My Secret Irish Baby: A Second-Chance, Secret Baby Contemporary Romance (Irish Kiss Book 7)

by Sienna Blake

  But my voice came out thin and raspy and shaky, like lightning had just struck too close for comfort.

  "Yeah, um, thanks," Michael said, adjusting his tie now. "I, um, I appreciate it."

  I nodded. "Well, I guess we can go now." I glanced up at the man hesitantly.

  He was biting his lip. "Yep," he said slowly.

  Neither of us moved to go.

  "I really should be getting back to that party," he said, staring at the tips of his perfectly shined black dress shoes. "I'm supposed to make a speech."

  "Yeah, and I have…stuff to do."

  Neither of us moved to go.

  "Okay then," I said, glancing at the door over my shoulder. "Well, you have that speech…"

  The man followed my eyes. But neither of us moved to go.

  "And you have…"

  "Stuff."

  "Right, you have stuff. So…"

  "Right."

  I nodded and then he nodded.

  "Okay then."

  I reached my hand back toward the door handle. The brass was cold and harsh against my fingertips, a cruel contrast to the warmth and comfort of his chest.

  "Okay then," I said again. "Well, see you around."

  I started to push down the door handle when the man spoke in a rush. "She could come back."

  I stopped. "What?"

  The man adjusted his cufflinks without looking at me, save a quick dart of his sharp green eyes. "Caroline, that woman, I mean. She could come back, you know," he repeated.

  My fingers drummed contemplatively on the door handle. I spent most of my nights alone. I could be in a hostel room with ten bunks, but I was still alone. On international bus trips packed with people at three in the morning, I was still alone. In train stations in Berlin and Paris and Madrid where every bench was occupied with duffel bags and travellers just like me, I was still alone, all alone.

  Maybe for one night it would be nice not to be alone.

  I looked up at the man and said, "She seems to be pretty persistent, that woman."

  I held back a grin when I noticed his eyes widen in happy surprise before quickly shifting back toward passive, neutral, disinterested, even.

  "I doubt she'll give up after just one lap of the hallways," he said, nodding.

  I nodded, too. "Maybe it would be smart to just wait a little bit."

  The man feigned like he was considering this. "You think?" he asked and then glanced down at the tray of bacon-wrapped dates and half bottle of wine. "Plus, we wouldn't want that to go to waste."

  I shook my head. "Yeah, I can't eat it all."

  That was a lie, but a lie I was willing to tell in order to share a little more time with the man.

  "So we just stay until we finish up the food?"

  "And the wine," the man added. "Just till then."

  "Then you go give your speech," I said, hand still hesitating on the door handle.

  "And you go do your…"

  "Stuff."

  "Stuff, right."

  We each nodded.

  "Okay then," I said.

  "Alright," he said.

  We eyed each other suspiciously like we were in a standoff on some dusty Main Street in 1842 as we slowly lowered ourselves to the floor in the linen closet. I wasn't sure which was worse: the idea that one of us might suddenly pull a pistol or the idea that one of us might suddenly laugh and say, “Really? You really thought I’d rather do this with you?” before leaving.

  With my back against the door and his back against the shelves of white towels and bed sheets, we sat across from one another, me cross-legged and him with his knees pulled up tightly to his chest so our feet didn't touch. We sat there across from one another as the silence grew heavier.

  "Maybe we should drink?" I said.

  This caused us both to lean forward at the same time, sending our heads crashing together. Well, this was off to a good start, whatever the hell this was. I did random hookups with guys in clubs or bars or beach shacks, not strange, silent, electrically charged uncertainty in linen closets. I was out of my depth.

  Michael rubbed his forehead and groaned, "You first."

  I took a healthy swig from the wine bottle before passing it over. I flinched when my fingers grazed against his; the linen closet suddenly felt much smaller.

  "So what is this speech of yours?" I asked, reaching for a date to keep my fingers from playing with the buttons of my vest. "And why are you running away from it?"

  Michael took another swig and handed the bottle back over. He straightened the bow of his shoelaces before looking up at me. "I guess since we're only going to know each other for the next ten minutes or so, I might as well be honest with you."

