CHAPTER 8

 

It has been a perfect day, thought Finian, lying on his back in Tate’s bed.

To his right, a naked Tate slept beside him, curled up against his side with her head resting on his shoulder and her breath falling on the base of his throat in soft, even whispers. Leaning over just a touch, his lips brushed against her temple and rested there as he thought about Ian and Hallie’s surprise wedding, and how it had made him feel to see his cousin get married.

He knew that it was typical for the single men at a wedding to feel a certain amount of panic when watching one of their comrades surrender to marriage, but Fin, standing with Rory, Brittany, Tierney, Burr, and the rest of their friends and family as witnesses, discovered that all he’d felt was an unexpected twinge of longing.

And all he could think, as he’d held Tate against his chest with his arms around her waist, was that maybe—someday—he’d like to take the plunge too.

Because she’d had her back to his front, he hadn’t been able to see her face as Ian and Hallie exchanged their vows, but what surprised him the most was that she hadn’t untangled herself from his arms or otherwise tried to run away from him during the impromptu wedding. And it hadn’t even occurred to Fin to let her go and stand respectfully beside her. It was only when he caught Tierney watching him with a soft smile on her lips that he’d realized he was resting his chin on Tate’s shoulder like they’d been a couple for years.

How strange that he should have attended two weddings with Tate at this point and slept with her more times than he could count on two hands, but he hadn’t even spent a week in her presence. Why should she mean so much to him? And what the hell was he supposed to do about it?

As he watched Ian pledge his undying and eternal love to Hallie, he’d had a sudden flashback to the first time he’d met Tate: at Rory and Brittany’s rehearsal dinner. His chair had smacked the ground as he’d stood up that night, and when she’d stood up a few minutes later, hers had done the same. If Finian believed in fairies and legends—mind, he wasn’t totally certain that he didn’t—he might wonder if a spell had been cast, somehow binding him to this strange, standoffish woman and her to him in return.

Tate stirred in her sleep, sighing against him and snuggling closer, and Fin adjusted his grip around her, holding her a little tighter in his arms.

She’d gotten under his skin, and when they said good-bye tomorrow, it was going to ache. Nah. It was going to hurt like a bloody bitch, and Lord only knew for how long. After their first weekend together, he hadn’t shaken his longing for her after four months. This weekend, she’d been so much softer and more open to him; it was going to hurt worse this time, and it was going to take even longer to get over her.

“Ah, Tate,” he whispered. “I wish things were different, lass.”

“Hmm?” she hummed.

He kissed her temple again, lingering, closing his eyes to inhale the light scent of her shampoo mixed with their recent lovemaking.

Lovemaking.

Is that what it was?

He clenched his jaw, kissing her again before resting the back of his head on her pillow. What he felt for her was more intense than anything he’d ever felt for another woman, but he still wasn’t ready to label it. And all he wished was that he had the time and space to get to a place where he was ready.

“Fin?” she whispered.

“I’m here,” he said.

“Was I asleep?”

“You were, darlin’,” he said. “For a little bit.”

“It was a busy weekend,” she said. “And you’ve kept me up two nights in a row.”

“Any complaints?” he asked, rolling to his side so he could face her.

She shook her head, her eyes dark and lazy. “None.”

“I’ll drive you to the airport tomorrow,” he said, leaning up on his elbow.

“Oh,” she murmured, looking away from him. “Okay.”

Fuck. He didn’t mean to wreck the mood. He was just so damned sad and confused and fucked up about letting her go and never seeing her again.

“I wish we had more time,” he said.

Her eyes cut to his. “You do?”

“I do.” He paused, wondering how much he should say, desperate not to push her away but well aware that his time with her was running down. “I don’t know what this is. On one hand, I barely know you, but on the other, I’ve known you for months and all I want is…more time. Feckin’ bites that there’s none left.”

“I could stay,” said Tate in a small voice, “for a few extra days.”

“You could? You’d do that?”

She shrugged. “My ship’s in dry dock until the first week of May. I told my Uncle Pete I’d give him a hand with some of his upcoming charters, but I don’t think he’d mind if I stayed until Wednesday. That’s when you’re leaving, right?”

The wind was knocked out of him. He couldn’t believe that she was offering him more time. It was like a reprieve from execution at this point, and he pulled her into his arms, kissing her soundly.

“That’s when I’m leavin’,” he said, grinning at her as he nipped the corners of her lips, his cock swelling with the news that it could invade her sweet body numberless times between now and Wednesday evening.

