Barefoot on a Starlit Night

by Jo McNally

  “Of course you do. After all, she’ll be wearing it for the rest of her life, right?”

  Finn swallowed hard. Twice. The lies were really piling up now.

  “That’s the plan, yes.” He was going straight to hell when he died. He wouldn’t need to bother with St. Peter. Just walk straight into the flames.

  Maura nodded. “Well, I think I have just the thing.”

  She reached out and placed something small and light in the palm of his hand. It was a ring. A dainty, lacy gold ring with two small diamonds framing a larger oval stone. It wasn’t huge and flashy. But it was lovely and he had a feeling it would be just Bridget’s style. Classic and understated.

  “Where did you get this? It’s beautiful.”

  “I thought so when my Patrick slid it onto my finger once upon a time.”

  The noise of the party receded into a soft blur of muted sound. Maura wanted him to give Bridget her ring? His brain started spinning out scenarios. Was this worse or better than him buying a ring? At least Bridget could give it back to her grandmother when they ended things. There wouldn’t be a fight about Bridget keeping whatever he bought, and he knew she was going to fight him on that.

  But using Maura’s own wedding ring while lying to Maura felt very wrong. Like a whole new level of wrong. Was there a place even worse than hell waiting for him if he took this ring?

  “Finn, I know what you’re thinking.” Even without actual hair there, Maura’s brow rose and he felt a flush of panic. Did she know? “It pricks your manly pride not to buy some fabulous ring that costs half your salary, right?”

  He blew out a sharp breath. “Not exactly...”

  “Look, I practically raised that girl, and she will love this ring more than any gaudy sparkler you buy.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought when I saw it.”

  Maura was quiet for a moment. “You know her better than I thought. I’m glad.” She closed his fingers around the ring. “So take this and give it to her. Tonight, while everyone’s here.”

  “Tonight? Oh, I don’t know...” It was so public. A very public lie. But Maura had made up her mind.

  “I know. You need to get a ring on that girl’s finger, and this is the ring.” She looked up and nodded toward her friend Vickie, who was clearly in on this plan. Vickie flashed a smile and disappeared into the crowd. “You robbed me of the chance to see the actual proposal with all your secrecy nonsense. So give me this tonight. Bridget is special to me, Finn.”

  He nodded. “Because you two are so alike.”

  Her sharp laughter turned heads in the room. “Wow—you really do know her.” Her expression went somber. “It would mean a lot to me to be able to see this happen.”

  In that moment, he understood why Bridget hadn’t told Maura the truth about them last week. She’d wanted her grandmother to have some moments of joy, and this cooked-up engagement had brought her that. There was a brightness in Maura’s eyes that he had no desire to extinguish.

  Before he could answer, there was movement at the doorway. He looked up to find Bridget looking between him and Maura in concern. Vickie was right behind her. She’d clearly gone to find her once Maura gave her the signal. Bridget took a step forward. They’d promised to be on the same page, but there was no way to warn her what was coming. She’d understand. He hoped.

  “Is everything okay?” Bridget asked. “Nana, are you...?”

  Finn stood, shaking his head. “Everything’s fine...honey.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but this was all part of the deal—public displays of affection to sell the act. He reached out and took her hands in his. There were storm clouds in her dark eyes, but she didn’t pull away. Her mouth twitched as if resisting her command to smile, but it finally got there.

  “Then what did you need...baby?”

  He didn’t like the way that word sizzled against his skin when she said it, even under duress. Dori used to call him “baby” all the time, and look how great that turned out. Even with the memories the word invoked, when Bridget said it in her husky voice, something started humming in Finn’s veins.

  Maura tapped her fingers sharply on the arm of her chair behind him. “There’s no time like the present, Finn.”

  “Time for what?” Bridget asked. She pulled her hands away. “What’s going on with you two?”

  Oi, he’d already cut the brake lines on this runaway train, so he may as well enjoy the ride. He quickly whispered “sorry” as he dropped to one knee. There was a collective gasp from everyone in the room. Bridget’s face went white, her eyes round.

