CHAPTER 4

 

“Fin! Wait up!”

Tate had seen him leave, wondering why—after staring at her across the room for the past hour—he didn’t even stop by to say good-bye. Not that it hurt her feelings. Not that she cared. She didn’t. No attachments, right? Right. But was she wrong to expect civility?

A few yards up ahead of her on the path, he stopped walking and pivoted to face her, but he didn’t move or say anything. Fast-walking in heels, she was out of breath by the time she caught up with him.

“Hey,” she said, stopping before him, her chest heaving from the exertion. His eyes flicked down for an ogle, then trailed back up to her face.

“Hey.”

“Are you…leaving?”

“Thought I would.” He shrugged. “Long day.”

“You’re going to bed?” she asked, blurting out the words.

No, they hadn’t made a plan to get together after the reception, but after all of the under-the-table teasing, she’d assumed that they would be.

Fin reached up and scratched his cheek. “My uncle said I should check out Boston. I was thinkin’ about headin’ over there tomorrow. Thought I’d get online and…you know, make a plan, see what’s what.”

“I’m going to Boston tomorrow,” she said, vaguely aware that they’d started walking in the direction of her cottage.

“Flyin’ home?” he asked.

“Yeah. Evening flight. Two o’clock check-in.” She put her hand on his shoulder to brace herself, then lifted her feet, first one, then the other, and took off her shoes, holding them on her fingers by the sling-back strip of leather. “Ohhhh. That’s better.”

He’d stopped walking when she touched his shoulder, but now he looked at her, a slight smile on his lips. “You good?”

“You ask me that a lot,” she said.

“Mmm,” he hummed noncommittally.

What was up with him? He seemed…different, somehow. Not as eager. Not as needy. Maybe he’d finally caught on to the fact that he’d made her come in the car and didn’t feel the need to prove himself anymore? Then again, it occurred to her, if that was the case, and he was finished with their short and filthy arrangement, he could have just said good-night and good-bye at the top of the path. Instead, he was walking her home.

What were they talking about? Oh, right. Boston.

“So you’re going to Boston tomorrow?” she asked.

“Thinkin’ about it,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Need a ride?” she blurted out.

He stopped walking.

Tate felt her cheeks flush, and she flinched, walking past him slowly and wondering where in the Sam Hill had that offer come from? It was almost like she wanted to spend more time with him…but why? What was the point? He lived here—not even here, in Ireland—and she lived in Florida! What the fuck was the point of getting to know him better? Not that she wanted to get to know him better. Did she?

Fuck. Did she?

Warning bells were going off in her head because getting to know someone better could lead to feelings, and feelings could lead to an attachment, and an attachment could lead to lo—

No. No, no, no. Back up. No getting to know him better. No feelings. And definitely no attachments. Take it back. Take it back before he answers!

She whipped around to face him, expecting his face to be eager, which would make retracting her offer so much easier.

But he didn’t look eager at all. In fact, if he looked like anything, it was sort of casually thoughtful.

“You know? That’d be grand as long as you’re headed that way anyway. You’d be savin’ me bus fare.”

And—yet again—it happened.

Like a colt with the right trainer, who somehow knew how to ease its behavior from skittish to calm, Fin had just managed to do that for Tate. And because no one had ever handled her so easily before, it disarmed her. It made her comfortable. She started walking again and kept the offer on the table.

“Want gas money?” he asked, stepping into place beside her.

“No. I want you to come to my cabin and fuck me again, and we’ll call it even. Deal?”

He chuckled softly but didn’t reach for her hand or put his arm around her shoulders or otherwise get sentimental and clingy.

“Yeah,” he said as they continued down the path. “Deal.”

***

Finian had gotten his wish.

They were naked in her bed.

But in a strange twist of events, she was the first girl ever who, postsex, didn’t try to cuddle into his side, lying on his arm until he lost feeling in it and making him sweat from their combined body heat. No. This girl flipped onto her back beside him, yawned several times, then closed her eyes and fell asleep. No reassurance needed. No tentative hopes that they’d stay in touch after tomorrow. No tears that their “magical weekend” was coming to an end.

Nothing.

Maybe she really didn’t believe in love, which was so odd, it was almost freakish. But he’d never met a girl less emotionally needy or more guarded.

And yeah, okay, he kind of liked it. It was so weird and unusual, this level of casual. Some girls claimed to be this casual, but they were almost always lying.

But on the other hand, for the first time that he could ever remember, he sort of wanted a little more. He sort of wanted to pull her back against his chest, wrap an arm around her waist, and fall asleep beside her.

Madness, Fin. Utter lunacy.

That’s just wantin’ what you can’t have, boyo.

