Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
Text copyright ©2018 by the Author.
This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Maribeth Carmichael. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Wild Irish remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Maribeth Carmichael, or their affiliates or licensors.
For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds
One Wild Finn
R.G. Alexander’s Finn Factor, Book 9
Written in Mari Carr’s Wild Irish World
R.G. Alexander
One Wild Finn
Copyright 2018 by R.G. Alexander
Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication
One Wild Finn is the merging of three large (let's call them fertile) families. The Finns, The Waynes and the Collins clan. Bronte and William are both big characters, and a few of my favorites, so I'm thrilled they got to tell their story with such a great supporting cast??
I want to thank Mari Carr for letting me play with Pop and Bubbles in her Wild Irish World, as well as for the years of friendship and support that I would be lost without.
Also for Cookie--love is the reason.
And to all the Finn Club members who are already fans of Mari's Wild Irish?
This one's just for you.
Enjoy
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
Want More of the Finn Family?
Mari Carr’s Wild Irish
Thanks for Reading!
Other Books from R.G. Alexander
About R.G. Alexander
Chapter One
Bronte eyed the design that topped her latte with what she knew was an irrational amount of animosity. It was artistic and harmless and it might as well have been a bug. A white, frothy, clover-shaped bug.
Maybe she was overtired. After driving eight hours with barely four hours of sleep, she was running on fumes, sugar and raw nerves. Her body needed protein and a power nap more than caffeine, but the idea of eating made her queasy and sleep was not in her immediate future.
She’d walked over to the coffee shop as soon as she’d tossed her suitcase in her room, desperate to stretch her legs and grab another jolt of java. The quirky waterfront café would be the perfect place to drink a hazelnut latte and get her bearings.
That had been the plan, anyway.
Shivering, she was seconds away from giving in and reaching for the steaming cup perched precariously on the outdoor patio table when her phone began blasting out Rihanna’s S&M.
Great timing.
Bronte tried to answer before the singer got to chains and whips, but in her haste she nearly dropped the phone and almost knocked over her latte instead.
Na na na come on.
“There’s a foam shamrock in my coffee.” As a greeting, it left something to be desired, but she knew her caller would understand.
“Those bastards.” The uninhibited laughter of Tasha Finn rang in her ear. “Wait, let me try that again, I wasn’t feeling it. Who exactly are we mad at for that?”
“The Daily Grind. And we weren’t really upset until they kindly suggested I drink my latte outside like a leper after accidentally making the little redhead serving me cry.”
“You got kicked out? Oh that’s awful.”
Bronte scowled grumpily. “Stop laughing. I’m now exiled from what—based on the crowd size—is the Mecca of specialty coffee drinkers in this town because of a stupid shamrock. I haven’t even been here an hour.”
She hadn’t lost her temper. Not really. Apparently the grim look on her face when she’d politely asked why Pumpkin Spice had felt the need to get artistic with her order had been enough to have her banished to the patio section.
Maybe you shouldn’t have called her Pumpkin Spice?
Okay, she might deserve the exile.
A light gust of wind made her shiver again, and she wrapped her fingers around the hot cup and took a defiant sip.
It was delicious.
She should have left a bigger tip but…
“Shamrocks,” she muttered, knowing she sounded insane.
This was all his fault.
William Pain-In-Her-Ass Finn.
“It’s March, Bronte,” Tasha said unsympathetically. “Even down there in Baltimore, so I’m sure she didn’t do it to piss you off. Neither did I, but at this moment The Twisted Tart is being decorated like your worst St. Patrick’s Day nightmare. Though I did make sure our sugar cookies were shaped like braided snakes instead of shamrocks this year. Very phallic, a little obscure for the masses, and—now don’t die of shock or anything—it’s already causing quite a scandal.”
Bronte wasn’t shocked. The bakery owner would set tongues wagging even if she weren’t married to state senator and all around golden boy, Stephen Finn. But since she was, everything she did seemed up for debate.
The Finns were well known for being big, sexy pillars of the community—first responders, cops, senators, and of course, owners of Finn’s Pub, an institution in their mini-metropolis.
With Tasha’s kinky, colorful past and equally colorful ancestry—half Puerto Rican, half Irish, all beautiful—it was no surprise she’d been the hot topic once she’d joined the family. She and Stephen were a beautiful couple, but they’d been well on their way to becoming old news until their adorable twin toddlers, Huck and Ned, were spotted around town. Much to their father’s chagrin, those two were precocious and photogenic enough to have their own amateur paparazzi.
