For once in my life, I had no desire to talk at dinner. Instead, I sat back and watched Emilia interact with my family. Her changes had been subtle from the beginning, but something had happened recently. She was shouldering a role, and she was doing it fucking perfectly.

Something had clearly happened today too. No amount of makeup could remove the last traces of whatever had upset Sarah, and I could tell my brother was going to do his damnedest to figure it out later. Right now, though, she seemed to be doing okay. Her polite smiles were uncharacteristically tentative, yet she made more of an effort to join in on the conversations.

Ma had gone all out for dinner, and her obsession with windows hadn’t waned. Not only was the dining room decked out with candles and fresh flowers, but the pool area right outside had been tidied up for the sake of our view. There were fresh flowers out there too, not to mention linen cloths on the small tables between the loungers.

Ian was the master chef as usual, and after appetizers came grilled lamb chops and at least six different side dishes. It was one of the contenders for the wedding menu. There was more wine than we normally drank in our family, and everything was served on my parents’ wedding china.

The dinner wasn’t that big of a deal. Father O’Malley just wanted to spend some time with us and to see how Emilia—and Sarah, though her wedding was a month away—fit in.

Ma treated it almost like a graduation. She wanted to know everything about Emilia’s Pre-Cana classes from Father O’Malley, even though he’d bent the rules for us a bit. As far as I knew, it’d been less premarital counseling and advice and more lending an ear to Emilia and her adjustments.

I leaned in and spoke for only Emilia to hear. “Should I tell the Father that you’re going against our belief with your silly birth control?”

We could joke about it now, I was pretty sure.

Although, I did hate seeing that dumb fucking pillbox in the bathroom every morning. First time I saw it, I’d thought it was a makeup thing. Then she’d opened it, and I’d seen a colorful blister pack of pills that were going to kill my swimmers.

Emilia faced me with a sugary smile. “Should I tell the Father that you’re going against your own beliefs and you lie, steal, and—”

“Let’s be nice,” I whispered.

“Thought so,” she whispered back.

I grinned and took a sip of my wine. Father O’Malley was no fool, and Emilia knew it. What my family and I were involved in was common knowledge, but sometimes we chose to close our eyes. In our priest’s case, it was because it served a greater good. The O’Sheas brought in money for the community he burned passionately for, and it won out. That said, he turned a nasty shade of angry purple whenever a crime was mentioned. No one wanted to be reminded of what we turned our backs on.

“Are you kids happy to return to the city?” Father O’Malley asked as Ma refilled his wineglass. “Thank you, dear.”

“Absolutely, sir,” I replied. At this point, I was sick of the compound. There were only so many laps I could run around the grounds and so many hours I could spend by the pool before I yanked my hair out. In a mildly reckless moment to kill my boredom, I’d even planned a surprise for Emilia.

She’d asked me repeatedly to play for her, and we never did get to have a proper engagement party… I was rectifying that, and Mass on Sunday was gonna be brutal. I planned on being hungover as fuck.

“I asked Emilia a few weeks ago, and she wasn’t sure of the answer,” he went on. “Do you have any plans for where you’ll settle down eventually, or are you content in your condo for now?”

Inquisitive old man. Ma was waiting eagerly for my response, and bless her, I wasn’t going to give her what she wanted. There wasn’t a chance in hell I’d buy property out here and build a big house next door.

I had bought a place near Villanova, which was right outside the city, as a wedding gift for Emilia. My hope was we could make loose plans for it on our honeymoon. Whether she wanted to save it for later or build a new house, I wasn’t sure.

“I won’t say no to a house,” I said pensively, watching Emilia for her opinion on it. It wasn’t anything we’d discussed so far. “I don’t think either of us is interested in leaving the Philly area, though.”

She shook her head, thank fuck. “No, I like the city.” She shifted in her seat and put down her fork. “I, um, I would like to be part of a community somehow. I haven’t quite figured out if I want to go to school yet, but I know I want to make myself useful and help out.”

This broad… She made me feel ten feet tall. I had half a mind to parade her around and just say look at her; look at how perfect she is. She didn’t even need to be groomed. Once again, I was gonna have to step up my game to deserve her. Bloody hell.

I noticed Pop was watching me, and I cleared my throat and straightened in my seat as he smirked knowingly. That bastard could practically read my mind.