He rolled to his side, watching her sleep, tracing the lines of her face with his eyes. She was quite lovely, her features delicate and the column of her neck graceful. But it was hard—really hard—to get to know her. And while part of him was intrigued by the challenge, more of him could see that she was a wounded thing, like a bird with a broken wing or a cat with a thorn embedded deeply in its paw. Wounded animals, even if they desperately needed help and care, didn’t know how to seek it and often didn’t recognize it when offered. Instead, they were prone to biting, to fighting, to running away and finding a quiet place to die.

He sighed, rolling onto his back and staring at the shadows on the ceiling as a quiet melancholy filled him. There was no catching this girl, he decided, as his heavy eyes slowly closed. There was no having her, so his only option was to simply enjoy her until they said good-bye.

***

The next morning, Tate woke up alone, which should have been a good thing but strangely wasn’t.

She’d been too tired to kick Fin out last night and ended up falling asleep beside him after two rounds of epic sex. But twice during the night when she woke up—once to pee and once because some late-night revelers had walked past her cabin at dawn—she’d been oddly comforted by his presence. Oddly, because she couldn’t actually remember the last time she’d slept beside someone. It simply wasn’t something she did very often.

The second time she woke, as the grayish light of early dawn flooded through the window, she’d rolled to her side and watched him sleep for a while; his face in repose was beautiful, his lips slightly parted, his long eyelashes thick and dark, his bare chest rising and falling in peaceful sleep. She’d watched him until her heart ached for no reason she could name, until her eyes had felt heavy, and she’d closed them only because she couldn’t keep them open anymore.

And now he was gone.

Sliding her hand from under her pillow with a sigh, she rested it on the pillow he’d used last night, settling her fingers in the indent made by his head. The cotton was cool, so he’d likely been gone for a while. Oh, well. At least you still have today, she thought, a bit of melancholy making her sigh again.

Wait. What? She yanked back her hand like the fabric was on fire, staring at the pillow with dismay.

At least you still have today?

“Fuck, Tate,” she hissed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed to sit up and purposely putting her back to Fin’s side.

Out the window, she could see wedding guests, casually dressed in jeans and sweaters, heading up the path to attend Rory and Brittany’s wedding breakfast, and she tried to breathe easily, though her pounding heart made it difficult.

“You got attached. You fucking got attached,” she whispered, her tone gritty with self-disgust. “Not acceptable.”

She showered and dressed quickly, self-preservation making her haul ass, eager to find Fin and tell him that she wasn’t able to give him a ride to Boston after all. They needed a clean break. Today. As soon as possible.

Hurrying up the path, dressed in jeans, a black blouse, and a black leather jacket, she encountered him sitting on a wooden porch swing near the dining hall, browsing on his phone.

He looked up at her.

“Hi,” he said simply.

“Good morning,” she answered formally.

“Sleep well?”

“Hmm,” she hummed, her stomach in knots.

“Hmm,” he repeated, narrowing his eyes and cocking his head to the side. His glance flicked to the hands by her sides, which she kept balling and releasing. His voice was cool and measured when he spoke. “I’m pretty sure you’re about to tell me why I can’t have a ride to Boston today.”

She shoved her hands in her jacket pockets and nodded. “I think it’s best.”

“Because…why? Hmm. Let’s see…” He tapped his lips. “Because last night sucked?” He stared so deeply into her eyes, she couldn’t look away. “No. That’s not it. We both enjoyed last night.”

“I just think—”

“What? That I might try to make this into somethin’ more? Borrow a car, drive to Florida, profess my undyin’ love and declare I can’t live without you?”

It did sound ridiculous when he put it like that.

“You told me not to get attached,” he said, standing up and facing her. “I listened.”

But I, apparently, didn’t.

“Listen, Tate,” he said, his voice relaxed. “I assume you have to drop off your car at the airport in Boston this afternoon, right?”

She nodded.

“So give me a ride, I’ll take you out to lunch at the Druid to thank you, and we can say good-bye there.”

“The…Druid?”

“They pull the best Guinness pints in Boston and have Irish stew on the menu.” His lips tilted up in the slightest smile as he started walking toward the dining hall doors. “You wouldn’t deprive me of some real Irish stew, would you, now? Not when I’m so far from home? Missin’ my mam and da…and me wee sister Bess?”

Was it her imagination, or was his accent suddenly twice as strong as it had been two minutes before? She fell into step beside him, letting him open the door for her and preceding him into the bustling breakfast room.

“Do you really have a sister called Bess?”

“Nah,” he said. “We don’t call her that anymore. It’s Elizabeth now, thank you very much.”

“Is she your only sibling?”

He shook his head, grabbing a plate at the fruit salad bar and handing it to her before taking one for himself. “I’m one of four.”

“Any brothers? Or just sisters?”

“I have one brother and two sisters. Callum, Elizabeth, Grace, and me.”

