by K. A. Tucker
“Yeah. My friend and I wrote it one night when we were drinking, as a joke.”
“A joke.” He bats those long lashes at me. “All of it?”
I stifle the smile threatening. “Not all of it.”
“Well . . .” His scruff tickles my neck as he leans to whisper into my ear, “I hope you’ll give proper consideration to some of them, at least.”
He slides out the front door as my mouth drops open, as I watch him jog to his car. “Am I going to see you again?” I blurt out just before he ducks into the driver’s side.
He grins back at me. “If you want to.” Then he disappears into his car, the low rumble of the engine igniting into the night.
If I want to?
The problem is, I can’t tell exactly what it is I want anymore.
FIFTEEN
RIVER
“What are you doing back here?” Rowen stares at me like I’ve sprouted two extra heads in front of him.
“Same thing I do every Saturday night.”
“I don’t remember ya being that quick,” Nuala chirps from the customer side of the bar, sweetening the insult with a wink while she wipes down the computer.
I ignore the two of them, grabbing a rack of dirty glasses and carrying it to the dishwasher in the back. Reminding myself for the tenth time that I did the right thing by running when I did.
I didn’t have to leave. Rowen wouldn’t have cared if I didn’t come back to the pub tonight.
But I had to leave.
Rowen trails behind me, undeterred. “So she realized that she was too good for you and kicked you out?”
“She hasn’t. Yet,” I mutter, adjusting glasses to make sure they don’t crack in the cycle. “Have you called last call yet?” There were no more than ten people left out there. Even Collin had packed up his things and staggered home already.
Rowen glances at his watch. “We have another—”
“Just call it. I’m bloody tired.” And I need to get away from Nuala before she grabs my cock, like she will when she notices the hard-on tucked into my jeans. It’s been a while since I’ve had to deal with this situation.
“Fine. Fuck.” He disappears back outside and I hear the telltale cowbell, followed by a chorus of grumbles and jeers. “Go home, ya muppets,” I mutter. They’ve all had more than enough to drink and I’m in no mood to talk to anyone.
Leaving Amber tonight was hard. Painfully so. If I’m being honest, when I stepped into that house, into that bedroom, a part of me was hoping that I was completely wrong about her. But then I stepped out of her bathroom and saw her standing in that window, the streetlight shining over her face—her nervous face, her delicate hands clasping each other—and I knew that I wasn’t.
And I’m glad.
But that still didn’t stop me from giving it one last try for the night.
I kill a bit of time in the office, tidying up, before I venture back outside. All but three drunks have left, and Nuala’s working on them.
“So?” Rowen asks, watching the printer run with the night’s closing reports. “What happened?”
“Nothing. She was drunk.”
“Drunk and she turned you down?”
“Not exactly.” I know that if I stayed longer, kissed her more, eased her into it, her body would have ignored her doubts eventually. I could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she instantly gravitated toward me when I touched her. But I don’t want that. I don’t want Amber waking up in the morning, her head throbbing from drink, her body sore from use, her stomach curling with countless screams of regret while I lie naked next to her, oblivious and sated. I don’t want to be that memory for her.
“You turned her down because she was drunk?”
“Yes . . . No . . . Just shut up.”
Nuala snorts from her spot across the bar. “That’s not how she’s goin’ to see it.” The bird’s got ears like a bloody bat and opinions that she shouldn’t share most times.
“She sees it just fine.” We left things on a good note. She knows I like her.
“Did you make plans to see each other again?”
“I’ll call her tomorrow.”
Nuala drops the last tray of dirty glasses on the bar counter. “I’m only saying this for your own good, River. Because you can be a bit daft sometimes. The bird is smitten with ya. Why, I don’t understand. I mean, you’re a charmer, but you’re not of her league. And yet she sat in this filthy kip all night, waiting for ya to bat an eyelash at her.”
“So?”