  Maura hissed out a quick “Yes!”

  “Um...” Bridget stammered as he took her hand. “What are you doing...sweetheart?”

  “I know we’re already engaged, but I hadn’t found the perfect ring yet. Until tonight.” He held up the ring and ignored the whispered sighs going around the house. It felt like all fifty guests were crammed into the doorway. “Your grandmother offered me her ring, and I accepted. And now I’m offering it to you. Will you wear this ring, Bridget McKinnon? Will you agree—again—to marry me?”

  Her mouth dropped open and stayed that way. Everyone was holding their breath, including Finn. Would this be the moment her conscience woke up and made her tell the truth to everyone? And told him to go to hell in the process? Her eyes began to shimmer with unspilled tears. She looked to Maura, and her voice cracked.

  “Nana, you gave him your ring? For me? I...”

  Someone from the back—one of her cousins, he suspected—called out.

  “Say yes!”

  Applause broke out, and Bridget’s cheeks went from pale to bright pink. She laughed awkwardly and tugged gently at her hand, as if she wanted to flee. He didn’t release her, though. She glanced around the room. The next move was all hers. Her eyes closed briefly, then she nodded.

  “Um...yes. I’ll...wear the ring.”

  The room went wild, but he only saw Bridget. She was frozen in place. They both were. Her cousin Kelly let out a catcall and yelled out, “Put a ring on it, Finn!”

  He slid the ring onto her finger, then stood.

  This time it was Michael calling out helpful advice.

  “Kiss her, man!”

  More cheers from the gathered crowd.

  He hesitated. Bridget’s eyes flickered to Maura, then back to his face. Her shoulder barely moved in a private shrug, and she stepped forward. Her next words were for him alone.

  “All part of the show, right?”

  Before he could examine the sting of what she’d said, she grabbed his shirt and pulled him roughly forward until her lips hit his. Once that happened, words weren’t necessary.

  His arm slid around her waist and he tugged her body against his. Her lips were soft and warm. And her eyes were wide open, staring into his so close he felt she should be able to see right into his soul. But her shutters were still down, making it impossible to read her thoughts. Her hand grabbed his ass, and then he had a pretty good idea what she was thinking. Their mouths moved against each other, and...for just a moment...hers parted enough to let his tongue trace against her teeth.

  She took a sharp breath, then surrendered, allowing him to kiss her the way he’d been aching to—deep, long and hard. A moan vibrated in her throat, her head turning as if to give him better access. Yes, please. Her hands slid up his back. Her fingers started digging in. And he was drowning in her. Falling into this perfect vortex she’d created for just the two of them...

  “Okay, you two.” Maura’s warm chuckle may as well have been ice water for the effect it had on them. “Save something for the wedding night!”

  Bridget flinched at the very first word, and now she pulled away from him with a shattered mix of confusion, lust and anger in her eyes. He held on, whispering into her ear before she slapped him.

  “Easy, lass. Part of the
show, remember?”

  That cooled off whatever was burning inside her. She pulled away from him, emotionally as well as physically. Apparently he wasn’t the only one stung by those words. But this was a show. It wasn’t real. He had to remember that. They both did.

  The room erupted in yet more applause and cheering, and he forced himself to smile and nod to the high-spirited response to his proposal.

  Call it whatever—fake, faux, not real, acting, a show. A very firm voice in his head told him what he already knew. That kiss was as real as it got. That kiss was smokin’ hot and hypnotic. That kiss left him craving more.

  And that was going to be one big damn problem, wasn’t it?

  * * *

  BRIDGET FINISHED SWEEPING the floor and straightened with a groan. The bar looked like a leprechaun festival was about to begin. That wasn’t far from the truth—the annual Purple Shamrock St. Patrick’s Party was coming up the following day. Everything in the place was covered in green, orange and white bunting. There were sparkly green shamrocks hanging from the ceiling in the dining area, and by the time the party started, the dance floor ceiling would be wall-to-wall green balloons.

