by A. L. Woods
To the shock and amazement of absolutely no one, Sean had not only done the opposite of what I asked, he did it while sporting a Cheshire grin that planted thoughts of strangling him while riding him at the same time in my morbid, sex-starved mind.
I should probably consider seeking professional help.
Ronan’s clear blue-eyed stare narrowed at Sean as he reappeared with my drink. Misappropriated concern settled on his tired features, his focus drifting from Sean to me, the quirk in his fluffy thick brows questioning whether I needed help.
Getting Sean thrown out of O’Malley’s would have been one way to guarantee I kept my pants on. But I waved a tacit hand at him. “Unfortunately, I know him,” I explained, “It’s not what it looks like.”
Ronan’s white hair was sticking out in all directions, which gave him a comical look. His throat harrumphed, and he tossed Sean an apathetic glance before his head nodded with understanding.
His Irish lilt was a whisper as he set the glass in front of me. “You let me know if that changes, an cailín.”
I held up the glass in his direction in thanks as he left. The nice thing about Ronan was that even though he’d overheard me on the phone with Cash, his loyalty to my late father still kept him in my corner.
“What did he call you?” Sean questioned.
Sipping the liquid gold in the cup, I drew a small chip of ice into my mouth, biting down on it, the crunch of the cold chip therapeutic under my molars. “He called me ‘girl’.”
“Oh.” His dark eyes bounced from me to the drink. “How many does that make now?”
I snorted, no longer able to keep the planes of my face smooth. “So, you don’t like me smoking and you don’t like me drinking, either? You’ve got more rules than my parents.”
“You can drink. It’s the smoking I hate.”
“Right.” I sipped at the whiskey, appreciating its burn down my throat. “Except I don’t care what you think, nor do I require your permission.”
I didn’t have to care. I knew. I had just humiliated myself—again—in his presence, plus broken Penelope’s heart, both at the same time. I was a real winner. Best friend of the century. Whether I drank like an Irish lush or smoked like a chimney wasn’t going to make a damn difference in my character arc. Car over cliff, remember?
“So, what was that back there?” he asked, changing the subject.
I intercepted what I knew was a wounded feeling about to surface, managing a blank guise. “What part?”
“All if it.”
“Death of a friendship, I suppose.” I gave him a finite one-shoulder shrug. Penelope would never forgive me for that one. I had always been hard on her, but this time I had gone too far. I was still reeling from my conversation with my ma, then this shit with Sean that had my head spinning a mile a damn minute. I just wanted something to remain normal. Balanced. Controlled. And now that was gone, too.
I felt like I was holding onto a small fray on a thinning thread. If I received one more blow today, the rope that thread was linked to was likely to snap and take whatever remained of my headspace with it.
“Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?”
“Don’t you think you should mind your own business?” I snarled.
There was my stupid heart again, joining the party unannounced, thumping so loud that I was certain he could hear its bass over the snare of the drums in the background. He was so close. Too damn close. His body was turned toward me, his right elbow leaning against the counter, chin resting on the palm of his hand, eyes boring into me like if he stared hard enough, he’d make it to my cerebrum cortex and understand all the things that made me tick.
I looked away. There was something intimate in his stare that unnerved me and left me liable to do something profoundly stupid.
Like kiss him.
I blinked the thought away just as he started to clear his throat.
“It surprised me to hear that Dougie was going to be a dad, too.” He stroked at the stubble that littered his jawline, giving me an earnest look that almost made my resolve falter. Almost. It was hard to accept that he could have conceptualized what was going on in my mind right now. He had someone beyond Dougie. A family. A life.
I had Penelope, and Penelope only.
And maybe that was the problem.
“It’s not the same.” I took another sip of the warm amber liquid.
“Why not?”
Where did he want me to start? The realization that I had placed all my self-worth into the hands of a twenty-eight-year-old blonde who I had misused as a crutch all this time?