“So, she’s not going to spend her entire holiday here, especially if her pride’s bruised. Tomorrow it could be another place, another Irish fella behind the bar; something to satisfy that itch she wants to scratch while she’s here. I know. I’ve been on holiday too.”
I level her with a look. “She’s not like you.” I’m sure Nuala’s never taken a fella home and not fucked him senseless.
“She’s got a cunt, doesn’t she?” Nuala snips, strolling away to begin lifting stools and chairs so the floors can be washed, dropping them loudly onto tables. I know I’ve pissed her off. Nuala doesn’t take too kindly to being compared to girls of Amber’s pedigree, which is staggeringly higher. I’ll bet Amber would never even use a word like that.
Still, Nuala’s words linger in my mind. I think Amber understood why I left. I hope she did. What does she have going on for tomorrow? Will she come back here? Again? I did leave her hanging, a tease. Maybe she won’t appreciate that. Maybe that’ll piss her off. How long will a girl like that chase when she’s only here for another week? That she’s even chasing after me at all is a shock.
I consider calling her. Driving back there tonight and letting her know exactly how I feel, that I don’t want her scratching any itches with anyone but me.
But when I leave Delaney’s for the night and see the street up ahead, where I should turn left toward her place . . . I go straight instead, toward home.
SIXTEEN
AMBER
The shrill ring of my phone is ten times worse than normal.
“Hello?” My voice crackles in the receiver, my eyes squinting against the dull morning light streaming through the kitchen window as I watch rain splatter over the patio table out back. This is the kind of weather Mary Coyne warned was common in Ireland.
“You’re up.”
As happy—and relieved—as I am to hear River’s voice, I can’t manage more than a light moan in response.
“Did you drink water?”
“Three glasses and counting.” I tip the tall glass—the only reason I crawled out of bed in the first place—to my lips, praying that the cool liquid will get rid of this dull ache. Clearly three hasn’t been enough.
“Listen, I wanted to apologize for last night. I should never have come in like that.” He pauses. “And I’m sorry I ran.”
I smile. If he hadn’t, there was only one way last night was going, and I honestly can’t say how I’d feel about that this morning. As it was, my last thoughts before falling asleep were of him, and what he would feel like. My first thoughts this morning were of him, too.
In fact, all of my thoughts since I stepped into that pub two days ago have been of him.
“It’s okay. Really.”
“So, you’re not pissed at me, then?”
I chuckle. “Why would I be ‘pissed’?” If anything, the fact that he’s so concerned makes my knees weak with the thought of him.
“Nuala made it sound like . . . never mind.” A loud sigh fills my ear, making me wish he were here, in person. Just maybe not now, I accept as I steal a glance at the reflection in the hallway mirror. Smears of the residual black mascara that didn’t wash off circle my eyes, and my smooth curls from last night are now a rat’s nest.
“What are you doing today?”
“Probably sleeping this hangover off, as much as I hate wasting a day.” I begin to climb the stairs.
The doorbell rings. I freeze mid-step and turn, my brow furrowed at the door ahead.
/> There’s a long pause, and then, “Are you going to get that?”
“No. I’m not even dressed.”
“I don’t mind.”
“What do you . . .” I scamper down and to the living room window, my eyes widening when I see River’s forest-green MINI Cooper—a source of great surprise last night when he led me to it, seeing as I have a newer model, in red—parked next to Simon’s car. “Are you outside?”
“It’s really coming down now. Do you think you could let me in?”
This is not how I imagined our next meeting. But it’s pouring out there. I can’t leave him standing on my doorstep in the name of vanity. Spotting the long tunic sweater that I left draped across the chair yesterday, I quickly yank it on over my tank top. It just reaches past my underwear. It’ll have to be enough.
“Amber?”
I glance at my reflection again, this time in the hallway mirror. And groan. And then I open the door.
River’s eyes flash with surprise, grazing over me ever so quickly before lifting to settle on my face. He steps in, handing me a tall Starbucks cup on his way past, his T-shirt and track pants drenched, his hair plastered across his forehead. “I would have brought you a hearty Irish breakfast to go with those grapes but wasn’t sure if you could handle it.”