“I’ll change my flight in the morning,” she said.

“Whatever will we do until then?” asked Fin.

Tate put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him to his back, then straddled his chest, firmly gripping the base of his rigid cock, then sinking down on it with a satisfied groan.

“More of this,” she suggested.

He reached for her breasts, teasing her nipples until she whimpered. Then clutching her hips, he controlled the way she slid back and forth on his slick cock until they came together in breathless pants of “fuck” and “yes” and “Fin” and “Tate” and the kind of soft, happy laughter that is only present when you have—for a few blissful moments—discovered that everything you were about to lose is still yours for the taking.

***

Tate swatted at her nose, the sound of buzzing making her semiconscious mind believe that a fly or bee had invaded her love nest.

Buzz. Buzz, buzz, buzz.

Buzz. Buzz, buzz, buzz.

CRASH!

Her eyes popped open, and she sat up in bed.

Beside her, Finian lay on his stomach with his naked—and incredibly tight—ass in the air. She grinned at the matching fingernail marks she’d left on the twin globes before pulling the sheets and comforter over his sleeping body.

Buzz. Buzz, buzz, buzz.

Looking over the side of the bed, she found her cell phone—the guilty party—scooting around the floor like a Mexican jumping bean with a constant stream of buzzing noises and accompanying vibrations.

Hmm, she thought, reaching down for it. It buzzed for so long that it buzzed itself off the table? What’s going on?

Sitting up with her feet dangling over the side of the bed, she turned the phone over. Frank Sturgess. Frank. Uncle Pete’s best friend. What the hell?

“Hello? Frank?”

“Tate! Oh, thank God! Tate.”

Her blood went cold. Cold as ice. And it actually occurred to her, as her breath caught in her throat, to throw the phone across the room and shatter it so she wouldn’t have to hear whatever was coming next.

Instead she gulped. “F-Frank?”

“Um. Something happened. It’s Pete.”

“No,” she said, her voice firm and insistent. “It isn’t Pete.”

“Tatey? You gotta listen to me, honey. Your uncle’s in the hospital.”

She couldn’t breathe, and the room was spinning like mad. “He’s dead.”

The phone slipped from her hand, smacking on the floor and waking up Fin. “Tate?”

She sat on the edge of the bed, naked and frozen, the faraway voice of her uncle’s best friend calling her name. “Tate? Tatey, you there? Tate? Let me explain what happened! Tate?”

Fin sat up. “What’s goin’ on?”

But she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe, or swallow, or see. She closed her eyes against the spinning of the room, her head going dim and dizzy. It’s happening again. You’re alone. You’re going to be all alone.

“Tate? Who’s—?” Fin leaned over her, reaching down for her phone and bumping it against her elbow. When she didn’t take it, he cleared his throat. “Hello? Uh, this is, uh, Tate’s friend, Finian. She’s, uh…ah. Oh, yes. I see. Mmm. When? Right. Last night.” He paused for a moment, and Tate squeezed her eyes tighter. “Uh-huh. I’ll tell her. Right-o. Huh. So he’s—? Well, that’s good, ain’t it? Yeah. Yeah. Right. Okay. She’s, uh…she’s a bit shaken up, sir. Mm-hm. She’ll call you back. Right. Good. Bye, then.”

Fin must have positioned his body behind hers, because the next things she knew, she was drawn back against his chest, and his arms were around her.

“Darlin’,” he said. “Can you hear me?”

She clenched her jaw so hard she wondered if it was possible to break it.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, his voice soft and very, very close to her ear. He held her tighter. “Listen to me. Yer uncle’s not dead. Do you hear me? He’s alive, Tate. He’s not dead.”

He’s alive, Tate. He’s not dead.

If she’d been standing up, she would have collapsed under the weight of her intense relief, but because Finian was holding her so tight, all she could do was fall back against him, her naked body slumping into his, her rigid muscles loosening to jelly, her eyes burning with a sudden and brutal onslaught of tears.

Her body shook with the force of her sobs, and she reached up to hold on to the arms he had—like steel bands—around her body. She held on to him and cried until she was weak from the effort, and Finian lay back, taking her with him, spooning her against his body, holding her tightly.

“Tell me when you’re ready to hear more,” he said softly.

“T-Tell m-me,” she sobbed.

“He had a heart attack yesterday evenin’ at the, uh, the Waterin’ Can?”