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” he suggested, interrupting my thoughts in the way that only he could with his wry smile, boyish charm, and those bedroom eyes that almost tempted me into revealing the contents of my heart.
But I couldn’t, I wouldn’t…because if I let him in now, there was a chance that he would leave me, too. And that wasn’t a risk I was willing to take.
His stare was fixed on mine until I broke it.
“I’ll pass, thanks.” I took a long pull on the shot of whiskey. The more I drank, the less the ache in my chest stung, and the duller the persistent litany of thoughts that percolated in my mind became.
“Y’know, I’ve got three sisters. I’m a surprisingly good listener.”
Steadying my features, I brought my brows inward. “Fantastic,” I droned, clipping my tone. I stared into the contents of what was left of my drink, “Your sisters’ judgements make you sound completely impartial.”
Sean’s thick thighs parted, his clasped hands in his lap.
“Why?” he asked, laughing through his nose while shaking his head.
“Why what?” I questioned, wondering what I had missed.
“Why do you have to fight me every single step of the way?”
My head snapped backward, surprise slamming into me.
“Talk to me,” he demanded. “If you need to get mad at someone or something, be mad at me. Give me something, anything but this well-rehearsed bullshit apathetic routine you’ve got going on.”
My lids dropped, stale air coming through my nose as I pondered his words. Nothing he was going to say to me would lessen the burden of my guilt, but somehow, my mouth made the decision for me before my brain could catch up. I was going to be a mercurial liability to myself by the end of this night, and didn’t that make me want to lace up my shoes and bolt for the door.
My throat worked before I spoke. “We were supposed to be spinsters together. We had this whole plan.” We had talked about it at length: Penelope tossing her parents a “fuck that” when they tried to bully her into marrying some clown named Harold Huntington III with enough money to his name to fund a small country. Instead we would travel the world, see new things, explore new cultures. Maybe I’d find the will to actually write for myself again.
We discussed eventually settling down, planting roots somewhere else. California had always seemed promising, with its tepid weather during the winter months and its palm trees.
Penelope had gotten overexcited about that and started looking at houses, big, sprawling mansions that had more room than I knew what to do with. She had shown me listing after listing that had nearly identical features. Six bedrooms, a huge family room with vaulted ceilings and a skylight, a massive yard with a pool that overlooked the small town, and a nursery that was quintessential and welcoming with its neutral color palette and—
My brain hit a blip in that moment, like I was dangling on the precipice of denial. Listing upon listing ran through my memory, considering every single one she had shown me over the years. They had all felt like typical, nondescript mansions with the same list of features that had all appeared impressive to me. It was the latter detail I had missed, or perhaps ignored. The longer I sat with the thought, the worse the bleak reality of the situation became.
The nursery. Penelope had always hinted at what she wanted. I just hadn’t been p
aying attention. She had wanted to have a baby…the guy…the life…the house. She had been telling me all along, silently, passively. I had been the one with the plan, and she had been patiently indulging me, waiting for me to realize that that wasn’t her dream; it was mine. I had unknowingly burdened her by backing her into a corner surrounded by my fear of losing someone else I loved again, trapping her in my own fears and insecurities.
Sean’s voice pulled me out of the depths of my thoughts. “Did you ever consider that maybe that wasn’t what you were going to want forever? I mean, you’re only twenty-eight.”
“How do you know how old I am?” I gave him a quizzical look. When he didn’t speak right away, I let out a stiff exhale, having a hard time digesting what was processing in my mind while under the spell of Sean’s sheepish smiles and molten gaze.
The tilt of his lips told me he knew exactly what he was doing. “Shot in the dark. That’s how old Penelope is.”
“How perceptive,” I muttered.
“Tell me something else, Hemingway.”
There was that stare again, the one that vacuumed all the air out of my lungs and turned the insides of my mouth into the Sahara dessert. “Can we please cut the small talk?” I sputtered.