I take a step back, my breath likely as toxic as the taste swirling in my mouth right now. “And what’s in an Irish breakfast?”
He shrugs. “Bangers and beans . . . potatoes . . . eggs . . .” He reaches out, brushes away a stray hair from my cheek. “. . . black pudding.”
My stomach churns. “Maybe later.” Bonnie warned me not to eat that. It has something to do with actual blood.
He chuckles, watching me closely.
“I just need ten minutes, if you don’t mind.” My bare feet are slipping one behind the other, in an attempt to escape up the stairs.
He grabs my hand, stopping me. “How about I give you an hour. I’m going to fit in a quick run, but I have a bit of time after that, if you wanted to go out.”
My hangover is suddenly forgotten. “What’d you have in mind?”
He shrugs. “I figured I’d teach you how to drive on the right side of the road, maybe?” We share a chuckle. “Then maybe see an artist about some ink.” A pause. “Unless you’d rather get that sleep.”
“Yeah. No . . . I mean . . .” I stumble over my words with excitement. “That all sounds great.” Any time with you is good. “When do you have to be at work?”
He glances at his watch. “In three hours. So I’ll pick you up in an hour? Is that enough time?”
I nod, holding my breath as he leans in to kiss me on the cheek.
I watch his easy movements as he runs down my path. Much like he did last night. Only the dread I felt before is gone, replaced with anticipation.
I tear up my stairs toward the shower, peeling my clothes off as I go, the throb in my head forgotten.
My chest heaves with relief as I park.
“That wasn’t so bad, right?” River sits in the passenger seat of his car, his legs splayed, his elbow resting on the armrest. The picture of calm. As if I didn’t go the wrong way down a roundabout and almost crash his car and put us in the hospital.
“I’m actually a good driver,” I promise, peeling my white-knuckled fingers off the steering wheel to open my driver’s-side door and climb out. His car is just like my car at home, only backwards. And everything about driving these streets feels wrong. Except having River here, beside me.
“I believe you. It’s not your fault.” He meets me at the front of the car and entwines his fingers within mine, a sly smirk turning his lip. “You’re just used to driving on the wrong side of the road.”
I smile, his harmless teasing so much more appealing because of the way he says it. I’ve had to ask some of the locals I’ve met to repeat themselves, their accents are so thick. “What part of Ireland are you from?”
“Northern. We grew up in County Louth, just south of the border.” He leads me past the heavy yellow door of The Fine Needle. “Why?”
“Because I can actually understand you. It’s nice.”
His laughter fills the quiet cave-like shop that I’ve now been in twice in twenty-four hours. Somehow it feels different this time.
Ivy is standing at the computer, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, highlighting the shaved sides of her head. Her gaze bores into the forehead of a heavyset woman with a dozen rings through her left ear—much like Ivy’s piercings—who is busy scribbling her signature across the bottom of a sheet of paper. “First room on the left. I’ll be there in five minutes,” she instructs the woman with a light tone that I assume is reserved for clients. She even flashes a polite close-mouthed smile her way as she points in the direction. Urging the woman to move.
As soon as the customer is out of sight, Ivy tosses the clipboard with the signed waiver to the side, that professional smile replaced with a scowl.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
She rounds the desk, her knee-high boots exchanged for low ones and black leggings. The giant plum-colored shirt that reaches mid-thigh looks more like a potato sack than an article of clothing. “Like I want to stab myself in the eye with my needle,” she says, deadpan. “Seriously, I probably should cancel my appointments for the day and just throw myself into a well.”
“So you would recommend that I wait to get this done?” River grins, pulling a tucked sheet of paper out of his pocket and unfolding it for her. It’s the same stag that’s on the Delaney T-shirts.
“If you want me to do it, then yeah. That woman back there?” She drops her voice and thumbs back toward where her customer left. “She’s so screwed. My cousin, Ian, could maybe do it for you today, though. If you don’t want to wait.”