  I shrugged. "You'll never see me again in your life," I said. "Might as well."

  The man flicked an invisible speck of dust off the tailored hem of his dark grey slacks. "Plus I'm a little drunk," he admitted.

  I grinned as I tipped back the bottle of wine.

  "And I'm never honest," he continued.

  "I probably won't remember a single thing you tell me tomorrow," I reassured him.

  He nodded and then was quiet for just a minute longer. "The speech is for a big promotion that I just got," he finally said. "The truth is I'm not really sure I want it anymore."

  I plopped a date into my mouth and passed the bottle of wine back to him. "What do you want?" I asked.

  The man took a long drink of wine. He laughed darkly. "That's the thing," he said. "I want to want it—the promotion, the success, the money, the reputation." He passed over the bottle.

  "Why?" I asked.

  At my question, he snatched back the bottle, held up a finger, and chugged half of what was remaining. He wiped his red-stained lips and blurted out, "Because who am I without it? How are the dates?"

  I took back the bottle, studying the man's face as he grabbed a date.

  "Do you do this often?" Michael asked, clearly wanting to change the subject. "When you get caught sneaking into linen closets, that is?"

  I grinned. "You mean lure attractive men inside and pry out their deepest, darkest secrets that make them turn red in the cheeks and nearly choke on their bacon-wrapped dates?"

  He blushed and shifted uncomfortably. I found it…charming. It was like peeking behind a stern, grey, unmoving wall to see a field of wildflowers. It made me wonder what it would feel like to walk amongst those flowers. And why the stern, grey, unmoving wall was there in the first place.

  Glowering at me, Michael reached out his hand for the quickly emptying bottle of wine and said, "I mean distract them from what they should be doing. You're like a siren."

  "Hey, you crashed your boat willingly, sailor."

  His eyes flashed like a strike of lightning across the small space. I could feel the tingle of electricity in my fingers and toes, feel the static in my hair.

  "Maybe," he said.

  The wine passed between us once more.

  "Since we're being drunk and stupid—"

  "Don't you mean drunk and honest?" he said.

  "Aren't they the same thing?" I laughed. "Since we're being drunk and stupid," I continued, "this is actually the first time I've been caught…'borrowing' things."

  Michael raised an amused eyebrow. "You plan on giving this wine back?"

  "Hey, you're drinking it, too," I argued.

  He laughed, and it was loud and glorious. It was the first time I sensed he was holding nothing back, reserving nothing, keeping nothing safe and tucked away.

  "This is my party!" he said.

  "Fine, fine, fine," I said, holding up my hands. "This is the first time I've been caught accepting charity, we'll say."

  "Bullshite."

  I shook my head. "Nobody ever sees me," I insisted. "Wearing these clothes, nobody even gives me a second glance."

  "What about your eyes?"

  His question made me pause, nearly empty wine bottle halfway to my lips. "What do you mean?"

  Michael's legs were rela
xed now, folded in front of him like mine; our knees were touching. He held my gaze as he leaned forward slightly.

  "How do you cover your eyes?" he said. "Because I can't imagine anyone would forget them once they'd seen them, even if just for a second."

  My voice was small and uncertain as I tried to laugh and say, "You're drunk."

  The corners of his mouth twitched up slightly. "Maybe I should be drunk more often."

  I licked my lips and hesitated for just a moment before saying, "Maybe we should go get drunker right now." I dangled the empty bottle between us. "We're out."

  Michael glanced at the bottle and then at me. "Like we should go out?" he asked. "That's probably a mistake."

  I nodded in agreement. "Probably."

  "Probably a terrible mistake," he added, drumming his fingers over his knees, which were touching mine.

  "Probably the worst mistake of your life."

  He nodded, fingers tapping. "It'll probably ruin my career."

  "Definitely."

  "Tank my pension scheme."

  "Oh, absolutely."

  "Drive any chance of future employment straight into the ground."

  "You'll be lucky if you get hired at a convenience store after tonight."

