rain, like a ship returning to its safe harbour, until I reached his porch.

  Where I waited—always waiting—for him.

  Diarmuid took me inside the house. He stripped my wet clothes off me, dried my body, my hair, brought out clothes for me to wear. Then he pulled his armchair in front of the fire, sat me in his lap and pulled the largest, softest blanket that he had around us.

  There I stayed, wrapped in his warmth.

  He called his work and told them he was taking the next few days off. Then he called the coroner back in Dublin and arranged the funeral by phone. I sat, mute, numb, beside him, always clutching to a part of him as if he were the only thing tethering me to this earth.

  The next morning, he packed me into his car and we drove to Dublin to attend my ma’s funeral.

  I didn’t have a dress to wear or anything else with me for that matter. We stopped off at a shopping centre on the way and Diarmuid picked out a few things for me to try on, led me to the dressing room and practically changed me himself. And he paid for everything we bought.

  He was my rock. He kept my world turning. While I remained still. While I was numb.

  Diarmuid and I stood at the foot of my mother’s grave, his arm around my shoulders the only thing keeping me steady. The pastor’s voice droning on.

  No one else came.

  Moina had to work so she wasn’t here. My da didn’t want to come. He had work, too. Also, quite frankly, he stopped caring about my mother a long time ago. None of her “men” bothered to come either.

  “She had no one else, Diarmuid,” I said, a near whisper, when the pastor had left us. “She had no one else except me and I left her. Sh-she died alone.”

  “Hey,” he said turning me to face him, his strong hands on my shoulders, “this is not on you. She had her own stuff that she couldn’t deal with.”

  “I should have tried harder. Made her get help. I should have—”

  “She should have been a better parent. She could have asked for help, wanted to get help, but she didn’t. Don’t you dare blame yourself.”

  “W-why does it hurt so much? I-I didn’t even like her,” I choked on a laugh.

  “Because she was your mother, and despit
e her many flaws, you loved her.”

  “I don’t want to be her, Diarmuid,” I choked out.

  There it was, my deepest fear laid bare.

  The irony was, by weaving myself into my da’s business, I was following my ma’s dark path. I was becoming the very woman I feared becoming. All it would take was for me to lose Diarmuid and I’d sink into a hole I could never crawl out of.

  A sob ripped from my cramping, aching lungs. “I d-don’t want to die alone like she did, with no one.”

  Without you.

  “You won’t,” he said fiercely, tucking me into the safety of his arms. “I swear to you, you won’t.”

  I wanted so much to believe him.

  Diarmuid and I stayed in a boutique hotel in Dublin, south of the river in the beautiful Rathmines neighbourhood of Georgian houses and tree-lined sidewalks. We stayed there for several days, just walking under the willows along the swan-filled canal, holding hands, having a drink in a dark corner of the local wood-panelled “old man’s” pub.

  Slowly I was able to untangle this messy jumble of feelings, this ball of guilt and regret over the broken woman who gave birth to me.

  But there were pieces I could not let go of.

  Diarmuid pushed open the front door of his home in Limerick for me. I had to brush past him as I walked in, my body tingling from that mere casual touch. Even through all my grief, he could set me on fire with one look, one touch.

  I walked straight into Diarmuid’s bedroom and dropped my bag on the bed without even thinking about it.

  This place was already feeling like home. He’d already made space for me to leave clothes in his drawers. He bought me a red toothbrush, which sat next to his blue one, and stocked his shower with my exact brand of girlie body wash.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be able to pay you back for these last few days,” I said as I began to unpack the bag full of clothes Diarmuid had bought me. We hadn’t stopped at my house on the way to Dublin.

  Diarmuid slid his arms around my waist. “You don’t have to pay me back.”