“W-Watering C-Crab.”

“Yeah, right. Fell off his barstool clutchin’ at his chest. That bloke on the phone went with him to the hospital, and they confirmed it was a heart attack.” He paused for a moment. “But he’s all right, Tate. He’s restin’. He’s goin’ to be okay.”

Her mind focused to one inviolate and uncompromising thought.

I need to go to Uncle Pete.

Grasping at Fin’s hands, she pulled them away from her body, half sliding, half lunging from the bed. She tore open the dresser drawers, throwing her clothes on the bed, and whipped open the armoire to grab her suitcase, unzip it, and lay it open on the floor.

“Tate, love, slow down,” said Finian, sitting up in bed.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped, pulling a bra from the pile on the bed and fastening it into place before yanking on some panties. She ran to the bathroom and returned a moment later, clutching everything she’d brought in her arms.

“Tate, it’s six in the mornin’.”

“And I’m sure there’s a flight leaving for somewhere in Florida by seven,” she said, without flicking a glance at him. “I intend to be on it.”

She threw all of her toiletries into the open suitcase, then put her arms around the clothes on the bed and added them too. Grabbing a pair of possibly dirty jeans, she pulled them on, then jerked her phone, cord and all, from the wall beside the bed and threw it in her purse.

“Can you slow down, lass?”

“No. I can’t,” she bit back, finally sparing a look for him. He looked so confused, so worried and upset that she felt—deep inside—the awful feeling of caring for someone and letting them down, but she didn’t have time for Fin right now, so she squelched it. “Get dressed. I need a ride.”

“You heard me, right? He’s okay,” said Fin. “He’s goin’ to be okay.”

“He’s lying in a fucking hospital bed, Finian! He had a heart attack! A fucking heart attack! He’s not okay. He’s a long way away from okay!” She knelt on the floor, about to zip up the suitcase when she realized she was only wearing a bra on top. Pulling out the balled-up black T-shirt that she’d worn on Friday, she wiggled into it, then zipped the case shut. “Are you driving me or not?”

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and leaned down for his shirt and pants. “I’m drivin’ you.”

As she waited for him to dress, she took out her phone again and scrolled through her messages. Frank had called eight times before she’d finally picked up. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What if Pete had died? What if she’d had a chance to see him one last time and she had missed that chance?

Finian stood next to her, bracing his hand on the bedpost as he pulled on his shoes. “I’ll go get the truck and come back for you.”

She nodded curtly, swiping at the tears on her cheeks. Was she crying? Apparently, she was.

He reached for her face, presumably to kiss her or comfort her, but she didn’t want him right now. She wanted to be with Uncle Pete. She jerked away from Fin, crossing her arms over her chest. He drew back as though slapped, and the look in his eyes hurt her, but she just didn’t have time for his hurt feelings right now.

Uncle Pete. I need to get to Uncle Pete. Now.

“I’ll be right back,” he said softly, leaving her alone.

And Tate, who had tried so fucking desperately since the death of her parents to stay clear of anything that could remotely hurt her as badly as their loss, realized that she’d done a very poor job of achieving her mission. Pain was a part of life. There was no escaping it. There was no denying it. There was no way to avoid it. And it was so fucking unfair, it made her feel eight years old all over again.

So she did what any frightened child would do: she sat down on the bed, and she wept.

***

Finian understood Tate’s reaction to her uncle’s illness.

He completely understood.

Back at home, Fin had a mate, Trevor, who was originally from Belfast and had been a kid there during the Troubles before moving south to Dublin. And anytime there were fireworks or a car backfired, he’d clutch at his head, and his eyes would dart around wildly for a second while he looked for a place to hide.

It was called PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, and no matter how many shrinks Trev had visited, they’d all said the same: meds and therapy would help, but there was no cure for PTSD, only healing.

And his Tate? She’d looked just like Trevor, sitting on the side of the bed, frozen in terror, waiting to hear the words she’d dreaded since the day she’d lost her parents: that someone else she loved was dead.

Even now, sitting beside him in the truck as he drove her back down to Manchester, he wondered if she’d ever gotten any help. At this point, he had nothing to lose, so he decided to ask her.

“When you were little,” he started, “you said yer uncle didn’t know how to be a parent.”

“He did his best,” she said, her tone defensive.

“I know he did,” said Fin, treading lightly, “and I know you love him for it. But what I’m wonderin’ is…did he get you help for it?”

