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

by Sienna Blake

  And her eyes.

  They were like wildflowers in the cracks of some old sidewalk you pass by day after day unnoticed till one moment the sun catches the tiny little petals just right and you find your feet slowing, your busy, important thoughts disappearing, and your eyes captivated by a beauty you hadn't realised had been there the whole time, just waiting. They were like that: a tender, sweet, wild loveliness.

  Abbi's lips, stained red by wine, were slightly parted as her breath shuddered. She was looking up at me with those wildflower eyes, and I no longer wanted to walk past them, to crush them beneath the sole of my boot; I no longer even had the power to do so.

  In the depths of them was wildfire. I didn't want to stomp it out; I wanted to coax it, fan it, bring it to full, bright, raging, uncontrollable life.

  Abbi sucked in a breath, her narrow ribcage expanding with a flutter as I lowered myself slowly to my knees in front of her at the end of the bed. I took her tanned ankle, which was wrapped with beaded bracelets of sea glass and turquoise and tiny, smooth-as-silk river stones, and pressed a tentative kiss to the top of her foot. I followed a trail of sun-kissed freckles up the length of her calf. I suddenly wanted to know where she got each: aquamarine pools or roaring waterfalls or rocky seashores. I traced with my thumb along the tiny, silvery scars crisscrossing her knees. Did she get them climbing barbed wire fences in sunny fields? Did she get them racing barefoot across sun-bleached piers that seemed to stretch away forever into the horizon? Did she get them swinging from some old tyre over some old watering hole?

  I ran my hands along her thighs and brushed the tips of my fingers along the eyelash lace on the edge of her white cotton panties, the sensation sending shivers along my arms. I imagined Abbi pulling them up her long legs in the morning, blinking awake in the morning rays, hair a beautiful tangle she brushed over her shoulder to expose her back. I imagined a hand reaching up to trace his fingers along her spine. I imagined it was me. In that moment, lips sliding along her quivering inner thigh, I imagined a hundred such mornings with her, a thousand such morning, as many mornings as I could grab, hoard, steal.

  My breath was hot against the wet cotton between her legs as I slipped my fingers beneath the band and pulled down her panties. Abbi moved her legs silently, helping me slip them free of her and drop them beside me on the floor. I exhaled shakily as I took in the sight of her completely naked. Slowly, I trailed my eyes over her.

  I drank in the sight of the soft blonde hair between her legs, the freckle next to her belly button, the peak of her nipples like pink sand beaches, the curve of her long neck, the deep indentation of her cupid's bow.

  And her eyes.

  Abbi's eyes had been watching me, waiting for me. When mine finally landed on hers like a swan sweeping down into still, deep waters, she held my gaze in hers and slid her hand along the well-worn quilt toward me. Her long, narrow fingers wrapped around my wrist, and I could feel each of her rough callouses.

  A deep need that rivalled the need of my physical body struck me: I wanted to know the story behind each and every one of them. I wanted to lie side by side on the bed with her, hands tucked beneath our cheeks, noses mere inches away and listen to her tell me. I wanted the stories to last past dawn, past dusk, past time itself.

  Abbi's hand gently urged me up toward her and I followed like a leaf dragged toward the edge of a waterfall: I gave no resistance, even knowing I was about to fall. As I crawled up along the length of her at the urging of her hand, her eyes never left mine and mine never left hers. Abbi's arm slipped around my shoulders and she cradled the back of my head gently. Her other hand moved between us to wrap around my erection.

  She pulled me into a tender kiss as she eased me without a word between her legs. Her breath hitched and her back rose, breasts pushing against my chest, when I pushed fully inside of her. I stilled, even though every animal instinct screamed at me to move, to fuck, to take. Abbi's fingers clutched at the hair at the nape of my neck as her breathing came in short gasps. I brushed my lips against hers, soft like the petals of a rose. I kissed her closed eyes, felt her eyelashes against my chin. I cupped her cheek and felt her heart pounding against mine in a silent race.