Sean’s smile didn’t falter, bemusement hitting the deeply-set dimples in his cheeks that I’d never noticed before. He had dimples. Fucking dimples. And wasn’t that a damn turn on?
“Fine.” He took a leisurely sip of his beer, looking at me over the rim of his glass, “What do you want to talk about?”
Why was I so uncomfortable every time his eyes settled on me? I felt like I was stark naked, even though I wore a leather jacket over a ribbed black turtleneck and black skinny jeans. There wasn’t a single part of my body exposed save for my hands and face, but his watchful gaze nonetheless made me feel completely nude.
This had to end.
“Nothing. I don’t want to talk to you about anything,” I rolled my lips together, working at the granules of sand in my throat. “Your persistence is unmatched.”
“Is it working?”
“No.” I scowled. “It’s getting kind of irritating, really. You barely know me, but you act as if you’ve known me your entire life, with your unsolicited advice and shitty conversational skills.”
Something loosened in his gaze. It was as if the spell had been broken. His head nodded once, knuckles knocking on the bar top like he had made a judgment call. Then he slid off the barstool. I peered at him curiously as he tipped the rest of his beer down his gullet in three quick sips. He was tall enough to bend over the bar top and place the glass inside of the bin on the under bar that housed used glasses. Ronan tossed him a curious glance, as if he had never met anyone who tried to clean up after themselves before. I witnessed the moment he decided Sean was not only safe, but that he would be welcome to return. Sean offered him a half smile before he turned to glance down at me, the smile he had given Ronan vanishing.
“I’ll get out of your hair, then.” His hands found the pockets of his peacoat. “This conversation is going nowhere, and I’m clearly wasting my time.” He paused, hesitation sweeping over the contorts of his angular face. “’Night, Hemingway.”
“Where are you going?” My words tumbled out, intercepting him as he turned to leave.
He worked his fingertips back and forth across his stubbled chin. “I’m only going to run headfirst into a wall so many times, Raquel. If a door I know is there doesn’t want to open, I’m not going to keep trying to push it.”
Was I the door or wall in this situation? Did I double as both?
“So,” I began, my straightened posture failing to mask my alarm. I could barely keep the nerves I felt out of my tone. “That’s it, then? You’re going to leave me alone?”
“Yep,” he said flatly, then repeated, “’Night.”
Sean didn’t toss me so much as a wayward glance over his shoulder as he departed. He advanced back toward the horde of patrons huddled around the small stage, where the live band consisting of has-been forty-plus-year-old men played yet another cover of a Beatles song.
And without rhyme or reason, I was up on my feet chasing after him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Wait!” My feet pushed off the rung of the barstool, legs taking off after him. What was I doing? Why was I following him? Why was this fucker such a fast walker? I followed him through the crowd, muttering apologies for drinks I spilled when I collided with helpless bystanders. Sean dipped into the hallway that I knew housed the basement stairwell that led to the bathrooms below.
“Sean,” I called, barely able to catch my breath when I rounded the corner of the empty corridor.
He glanced over his shoulder at me just as he was about to descend the stairs, a mischievous and utterly smug smile blooming on his face, as if he couldn’t believe his luck.
His arms crossed over the expanse of his chest. “I thought you wanted me to leave you alone, Hemingway?”
“I do,” I stammered, my cheeks growing hot, the alcohol thickening my tongue. “I think I do. Maybe. I-I-I don’t know.”
His arms dropped to his side as he stepped away from the stairwell, the noisy din from the bar muted in the stretch of the narrow hallway where we stood.
“What do you want, Raquel?”
What did I want? What didn’t I want? For things to be normal. To be normal. To take back everything I had said to Penelope. To kiss the ever-loving hell out of Sean, even though he aroused all the ire that seemed to exist inside of me. He made my insides hot and my mind hungry for his banter and unabashed attitude.