“He adopted me.”

“Right. But did he get you a therapist? Someone to help you grieve?”

She didn’t answer, and when Fin glanced at her, her jaw was set and her arms were crossed tightly over her chest.

“I’m not criticizin’ him,” said Fin gently. “I’m sayin’ that you were traumatized at a young age, and I’m wonderin’ who helped you see yer way through it.”

“Uncle Pete,” she muttered.

“Yer uncle, who had no idea how to be a parent to a little girl.”

“Shut up, Fin,” she said, her voice like gravel.

“It’s never too late,” he went on. “My mate, Trev, is still workin’ through the Troubles.”

“The Troubles?”

“Yeah. In, uh, Northern Ireland? He grew up on the northwest side of Belfast where they had years of bombin’ and the like. Saw too many terrible things for a wee one. Still crouches down when a loud noise surprises him.” He paused for a second. “You did that this mornin’ when yer uncle’s friend called.”

“I didn’t crouch.”

“No. You froze. You froze out of fear.”

“Are you a doctor? A psychiatrist?” she snapped, turning to glare at him.

He stopped at a red light and met her furious eyes with his. “No, lass. I’m just a dumb paddy who cares somethin’ fierce for you.”

Physically, she crumpled. Her head drooped forward, and he heard her harsh intake of breath, more a twisted sob than anything else. Her shoulders shook and instead of crossing her arms, he realized she was holding them. She was hugging herself. Maybe because when she’d been so little and so alone, there’d been no one else to do it for her.

Pulling the car over, Finian unbuckled his seat belt and hers, gripped her upper arms firmly, and drew her body against his. He held her tightly, rubbing her back and whispering soothing words in Irish. She cried against his shoulder until the fabric was soaked and she was hiccupping every few seconds.

“I’m a mess,” she said. “A fucking…mess.”

“Nah, Tate. Yer trapped,” he said, rubbing her back. “When somethin’ bad happens, yer eight years old again, just like the second a car backfires, Trev is back in Belfast.”

“Is therapy h-helping your f-friend?” she asked through sniffles.

He realized that she’d relaxed against him, and he savored the moment, knowing that it was likely his last chance to hold her. “I think so, yeah. Can’t hurt, right?”

She sniffled again. “Sorry I was s-such a b-bitch this morning.”

“Nah. You had a scare.”

She leaned away from him to look into his eyes. “I’m sorry we won’t have an extra day or two.”

It hurt Fin’s heart to hear the words, but talking her out of going home to her uncle would be not only impossible but pure selfish.

“Me too. But you know where you need to be.”

No, he wouldn’t be a selfish prick and try to talk her into staying, but he wasn’t a saint either. He knew full and well that this was his last chance to let her know how he felt and to let her know how much he wanted to see her again. And he wasn’t going to let it pass him by.

“In Dublin,” he said, reaching for her cheek to wipe away her tears, “my favorite bar is called Donoghue’s. It’s near St. Stephen’s Green. Black-and-white front. Bit o’ a dive inside. It’s where the Dubliners got their start.” Her eyes were luminous as she stared at him. “On Sundays, I play guitar there sometimes. If we get some fellas together, we might go on for two hours or more. It’s the best place in Dublin.” She scanned his face, nodding at him to let him know she was listening. “Now. Picture an old guy in the corner. Gray beard, white hair. He watches the door like it’ll run away if he doesn’t guard it, like he’ll miss somethin’ if he looks away.”

“Do you know him?”

“I am him,” said Fin. “In sixty years, that’s me…still waitin’ for you.”

Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “What? What do you—?”

“I’ll be there every Sunday at four, Tate, no matter what. No matter who gets married or who dies on a Sunday, I’ll be there. I’ll be watchin’ the door for you to walk through it, darlin’. Nothin’ will keep me away. I’ll be waitin’.”

“Fin,” she sobbed, her tears falling fresh all over again.

“I didn’t mean to get attached. I didn’t mean to fall for you, mo cailleach. I didn’t mean to, but I did. And all I want…” He gripped her cheeks harder, blinking his eyes against his own tears, as she reached up and covered his hands with her own. “All I want…is more time…with you.”

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his, their tears mingling as they shared the sorrow of bad timing and the rush of finding each other. Despite the odds, Fin somehow fit into the puzzle of her life like he was destined to be there all along.

“And now I’ll drive you home,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers one final time before helping her back into her seat and pulling back onto the highway.