“Phallic cookies? For shame,” Bronte chided, taking another sip of the scalding, sweet elixir she should feel too guilty to drink. “What kind of example are you setting for our very own George and Charlotte?”
“You read that article? You should have seen Stephen’s face when he saw the comparison,�
�� Tasha said with a groan. “Did they call my son Charlotte? I was upset for an entirely different reason, of course. First of all, I had no idea Stephen had been approached to run for Governor, so he’s in the doghouse. But more importantly, if we’re being compared to the British monarchy, I’m not Kate Middleton. I know my mother-in-law loves her, but she’s too perfect. She has that Mary Poppins level of perfection that no one could ever live up to. We all know I’m much more Meghan.”
Bronte smirked. “You wish. Along with every female member of my nursing staff under fifty. The royal wedding is all they’ve been able to talk about for months.”
“Well who wouldn’t want that fairytale? A handsome, reformed bad boy from the British Isles and his American black beauty? Wait, why does that sound familiar? I wonder who they could possibly remind me of...” Tasha let her voice trail off teasingly.
“Don’t start. My situation is entirely different and you know it.”
“Whatever you say, princess.”
Out of all the new characters to come into her life with her brother Hugo’s marriage, Bronte liked Tasha the best. And not only because she’d helped her accomplish her last minute, top secret excursion without a moment’s hesitation.
Natasha Finn was bold and confident, fearless and unapologetically sexual. As far as Bronte could tell, she hadn’t changed or folded under the scrutiny that came from being a politician’s wife. She’d thrived. She was the sort of woman who could be equally as comfortable in a group of men or women, at a charity function or a kinky nightclub, if the stories were true. There was nothing remotely average about her. Nothing boring.
She was everything Bronte had never dared to be.
Tasha would be the kind of woman to drive off to parts unknown to deliver a second-hand warning to her accidental husband. The one she’d married so he could stay in the country, flying to Niagara Falls on a drunken whim to say I do. The one who was seventeen years her junior.
Tasha didn’t do that. You did.
“Why am I here again?”
“Well you’re definitely not escaping the Irish, if that was your plan. Not if you’re going to meet William at his job. Pat’s Pub is like Finn’s on steroids, according to this Instagram account I’m looking at. And their restaurant, Sunday’s Side? It has a menu that’s making my mouth water. Mark my words; in a few years my brother-in-law is going to regret starting a microbrewery instead of expanding the kitchens at the pub. Food is always trendy.”
“So sayeth the baker,” Bronte quipped. “But he won’t regret a thing as long as he keeps my brother on as his partner. You know Thoreau is a mad genius with big plans for that label. By the time he’s my age, he’ll own the neighborhood and at least one restaurant. Mark my words.”
She wasn’t exaggerating. Just like her sisters, Thoreau had enough creativity and ambition to leave the older Wayne siblings in the dust. Austen had created her own skincare line, Shelley developed apps, and Thoreau was a brewer on his way to a business degree and certain success.
Bronte had always admired their drive but she didn’t envy it. She may look the most like their mother, but her personality was all Foster Wayne. Her father had become a professor simply because he loved to read. Loved it so much he’d named all seven of his children after famous authors. She had a feeling his enthusiasm for the written word was the reason his classes were always packed. But as much as he enjoyed reading about other people’s adventures, he was perfectly content to avoid having any of his own.
“This family is all the excitement I need.”
Bronte, too, would rather observe her siblings from the sidelines, advising and cheering them on as needed. She wasn’t big on taking risks.
If that were true, you’d still be home right now.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to tell Tanaka why you’re visiting William?” Tasha asked hesitantly into the silence. “Ken’s a genius hacker with some serious skills and even better connections, Bronte. I can’t count the number of times he’s saved our asses from unsavory situations. You can trust him.”
Bronte chewed on the lip of her cup, considering. The beefy, tatted thug who’d been waiting for her in the parking lot after work last night had been pretty specific about what she needed to do. For such a big guy, he’d seemed more anxious than threatening, but his appearance made her nervous enough that she’d taken an extra hour to get home, nearly getting lost in an effort to ensure she wasn’t followed.
“The guy said no Finns. I decided to consider you a loophole, since you married in and I needed your help, but I think that’s all I can get away with. If I can’t tell my police chief brother-in-law, I’m not going to tell Mr. Tanaka.”
“He’s more of a loophole than I am, since for some reason that still eludes everyone, he and Brady haven’t set a wedding date yet.”