  Per tradition, she and her cousins had worked that morning to pack away anything breakable or of sentimental or monetary value to the family or to the pub. The St. Patrick’s party crowds could get rowdy. Nana always called it “amateur night” because people—most of whom didn’t have a lick of Irish in them—used the day as an excuse to drink until they were falling-down drunk. Things got broken. Or stolen. The night was a moneymaker for the bar, but it was also a night where they had to stay vigilant. The whole family would be on hand to keep an eye on things tomorrow night.

  But tonight it was just her, working in blissful silence. The Purple Shamrock was always closed the Friday before the party to give the family a chance to prepare. They’d all headed home for dinner an hour ago, leaving Bridget to do the last-minute details. She looked around the place and sighed.

  Yes, the parties were a huge hassle, but they were also more fun than she wanted to admit. They brought the McKinnons together. They brought the community together. The Purple Shamrock would always be an Irish pub. Maybe Finn was right—instead of fighting the tradition, maybe she needed to embrace it and build on it. Figure out a menu that honored their Irish roots. Have a few genuine Irish entertainers once in a while. Maybe even have a traditional Irish music session a few weekends every month. In an artsy town like Rendezvous Falls, there were probably fiddlers and other musicians who’d love to get together.

  If they could open the patio by summer, they could have live music out there. She grabbed the dustpan and bent over to scoop up her sweepings. She could see it in her mind—strings of lights over the decking, with an entertainer set up in the far corner and people dancing under the lights. Under the stars. The moon would be rising over the hills on the far side of Seneca Lake. A guitar strumming, and an Irish ballad being sung. Finn’s arms around her...

  Whoa!

  Where did that very specific image come from? Their fake engagement would definitely be over by summer, so there’d be no reason for them to be dancing. Not on the patio. Not anywhere. Ever.

  The front door clicked shut behind her, and she straightened and spun so fast that the dust from the dustpan flew up in a cloud, covering her black shirt and making her cough and sputter. Finn stood there, his hand on the door handle, with a wide grin on his face. He had such a nice smile...

  Stop it!

  This engagement was fake. Sure, they’d had a couple of smoking hot kisses, but she was just a means to an end for this guy, and she needed to remember that. She waved her hand in front of her face to clear the dust cloud away, then started brushing the dirt off her shirt, glowering at his laughter.

  “I’m beginning to think you enjoy scaring the shit out of me, Finn O’Hearn. What are you doing here?” One of her cousins must have left the door unlocked. She’d deal with them later. His smile deepened.

  “Right now I’m thinkin’ I’d like to help w’ that.” His brogue was thicker than usual.

  “With what?” She continued to brush her shirt, then realized what he meant. Her hands had been sweeping down across her chest, where most of the dust had landed. And he was staring at her hands. And her breasts. Oh.

  She dropped one hand to her hip, gesturing to her face with the other. “Very classy, professor. My face is up here. Do you always leer at the women you sneak up on?”

  His gaze darkened. “Only the ones I’m engaged to, love.”

  Bridget’s chest—the one he’d just been admiring—warmed a bit at his words. He didn’t sound playful. Or remorseful. He sounded serious. And...interested. Was it possible he’d been thinking of those kisses as much as she had? What would she say if he wanted to kiss her again? Silly question—she’d say yes, please. After all, hadn’t she just been daydreaming about dancing with the guy? Maybe another kiss was what she needed to get him out of her head. And if he wanted to get closer to the chest he’d just been caught ogling? Well, hell. It had been a long damn time since a man had touched her, and she’d have a hard time saying no to one who talked to her with that lilt to his voice and that heat in his eye.

  He walked toward her, and weaved a little as he passed between the tables. Had he been drinking? Maybe that wasn’t heat in his eye. Maybe it was just whiskey-passion. The kind that gave a man enough ego to think he should flirt with every female in his vicinity.

  She should turn away. She should send him home. She should give him hell for thinking it was okay to openly stare at her chest. Maybe she should even slap his face. But she didn’t do any of those things. She stood there and waited. If she’d had any illusions he might sweep her off her feet and kiss her senseless—a girl can dream, right?—they quickly vanished.