  I watched as Michael straightened his already straight tie. "It'll be quite the mess."

  "Quite."

  His green eyes were bright when he looked up at me. "Let's do it."

  We hurried to our feet, both afraid the moment might slip away if we didn't move fast. My hand was on the door handle when he placed a hand on my arm.

  "Just one thing," he said before I opened the door. "I have work in the morning."

  "Oh, no problem," I said, smiling over my shoulder at him. "We'll just have one drink."

  I reached for the handle, only to pause once more.

  "Two at the most."

  Michael

  I startled awake to a piercing ray of sunshine, a throbbing headache, and something cold and metallic poking at my chest. Peeking open one eyelid halfway was about all I could manage.

  "Eh, get up, feckin’ eejit. Get up."

  My groggy vision cleared just enough to catch sight of a massive man in blue jean coveralls jabbing at me with a lug wrench like he was a boy and I was a beetle he wanted to check whether I was dead or not. I wasn't quite sure myself.

  I groaned, and I guess that answered the question, for him at least.

  "Get the hell off my bus," he grumbled irritably. "This ain't a halfway house."

  I tried to sit up, but when the cheap fabric seats around me started to spin, I sank back down pitifully.

  "Bus?" I croaked.

  "Yeah." The man jabbed at me again, and I made a sad attempt at stopping him before giving up altogether. "This is a bus. Now get the hell off the bus."

  I went to drag a hand over my eyes, only to stop halfway: my hand was covered in stamps from bars and clubs and God knows what else.

  "What the hell?" I muttered in mounting confusion.

  I craned my head to squint painfully out the bright windows, only to get jabbed in the ribs by the lug wrench again.

  "Ow."

  "Don't make me involve the Gards," the man warned. "Just get off the goddamn bus and be on your merry drunk-ass way."

  I stared up at the man, blocking the brilliant sunlight with my hand. "Why exactly am I on a bus?" I asked.

  The man threw his arms in the air, the lug wrench smacking the ceiling and setting off tiny hammers in my head.

  "Hell if I know!" he bellowed. "I've been trying to get you off for fifteen minutes. Now get."

  The big man leaned forward and roughly grabbed the collar of my wrinkled and stained suit jacket. He was about to drag me off the bus himself when a voice came from the front.

  "Wait, wait! Wait, he's with me. He's with me."

  There was the sound of little running feet, and then the American came into my hazy vision like a dream.

  "I'll deal with him," she said to the driver. "Just give me two seconds and we'll be out of your hair."

  The big man glanced warily from her to me, sagged helplessly against the seat.

  "Two seconds," the girl insisted. "Promise."

  I fell back with a moan when the driver shoved me away from him. He stormed past the girl, cursing down the aisle. All I wanted to do was lay my cheek against the cheap plastic armrest, curl up on the scratchy '70s geometric print, and die. But as I was closing my eyes, the American wiggled up next to me.

  "Morning," she said, cheerful as a robin I wanted to shoot from a fucking bright blue sky. "Sorry I left you, but you were sleeping so sweetly and I figured you'd need this when you woke up."

  I murmured a thanks when she eased a little glass into my hand. That's what I needed: a nice, cold glass of wat—

  "What the hell?" I shouted, coughing and pounding at my chest from the burn in my throat and lungs. "That isn't water."

  The girl laughed. "Water? Water doesn't have alcohol in it."

  I stared at her incredulously before sniffing what I then realised was a shot glass.

  "Wait, is this Poitín? Where the hell are we?"

  "Glenda-something," the girl answered, taking the first shot glass.

  In my bewilderment, I numbly accepted the second shot glass and let her guide it to my lips. I sputtered and shook my head as the liquor again burnt my throat.

  "No, no, wait. Where?"

  "Glenda-something," the girl repeated, glancing over her shoulder toward the front of the bus. "Look, we gotta get out of here. Take this and let's go. It's coffee."

  The girl helped me wobble to my feet and then wrapped my hands around a hot mug. I followed her toward the front and closed my eyes to take an invigorating whiff. I opened my eyes and glared at the girl's back.