  With tender care I started moving, drawing slowly out of her and easing slowly back in. Between us there was an intimacy far deeper than just the linking of one body with another. There was a closeness more meaningful than sweat-slick skin against sweat-slick skin. There was a significance stronger than just the performing of a sexual act.

  I wasn't sure how I knew this with such certainty. Maybe it was the way her lips sought mine as her thighs tensed and the muscles along her lower stomach quivered. Maybe it was the way she held me tight as we rocked together, like we were lovers reunited at long last after years, centuries, millennia apart. Maybe it was the way I clutched at the quilt as I came closer and closer to conclusion and she instinctively interlaced her fingers with mine.

  "I'm close," she whispered, nearly breathless.

  Her desperate moans filled the silent bedroom as I thrust into her, squeezing her hand tight as the tightening and spasming of her muscles almost sent me over the edge. Abbi's fingers twisted almost painfully in my hair, and she pulled me down even closer to her. Her lips found mine as her back arched and her head pushed back into the bed and she cried out as she came, body quivering uncontrollably under mine.

  It was all too much and I followed immediately after, slipping my arm under her limp body to hold her tight to me, teeth sinking into the tender flesh between her neck and shoulder to mute my scream. Every muscle in my body shuddered in wave after wave of indescribable pleasure until I sagged against her.

  Abbi's fingers traced little circles along my back as my vision returned and the room stopped spinning. I rolled off of her, and she turned her head sleepily to look at me with those eyes, those wildflower eyes.

  I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear which had fallen across her damp forehead. My finger continued across her cheekbone, down her chin, around her lips. It was a path walked in complete silence, as if down some country road beneath a sky of infinite stars. Abbi blinked heavily, sleep threatening to take her.

  I gathered her up, pulled her tight against my chest, and wrapped my arms protectively around her.

  "Let's dance tomorrow," Abbi whispered dreamily.

  I pressed my lips against her hair, smelled the faint lingering of hibiscus shampoo mixed with bonfire and sweet grasses and Poitín.

  "Okay?" Abbi pressed, stirring slightly against me.

  I smiled, nestling in closer to the heat of her body, to the wild rhythm of her heart.

  "We'll dance tomorrow," I whispered back.

  Abbi murmured something contently and kissed my palm before letting sleep take her away, like a gentle tide on the seashore. My world, on the other hand, was not gentle tides but a sudden violent whirlpool.

  One simple word had taken me by surprise and tugged me beneath the surface with a wrench on my ankles.

  Tomorrow.

  Up until that point I had forgotten about tomorrow. Not just what I had planned to do, accomplish, work on tomorrow. But the entire concept of “tomorrow”. It simply hadn't existed, that was a time outside the present of Abbi, her body spinning on the dance floor with mine, her hazel eyes finding mine across a crowd beneath twinkling strands of lights while the banjos and flutes played.

  Her ancient American magic had twisted its way around my head, taken control of my body, desert flowers blooming from my fingertips, but with one word the brilliant petals shrivelled and the magic died.

  Because tomorrow did exist. It was real. It was coming and it was unavoidable.

  My heart started to race as I realised how quickly I'd forgotten about my promotion, my job, my work. A cold panic coursed through my veins as I saw how all-consuming this woman was, like a thunderstorm on the horizon, like a sandstorm blocking out the sun, like a wild fire destroying everything in its path. My mind spun like a wobbling top as I
considered how easily she'd changed what was important in my life.

  As if in the blink of an eye, I'd stopped caring about my job, my professional reputation, my success. I cared only about hearing Abbi laugh one more time, slipping my arm around her narrow waist on the dance floor one more time, running my fingers through her hair just one more time. My chest tightened and I found it harder and harder to breathe as I remembered all the work I'd thrown off to spend time with her.

  How much work would I throw off just the same?

  How many meetings would I miss simply to hold her hand on a park bench?

  How many late working nights will I sacrifice to watch her fall asleep?