“Even so, I don’t need a hacker or a bodyguard to talk to William.” Not that seeing him again didn’t have its own element of danger. “With me passing on the message and Younger sending a parade of patrol cars by my parents’ house while I’m away—because you know how he is—I think we’ve got all our bases covered for the moment.”
Solomon “Younger” Finn was a good man. Protective and kind, and worthy of her best friend and favorite brother. It was one of the reasons he’d been the first person she’d gone to after waking up with a hangover and a surprise husband.
And now you’re keeping secrets from him too.
“I’m already here. We can let William decide what happens next.”
“I’ll agree for now,” Tasha responded carefully. “But you’ll need to keep me on speed dial and check in or I’ll worry. And I worry out loud, usually in front of witnesses. You and William are family and I take this family’s safety seriously.”
“William and I aren’t… I’m not. Not really.”
She was laughing again. “Oh princess, there’s no escaping it. Even if you weren’t secretly hitched to our latest bad boy, Thoreau and Hugo have been honorary members for a while now. In fact, the Wayne-Finn merger is working out so well, I’m tempted to do a little matchmaking with Shelley and Matthew while you’re gone.”
Her youngest sister and William’s brother? “Natasha Rivera Finn, get that thought right out of your head. Use bleach if necessary.”
“See? I knew we’d be a perfect team. We’re already arguing like sisters.”
“I have sisters.” Bronte fought a smile, knowing Tasha would hear it in her voice. “And that’s not necessarily a good thing. Besides, we’re distant cousins-in-law, if anything.”
“Sister-cousins. I can work with that.”
“Of course you can.” Bronte tossed her cup in the trash and started walking. She should go back to the inn to shower and change, but her sleep-deprived steps were guiding her toward the big building that held her sort-of spouse instead.
Pat’s Irish Pub. Seamus Finn could fit two of his bars in that place. “Thanks for giving me the address, Tasha. I know keeping this between us wasn’t your first choice.”
“I never agreed with the idea the guys cooked up at the station. Tempers were too high and I know for a fact that Younger regrets sending William away, even temporarily. That’s not how we deal with problems in this family.”
“No, I heard the Finns are more about group meetings and interventions. Kumbaya, and all that jazz,” Bronte teased.
“Funny. True, but funny. Knowing your brothers, I don’t imagine the Waynes are all that different.”
She could have shut that argument down forever by telling her about the Wayne Way. That in her family they were more likely to vote on punishments than hug things out, like any other democracy or cutthroat reality show. But she held her tongue instead, wrapping things up with a quick goodbye and a promise to check in. The last thing she wanted to do was remind Tasha that William’s absence, the one that seemed to upset her so much, had more to do with Bronte than anything else.
The decision had come about fast enough to give her whiplas
h, but she’d been more than willing to have her drunken episode magically swept under the rug by the family Finn. It galled her to her feminist bones to admit how willing.
Agreeing not to pursue an annulment right away had also been selfish, allowing her to hide the truth from her parents and coworkers for a while longer. To pretend that she hadn’t had a mid-life, celibacy-induced meltdown spurred on by William’s arrival into her safe, routine-oriented bubble.
From the moment she’d caught him flirting with one of the ER nurses, he’d gotten under her skin. She’d never seen eyes that light blue. That hungry.
The instincts she’d always relied on had been screaming out a warning, but for the first time in her adult life she wanted to ignore them, push young Monica out of the way and claim the beautiful bad boy herself.
Then, of course, he’d proceeded to “borrow” his cousin’s car, leaving the injured man stranded and confirming that he was, in fact, an ass.
Every time she’d seen him after that, whether he was covered in bruises or propositioning her without his pants, he’d proven those initial instincts right. And every time he left she couldn’t get him out of her head.
It had to be his accent, his pheromones, or maybe those hypnotic eyes of his that always caused her to act so out of character. She was reaching, but other than that, Bronte couldn’t explain her reaction. She could deny it to the moon and back, but she couldn’t forget what she’d gotten herself into that night. Or that, margarita madness or not, she’d done it willingly.
William wouldn’t let her.
He’d been harassing her for months, which could explain her unusually hostile reaction to shamrocks—the punk ass leprechaun. Was it any wonder she was cracking under the strain?
Eight hours away and he’d still managed to give her daily reminders of his existence. Fresh-out-of-the-shower selfies. Nightly texts of the suggestive or philosophical variety, depending on his mood. All laced with entreaties for her to respond in kind.
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