“The baby,” she said, rolling her eyes as she scooped from fresh pineapple onto her plate. “Why am I not surprised?”

“I don’t know,” he said, reaching around her for a spoonful of strawberries, his forearm brushing her waist in the process. “Why are you not surprised?”

She turned to look at him.

Wait. How had this happened?

She was going to tell him he couldn’t have a ride to Boston, and somehow she’d agreed not only to give him a ride but to have lunch with him too and was presently choosing breakfast fruit like she hadn’t had a full-blown panic attack fifteen minutes ago. How did he keep doing this? How did he know exactly how to put her at ease without coming on too strong? Or too pushy? Or too needy?

“The youngest in the family is often the most underrated, y’know.”

She looked up at him. “How’s that?”

He grinned. “Because they weren’t plannin’ on you. They never saw you comin’.”

***

The Druid turned out to be exactly the sort of spot that Fin had been longing for, but there was no way around it: lunch was spoiled before it even began.

Halfway through their meal—fish and chips for Tate and Irish stew for him—a sense of longing, even stronger than that for home, had taken over his mood, and he found himself less gregarious and more peevish as the minutes ticked down. It all boiled down to one thing: he didn’t want to say good-bye to Tate.

His life in New Hampshire had been lonely before she showed up; he wasn’t in any rush to get back to it.

Fuck me, he thought, staring at her pretty face across the table and remembering, vividly, what it looked like when she was in the throes of orgasm, I really don’t want to feckin’ say good-bye.

And yet, by his calculations, he had about ten minutes left before she finished her last sip of beer, stood up, and walked out, heading for the airport.

“So you’re off to Florida,” he said.

She nodded. “You ever been?”

“Never been anywhere but home and New Hampshire,” he said. “Well, and now here.”

“It’s warm there,” she said. “And the water’s turquoise.”

“What do you do there?” he asked, realizing he knew very little about her and suddenly desperate to make the most of their dwindling minutes.

“I run fishing charters for rich assholes.”

And fuck me again, but she screws like a champion, looks like a goddess, and she’s a skipper and fisherman? Fin’s heart couldn’t take much more.

He hid his expression of undiluted yearning by sipping his beer as she asked, “What about you?”

“Here? Maintenance on my cousins’ camp.”

“And at home?”

Would she think less of him for not having been to university? “Mechanic.”

“Cars?”

He nodded, looking up at the waiter and gesturing for another Guinness. Once she left, he was going to get good and langered to ease whatever ache remained.

“Ever worked on a DeLorean?” she asked.

His jaw dropped open.

There was only one reason she’d ask that specific question. And fuck, but the chances of any American girl knowing the manufacturer of the most iconic car ever produced in Ireland was so inconceivable, it made this lass a unicorn and no mistake.

Suddenly, he couldn’t fucking bear it.

“Don’t go,” he murmured, leaning across the table. “Not yet.”

Her eyes clouded with disappointment as she leaned back in her seat. “Come on, Fin. Don’t do this.”

Fuck. Shite. And balls. He’d been so cool with her, and now he’d gone and mucked it all up. It made him angry. With himself. With her. With the whole situation of meeting a deadly fierce American girl who fucked for fun and made him laugh and knew that DeLoreans used to be made in Ireland. And he couldn’t have her. He had to let her go.

“I guess so,” he bit out.

“I told you—”

“I know what you bloody told me,” he snapped, lifting the new pint of Guinness to his lips and downing a full quarter before coming up for air.

She gulped softly, staring back at him, her expression conflicted. Finally, she whispered, like it was a secret she had no business sharing, “I had fun.”

“Well, thank the dear Lord for that,” he muttered, feeling mean.

Leaning to her right, she grabbed the straps of her purse and lifted them onto her shoulder, still facing him.

“Kiss me good-bye?” she asked, standing up and staring down at him.

He looked up at her, hating her. Hating himself more.

Then he stood up and clasped her face in his hands, his lips falling fast and angrily onto hers. He kissed her hard, right smack in the middle of the pub, ignoring the catcalls around them that grew louder as the kiss softened and turned tender. He pulled her into his arms, sliding his tongue against hers again and again, his fingers curling into fists on her lower back as he tried to let her know—the only way he could—how much he wished they had more time.

But they didn’t.

When the kiss ended, she opened her eyes, and damn if they weren’t glistening. They were. Fin would stake his life on it, and it made him stupid. He rested his forehead on hers. “Stay.”

“I can’t,” she whispered, backing out of his arms. “Fin…don’t call me, don’t—”

“Don’t feckin’ worry,” he bit out.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “Good-bye.”

He watched her go, his heart hurting like hell.

“Mate,” said a guy at the adjacent table, his eyes sympathetic. “I think you’re fucked.”

Fin sat down and chugged his beer before turning to the bloke. “I think you’re right.”