  How many promotions will I let slip through my fingers while I do nothing but listen to her sing silly country songs in the shower?

  How little resistance would I put up against any of it…

  The thing above all else that sent cold fear travelling through my veins like a fierce winter storm was how she planted a seed of doubt in my heart. I thought I knew what I wanted for my life. I thought I knew what I was living my life for. I thought I knew that my job would get it for me.

  But that tiny little seed made me unsure. Was there something out there I could be missing out on? Was I chasing the wrongs things? Would there be nothing but disappointment and dissatisfaction waiting for me at the top of the corporate ladder?

  I didn't like that seed of doubt Abbi had planted. It felt like a boulder against my chest. It made me uncomfortable, unsettled, scared.

  My body tensed as I lay panicked behind Abbi. I knew seeing her tomorrow would add water to that seed. Waking up beside her would add nutrients. Dancing with her in my arms would give it bright, brilliant sun. Only leaving now would kill it, leave that seed of doubt in dry, unfertile soil beneath a grey, churning sky. Only leaving now would make it shrivel and rot and die.

  It wasn't like this was going anywhere anyway, I lied to myself. Abbi’s breathing was even and her body relaxed in my arms. I slipped carefully away from her. I put back on my clothes silently and then wrote a note on the Do Not Disturb sign. I put a few hundred dollars on top, knowing she didn't have much.

  I switched off the lamp and left without a glance back at her sleeping form.

  I had to believe that my career was the thing that would make me happy. I had to believe that devoting myself to constant work was the right thing for my life. I had to believe that if I overachieved, reached high enough, really made something of myself, that I would one day finally be enough.

  I had to believe that, because that was what I'd always believed. I would be lost without it.

  I left without a glance back at the girl, because I feared even one glance back would shatter that belief into a million pieces.

  And I simply couldn't risk that.

  Abbi

  The patter of heavy drops of rain on the roof started out as the beating of a drum in my dreams. It seemed like the music from the day before never stopped. The rhythm continued in the beating of my chest as Michael lowered himself to his knees in between my legs. The swell of the bagpipes was the expanding of my lungs as I sucked in a ragged breath at the sensation of him inside me. Michael’s thrusts as he clung to me and I to him were like the pounding of feet on the dance floor, which slowed in my memory as the lights blurred and the dome of stars circled above us like an umbrella spun round…round…round in the rain.

  Slowly I awoke from one dream into another.

  I stirred a little more at the steady sound of the falling rain and blinked one eye open to squint blearily at the crack of churning grey clouds between the cabin drapes. The turn of the weather made no difference to me.

  Michael and I would dance in the rain.

  His hair, normally perfectly styled and slicked back without a strand out of place, would be plastered to his forehead as he blinked shimmering droplets from his long eyelashes. My white blouse would cling to my naked body beneath, hang from my shoulders, get dirtied from the mud. We'd dance barefoot in the rain. Together we'd dance barefoot in the rain. The band could stay beneath a tent, but we would laugh and drink and dance in the rain.

  I didn't know where the future led with Michael. But I knew I at least had today. I knew I at least had his hot, wet body against mine for today. I knew I at least had his sharp green eyes on mine for today.

  With a contented sigh, I rolled over sleepily to nestle against the warmth of Michael's body, only to find the place on the bed next to me empty and cold. I stretched my hand out over the cold sheet as if I couldn't trust my sight alone, as if I hoped my sight alone was mistaken. I kept my fingers there, in the empty, cold space, as if checking the pulse of a purple, rigid dead body.

  I sat up, pushed my tangled hair back away from my face, and looked around the room. I tried not to notice that his clothes were gone. I tried not to notice that there was no sign of his wallet. I did my best not to catch sight of the dull silver room key lying in the hallway where he'd dropped it hastily the night before.

  Cross-legged on the bed, naked and shivering, I stared at the door.

  It wasn't a remarkable door, but doors hardly ever are; that doesn't mean they can't stick in your memory like a fruit fly in sugar water, a rabbit in a rusted snare, a blunt knife in a heart.