“We will find a place for you, dear girl,” Father O’Malley said reassuringly. “You’ve clearly found a place in this family already, and it’s been a joy to get to know you better, Emilia.” He paused, and there was a twinkle in his eyes. “Not that our headstrong Finnegan would let anything get in his way of marrying you, but for what it’s worth, you two very much have my blessing to marry. It’ll be my honor to make you husband and wife next weekend.”

That hit me squarely in the chest, and all I could do was hug Emilia to me and press my lips into her hair. Father O’Malley’s blessing did matter to me, more than I could put into words.

Let my last week as an unmarried man begin.

And end.

* * *

“Oh my God, it feels so good to be home.” Emilia threw herself on the couch and groaned as she kicked off her heels.

I grinned to myself and went through the mail. “You can rest for one hour. I have plans for us at eight.”

She made a noise of protest. “That shows how little you know about the time it takes to get ready.” What? Twenty minutes was more than enough. “Ugh. Why do you have plans? Can’t we Netflix and order Chinese?”

As tempting as that was, no.

“Not tonight, princess. At eight o’clock, I want you dressed and ready to go. We’re going out.”

She perked up from the couch and scowled sleepily. “Where are we going?”

“That’s a surprise, though technically you planned the whole thing.” I’d said too much already. Grabbing our luggage and a stack of gift boxes, I carried everything upstairs. I knew exactly which box to avoid. Kellan’s sister’s card was still attached to it, and I wasn’t going near the sex toys I was ridiculously curious about. After our wedding, I reminded myself.

It’d gotten so fucking bad that I could barely see Emilia naked without having to talk myself off a ledge.

My showers hadn’t been this long since I discovered something came outta my cock if I jerked it long enough.

Emilia joined me upstairs and scrunched her nose. “If you can’t tell me, I gotta know what you’ll be wearing. I don’t wanna show up at the movies in a formal dress.”

I twisted my lips in thought and entered our closet. Tonight, I wanted to show her a good time. We had to let loose and blow off some steam—without my going too far and bending her over to bury—fuck. I pressed a fist to my mouth and drew in a deep breath through my nose.

There, a nice three-piece. It was bound to get warm tonight, so I removed the suit jacket from the hanger, leaving the gray pants and matching vest. A white dress shirt and a dark blue tie followed, and I placed it all on the bed for now.

Emilia tiptoed closer and peered at the outfit. “That’s…smoking hot. Should I go with classy or sexy?”

“Yes,” I answered.

She groaned through a giggle. “Finnegan…”

“It’s a casual place, but the occasion is special.” Was that more helpful?

Judging by her look, it wasn’t. But she waved me off and said she’d figure something out.

Good, because I needed a shower. Again.

* * *

Was there a limit to how many showers a man could take before it was deemed unhealthy? Or fucking crazy?

Seeing Emilia in the strapless little number she’d put on was making me throw glances toward the bathroom all over again. I registered the silky fabric that hugged her body, the color that matched my tie, and…legs. Killer legs, that bitable little ass, pert tits pushed together, and fuck-me heels.

She knew what she was doing to me. Brushing her hair over her shoulder, she asked me to attach her necklace, the one with padlock charm on it. I swallowed against the desire that told me to throw her on the bed and fuck her into next week.

“Thanks.” She turned around and peered up at me, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip for a quick second. “I don’t think I’ve shown you this.” She traced the necklace with her fingers, and I furrowed my brow, seeing another tiny charm next to the padlock.

I pinched it between my thumb and index finger, then cursed when I saw what it was. My name. Or the letter F, but it was me. Possessiveness surged in my veins, and I clenched my jaw.

“You’re trying to kill me,” I whispered.

I hoped she saw the warning in my eyes, ’cause it was as real as it was gonna get. She was testing my restraint.

“Just a bit.” Her cheeks colored, and she dropped a kiss to my jaw. “Are you ready to go?”

Go, blow—what the fuck ever.

I nodded once, wound up, and forced myself to take a step back.

On the elevator ride down, I eyed her whenever she wasn’t looking. That she had agreed to marry me was something I’d processed already. The guise of a business arrangement had made that easy enough. But this…this was more. This was heavier. The girl was fucking with my head on purpose, force-feeding me hope that she possibly wanted this. That maybe she felt more than the chemistry we shared. That perhaps her feelings ran as deep as mine.