“You said he’s not as good as you, though.”
“Not even close.”
“I’ll wait for you, then. If you think you can do a good job of this.”
“Oh, I can do a great job of that.”
River smiles, reaching out to pinch my elbow. “What about you? You want Ivy to mark that perfect skin of yours?”
“Are you kidding?” Now Ivy’s brows spike. “I’m not putting a tattoo on Miss Sheriff’s Daughter. She’ll have something to hang over my head until the day I die. I’ll never be able to go back to Oregon. Not that I’m missing much.”
I glare at her.
“I take it you two didn’t just meet yesterday.”
“You actually believed that?” Ivy snorts. “Alright, I’ve got to get back there now, before I kill myself.” She drags her feet as she turns to leave.
“So I guess you wouldn’t be interested in going out with us tonight, then?” River asks.
And my heart rate skips a few beats. This is new.
Ivy stops and turns, that owl-like gaze of hers shuttering between the two of us. “The three of us?”
“Four. My brother, Rowen, will come out, too. You remember him from last night?”
“The grinning Irishman. Yeah.”
I don’t even have to ask to know that Rowen isn’t her type, despite his being charming and hot. Her type is broody and dark. Basically, my brother.
“So you’ll come? We’d love for you to come.” He ropes an arm around my waist, pulling me to him. “Right, Amber?”
“Yeah, definitely. Just maybe no shots.” I’d like to be in control of myself this time around.
Ivy’s gaze hovers over River’s arm. I’d pay to know what’s going on inside that head of hers right now. “Sure. I’m in. If I’m not dead by then. Amber has my number.”
The second she disappears, he pulls me into him, our chests pressed against each other. It’s the first overt move on his part since he picked me up today. “You okay with spending tonight with me, Miss Sheriff’s Daughter?”
I groan but then laugh. “Don’t you start that now, too.”
“That’s the second time she’s called you that. I’m guessing your father�
��s a sheriff?”
I nod.
“And I take it Ivy doesn’t like paying taxes?”
Taxes? I frown. “Uh . . . I don’t know. It wouldn’t surprise me, though.” She seems like she could walk a fine line between right and wrong.
His one eye narrows in question. “Wait . . . What exactly does a sheriff do in America?”
“Arrests people? Keeps the peace?” Wreaks havoc on a teenage girl’s love life? “My dad was the county sheriff. He ran the entire police department. But he’s retired now.”
“Oh.” A strange look passes over his face that I can’t read. “That’s definitely different from sheriffs in Ireland. They just collect taxes from delinquents.”
“Like the Sheriff of Nottingham?”
He chuckles softly. “Kind of.” A pause. “So, what’s your father like?”
My gaze scans the black ceiling above as I ponder that question. How do I describe Gabe Welles? “Serious, more than he’s not. Difficult to please. A believer in the rule of law. Thrives on having control of the situation. Overprotective of his daughter.” It took him a while to warm up to Neil as my boyfriend, even though he knew him as Neil, the kid who ate sand at the playground, for fifteen-odd years before that. Neil was about as innocuous as a teenage boy can get, and the sheriff still felt it was necessary to be cleaning his rifle on the front porch when the guy arrived to pick me up for our first date.
He was never a big fan of Brody, though he admitted the guy was decent as far as men go. And, even though my mom knew and could vouch for Aaron, I’m pretty sure my dad ran a background check on him before grunting his approval.
I don’t even have to wonder what he’d think of River. He wouldn’t like him at all, for the simple fact that he lives in Ireland.
“And what kind of daughter were you?” River plays with one of my gold hoop earrings. “The kind who listened to her serious, controlling, difficult-to-please father? Or the one who didn’t?”
“What do you think?”
His eyes glance over my mouth. “I’m thinking you made him very proud.”
Am I that obvious? By his suddenly serious expression, I’m beginning to think this is unpleasant news for River. “Is that a bad thing?”