I said nothing. My chest rose and fell while we observed each other in silence. I was rooted in my spot, gaping at a man who simultaneously managed to terrify and excite me. I didn’t understand what was happening, why my heart beat a little faster when he was around. Why something as innocuous as him taking my hand in his made it feel like I was coming alive for the very first time. Why the realms of space and time seemed to hold us in a time lapse, the rest of the world asleep while we remained conscious.
Why? Why him? Why me?
He must have sensed what I was thinking, because his heavy stare dropped to my mouth as I gnawed on my bottom lip in deliberation.
Sean’s nostrils flared, something dark brewing in his face as he broke the distance between us in four short strides of his long legs. His hands were surprisingly gentle when they cupped my shoulders, backing me against the wood-paneled wall.
He was so tall. Why had I never noticed how tall he was before? His arms flanked the sides of my head, fingers spread wide against the wall.
“What. Do. You. Want?” he repeated, bending his head toward me, eyes daring me. If I had thought he was close before, we were practically skin-to-skin now, despite the layers that kept us apart. I could smell the cinnamon gum on his breath, the clean woody scent of his cologne. The heady combination made me feel more buzzed than the whiskey.
The acceptance of my answer slammed into me all at once, and before I had time to brew another snarky remark or second guess myself, I rose on the tips of my feet, my lids dropping shut. He met me halfway, his mouth crushing against my own. It was hard to determine who groaned in relief first, him or me. Maybe it was both of us. The sound was so mellifluous, it made liquid heat pool between my legs and my head spin with a kind of euphoria I had never experienced before. My arms circled around his neck, fingers stroking the faded sides of his hair. His pelvis bit into mine, his arms dropping so his firm hands could still my bucking hips.
Sean’s teeth nibbled my bottom lip, demanding I open my mouth for him. I complied. The taste of spicy cinnamon hit my taste buds as his tongue tangled with mine.
This was beyond my wildest expectations.
This was kissing a dream, and I wasn’t sure that I ever wanted to wake up.
Hemingway was...frenetic, her body responsive in a way her mind had never been. Her mouth said more now, her tongue dancing with mine, than it did when it was spewi
ng out barbs I wasn’t sure she even believed. Kissing her felt like I was waking up for the first time, like I had been asleep for thirty years and never known it.
She was a voltaic cell under a chemical reaction, her body undulating beneath my roaming hands that despite keeping it PG-13, were desperate to feel all of her without a rating system.
Never before had I handled a woman more alive from a kiss alone. The intensity of her kiss sent a cordial invitation to my cock to join the party, its length tightening against the seam of my pants, straining with demand.
Not now, dickwad. You’re not going to scare her off just because you’re desperate to feel her hands on you instead of yours.
Some small part of me had prayed that when I finally got the chance to kiss her, the sparks I had imagined crooning into the sky would never catch flame. That there would be nothing there, just so I could get her out of my system and move on—but this woman who writhed under my greedy mouth, whose fingers entrenched themselves in my hair, whose moan was a melody in my mind, would never be out of my system. Not when kissing her suddenly became my new addiction and all it would take was the taste of her to keep me drunk forever.
Raquel’s hands left my hair, palms flat against my chest. The heat of her fingers brought a welcome frisson against my body as they descended.
My cock was like a kid in the back of the class, standing upright with his hand in the air, demanding to be called upon. Her fingers tightened on my belt notch, her thumb grazing my hardened length. I jerked my body away, my mouth leaving hers in a rush of raspy breaths, my legs sending me back two steps.
Her features went muddy, her chest heaving. “What’s wrong?” she panted, confusion brewing in her eyes. “Did I do something wrong?”
Wrong? my brain yelled. No, you did something right, and that’s the fucking problem. I didn’t want to fuck Raquel in a public bathroom and a grimy basement that reeked of mold and whatever else. I wanted her in my bed against clean sheets, with her hair spread out around her like a halo. I wanted her moans trapped in my pillows and the fragrance of her sweat on my skin.