  I could still remember another door from three years ago in perfect detail. I didn't even need to close my eyes to see the brass knob and the areas worn and dulled from fingers that used to hug me, tuck my hair behind my ear, pop the tip of my nose affectionately. I remembered each pencilled mark alongside the peeling white door frame even though I couldn't remember standing up against the wall, trying to sneakily stretch up onto my tiptoes to gain another half inch or two. I could see the repaired glass my baseball went through, the nail from where the Christmas wreath always hung, the varying shades of peeling blue from when my parents still believed they'd have time on this Earth to repaint the front door.

  It was raining too that night I sat on the stairs and waited for my parents to return home. I sat there, staring at the door, not realising that I was already replacing their memory, their smiling, loving faces, their warm, affectionate laughter, their barefoot dancing in the kitchen, with another memory entirely: a memory of a door. A door that did not open. A door that would not open.

  In the cabin as I continued to stare at the unmoving door, chills had come to cover my naked limbs. I shivered uncontrollably but I did not move, I did not pull my eyes away from the door.

  I thought I'd learned my lesson three years ago. I thought I'd learned that the best way to never again sit waiting on a door to open was to always be the one to close it. Move fast, move often. Slip out in the night, be still, be quiet. Do not wait for dawn. Keep going. Close the door on someone before someone else could close it on you.

  What had made me so easily forget the rules, the rules to avoid another broken heart at all costs? How had I so easily become reckless, daring, stupid? What had caused the door, that door, to slip so easily from my mind?

  The answer was obvious. It was him. It was sharp green eyes and a heart let free like a songbird from some self-created cage. It was dancing wildly and dangerously and tightly. It was him. Him.

  In the cold that seemed to only grow colder, I forced myself to sit there, not reaching for a blanket, not moving toward the radiator, not even giving myself the small comfort of wrapping my own arms across my naked chest. This was what I deserved. This was my punishment. This was the penance I had to endure.

  I was going to sit there, freezing and shivering and alone, and stare at that door, that fucking unmoving door, till its memory replaced his. I was going to sit there, punishing myself for forgetting, and stare at that door till the only green I could remember was the pale, peeling green paint over the old wood panels.

  Till the only name I could remember was Glendalough Cabins painted in uneven cursive above the door frame.

  Till the only touch I could remember was the cheap scratchy sheets beneath me and t
he frigid air around me.

  Till he was gone and there was nothing left but a plywood door.

  The room was darkened by the early dusk by the time I allowed myself to move. The rain still fell in heavy, rapid drops as I stretched out my rigid limbs and wrapped a blanket around my shivering shoulders. I pushed back the sheets and paused when I found a note and a small pile of cash. I only glanced briefly at the note before throwing it into the waste bin. After all, there wasn't much to read.

  Left money for the bus.

  I got dressed quickly, folded the cash, and tucked it in a pocket before slipping out the door and into the rain. I was soaked within minutes and shivering again soon after, lost and alone.

  I would remember my lesson better next time, I told myself.

  Be the one to close the door.

  Don't ever be the one waiting for it to open.

  Abbi

  Three months later…

  I wasn't going to do it.

  I wasn't going to call him.

  Every time I found my hand reaching for my cell phone, my fingers dialling the number, my heart leaping at the sound of each ring, I would come to my senses, hang up, and throw my cell phone away from me like it was radioactive waste.

  I wasn't going to do it.

  I wasn't going to call him.

  I didn't need him and wouldn't need him. That was that. The door was closed. And it would remain closed.

  In my new apartment back in Colorado, I sat on the stained carpet floor amongst a mess of white planks of wood, nuts and bolts, screwdrivers and hammers and tools I wasn't even sure of the name of, and more instruction booklets than I could keep track of. When I'd opened the first page to see an icon indicating two people were required for installation, I tore it out, ripped it to shreds, and stuffed it down the garbage disposal before leaving for my night shift at the local convenience store.