  He reached out, but it wasn’t for her. It was for the broom.

  “Why are you in here alone at this hour, with the door unlocked?” He started sweeping up the mess she’d made when she jumped. “For someone who does na’ like t’ be frightened, you do take some risks, lass.”

  Her spine stiffened. “If you’re referring to the risk of some drunk dude walking in and staring at my boobs, you’re right. I should have anticipated that.”

  He froze, head down, looking up at her through his heavy brows. “I’m not drunk.”

  “But you don’t deny staring at my boobs. Awesome.”

  He stood up straight, and a smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m engaged to those boobs, so I should be able to look at ’em once in a while.”

  “Seriously? You’re engaged to me, not my boobs. And you’re not really even engaged to me. It’s all a sham, remember? Just a show.” Lord knew, she kept forgetting. Especially after that kiss last week at their phony engagement party. That not-so-phony kiss she kept dreaming about...

  “You’re right, o’ course. Sorry.” His smile faded. He leaned on the broom. “I’m not drunk, but I am...um...mellow. Rick was at my place to help with some research, and we had a shot of whiskey before he left.” He shrugged. “And I had a couple more after that. I shouldna’ been so forward.”

  Now it was her turn to have a smile tugging at her lips, begging to be set free. She finally surrendered.

  “Whiskey brings out your accent, Finn.” And she liked it.

  “Does it?” His head tipped to the side, his green eyes shining with humor. “Musta’ been the taste o’ home and all that.” He swept the dust into the pan, then straightened and looked around the pub, where only half the lights were lit. She had to save money every way she could these days. He gave her an exaggeratedly stern look, lowering one heavy brow. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”

  “Michael was supposed to lock up on his way out, but he and Mary’s husband were yukking it up about something when they left. Guess he forgot. What brought you over?”

  The energy in the pub had
shifted from the moment he’d first walked in. It felt amped up. More electric. Something was popping and sizzling under her skin. She looked at his lips that had done such a lovely job kissing her last week. They were moving, and she realized with a jolt that he was answering her.

  “You did. I walked Rick out and saw the lights on and no cars here. Kelly told me yesterday that the place would be closed tonight. I thought I should check.” He looked up at the shamrocks and leprechauns hanging everywhere. “’Tis very...green...in here. May not be the most authentic way to honor dear ol’ Patrick. He came to Ireland to save souls, not pickle them in green beer.”

  She put her hand on her hip. “I’ll have you know Father Joseph Brennan himself gave our party his blessing. In fact, he’ll be doing the ribbon-cutting tomorrow at three o’clock to get things started.”

  Finn shrugged off his coat. He wore a dark Henley and jeans. Maybe it was the lighting, but it seemed his clothing was particularly...clingy...tonight. He’d kept the broom, and started sweeping around the bar area. He was moving away when he replied.

  “I’ve seen the good Father drink, so I’m sure he blesses the event and everyone here and every glass served.” He looked back over his shoulder and waggled his brows playfully, rendering her knees surprisingly weak. “Don’t get me wrong—I love the man. But his blessing on the party still doesn’t make it authentic.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re joking or being genuinely passionate about your heritage.” She went with his playful mood and started to tease. “Or maybe you’re just a snob.”

  Finn froze, his back to her. Then he started sweeping with a bit more energy. Angry energy.

  “Oh, sure.” Finn’s voice chilled. “Pull the snob card. That’s me. Big fuckin’ snob.”

  “Whoa.” Bridget put down the paper centerpiece she’d been arranging. “What just happened? I was kidding.”

  He kept pushing the broom, not answering her. She walked in front of him and forced him to stop. It took a moment for his gaze to meet hers. His eyes were guarded. He seemed...hurt. His fingers were holding the broom so tightly his knuckles were white. More than hurt. He was angry. Who had called him a snob before in his life? A parent? A friend? She let out a breath. Or his ex-wife.