  "There's liquor in here, too. Isn't there?"

  The girl grinned over her shoulder at me and winked. "Of course."

  It was all fine, I told myself as we passed row after row. I got a teeny, tiny, itty bit drunk last night and ended up on the wrong bus home. I'd just find another bus or call a cab. I'd be home in minutes, passed out in my own bed seconds after that. It was all fine.

  But as I stepped off the bus, sheepishly avoiding the angry glare of the massive driver still wielding his lug wrench, I quickly realised it was all not fine. Because it wasn't city skyscrapers surrounding me, but lush, rich green mountains. There wasn't the honk of horns from morning traffic, but chirping birds and whispering wind through trees of every shade of green imaginable.

  There was not a cab in sight and the only bus around was the one I just stepped off. I took a not-so-little sip of my spiked coffee to still my nerves. The girl was leading me on a small forest trail from the parking lot, her braid swinging merrily against her back.

  "Um, when you said Glenda-something, could you have possibly meant Glendalough?"

  I tensed for her answer. The girl snapped her fingers and smiled back at me. "That's it!"

  I stopped on the trail, leaned my head back, and groaned. "Why the hell am I in Glendalough?" I moaned at the weave of interlacing branches above me.

  The girl hurried back to me and interlaced her arm with mine.

  "It was your idea," she said, urging me forward.

  I eyed her warily. "My idea?"

  I highly doubted that. Saturdays were my most productive work days: fewer people in the office, fewer distractions. I normally treated myself to a double espresso at 5:45 a.m. instead of my usual single, and I allowed myself an extra fifteen minutes of leisurely reading, typically the Financial Times or new case law. But then it was straight into the office and minus a ten-minute lunch break, it was work until 11 p.m. This had been my schedule for years, so I was certain this little detour into the mountains was not “my” idea.

  "It was your idea," the girl insisted. "After we got kicked out that club—"

  "We got kicked out of a club?" I asked, incredulous.

  I had barely ever been to a club, no less got
ten kicked out of one. The girl laughed again, light and airy and carefree.

  "Well, technically you got kicked out," she explained. "I wasn’t the one who stormed the DJ booth to sing a very stirring rendition of 'Tiny Dancer'."

  I stopped again in the dancing sunlight on the trail. "I sang 'Tiny Dancer' at a club?"

  The girl nodded. "There wasn't a dry eye in the whole place," she said. "How does that eye feel, by the way?"

  "What eye?" I asked, prodding around where she was looking, only to pull back with a hiss of pain. "Did I get punched by a bouncer?!"

  The girl's laugh harmonised with the singing birds like they were performing a duet. It would have been beautiful had I not been so horrified.

  "Of course not," she said, stepping forward with me alongside her. "The bouncers kicked you, and me by association, out and then a police officer punched you."

  I skidded to a stop.

  The girl rolled her eyes. "Look, we're never going to get there if you keep—"

  "A police officer punched me?"

  "Well, technically it was only a lady dressed up like a police officer."

  "A lady punched me?"

  The girl shook her head. "You really don't remember much, do you?"

  I winced as I again gingerly touched my eye. "Apparently not."

  "We crashed that bachelor party at that strip club and—"

  "Bachelor party at a strip club?!"

  "And, well, it's my opinion that she was just jealous," the girl continued. "I said there was no way you would get up there on stage and you said ‘just watch me’ and then there you were, giving me a show. It was pretty obvious, to me at least, that she was just jealous because your ass was way cuter than hers and you shook it way—"

  "You've seen my ass?!"

  The girl laughed again. "How else was I supposed to tattoo my name on it?"

  I froze and the girl doubled over in laughter this time.

  "I'm just kidding!"

  I exhaled shakily.

  "Obviously I let the tattoo artist do it."

  "What?" I screamed.

  The girl skipped on ahead as I frantically pulled down my pants to check my ass. I huffed angrily when I found no bandages from fresh ink. I stormed after the girl to find her covering her mouth in uncontrollable giggles.