In my business, you quickly learned that words meant fuck-all if they weren’t proved. Emilia had told me I stood a chance—that our marriage could be more than a piece of paper—but to believe it was a whole other matter.

If only I could guarantee that I wouldn’t hurt her again. The day I told her about her mother was getting closer and closer, and I wouldn’t have a valid excuse as to why I’d kept it from her for so long. It was just a matter of time before she knew I was exactly the guy she’d originally feared, too. Maybe I’d never inflicted harm on women and children or gotten into the sex trade; running whorehouses was more my uncle’s thing. But the O’Sheas hadn’t come this far by showing mercy or giving free passes.

I had to shake that for now. The elevator reached the garage, where a car was waiting for us. Tonight was about us, and fuck if tomorrow’s problems were gonna ruin that for me. Right now, she was here with me. She wore my name around her neck, one small letter she’d put there on her own.

Colm exited the car with a grin, and Emilia smiled widely.

“Oi, darlin’. I hear you’ve got a grand night planned.” He opened the door for her.

“I wouldn’t know.” Emilia shot me a playful scowl that I returned with a wink. “Finnegan refuses to clue me in.”

“You’ll find out soon.” I patted her on the ass and got in after her. Once inside, I spotted a bag on the floor, and I dug out a blindfold for Emilia.

“Kinky,” she noted. “Is that for me?”

“Of course that’s your response,” I muttered under my breath. She’d been reading romance novels by the pool for weeks.

Colm drove out of the garage with a smirk on his face, making me wish I were in a limo with a partition instead of a regular town car. The limos were on the way, though; they’d arrive before the wedding, and no bullets would be able to pierce them.

“Aye, it’s for you.” I handed her the blindfold, in no rush. It’d be a couple blocks before—never mind, she was already putting it on. “You like surprises, don’t you?”

“Are you kidding me? They rock.” She tied the strings behind her head before clasping her hands in her lap, visibly excited. “Unless they’re bad. Then they suck. Think about that.”

I chuckled and relaxed in my seat.

Colm took a minor detour, anything to throw off someone who might be trying to learn our patterns and routes. Even so, the drive lasted less than ten minutes, and he pulled up outside a familiar pub.

I’d had Mick’s place ransacked, turned upside down, and under surveillance for the past two days. Tonight, the pub belonged to the O’Sheas, and other than virtually everyone invited being armed, we had security at every exit. If it weren’t for the uncertainty that the Italians had brought us, I would’ve looked more paranoid than my uncle.

“Get ready, princess.”

I ushered her out of the car where I removed the blindfold and covered her eyes with my hands instead. As I nodded at the two guys from my company outside the door, they opened up for me, and we were immediately met by blaring music.

Emilia flinched at the sudden change. Then I reckoned she knew what was going on, and her mouth stretched into a grin.

“Told you,” I spoke in her ear, “you planned this.”

I made sure we had a pubful’s attention before I removed my hands from her eyes.

Approximately fifty of my closest friends and their girlfriends yelled out various—and creative—congratulations, from “Here’s the ball and her chain” to “Almost too late to run now, Emilia.” Irish flags and balloons filled the ceiling, along with a banner that read “Happy Late Engagement, Princess,” which stretched from the bar in the middle of the floor to a hook in the beam above the little platform where musicians normally played on weekends.

Emilia squealed behind her hands before spinning around and throwing her arms around me. I grinned and hugged her tightly.

“It may have been my idea, but this is all you, Finnegan. Thank you so much.” She gave me a big kiss before she was whisked away by Sarah and Luna.

Next thing I knew, the music was cranked up further, there was a beer in my hand, and my mates pulled me to a table.

* * *

“Why are all the questions about Ireland?” Emilia yelled from her table.

The princess was protesting our pub quiz.

“So that the right teams score higher!” Conn hollered from somewhere.

His brother had taken the stage to announce the questions, and if he spilled his beer over the paper one more time, I reckoned it’d be impossible to read.

It’d gotten warm in the couple of hours we’d been here, and I sat back and loosened my tie while Colm tried to juggle the quiz sheet, his beer, and the microphone.

To save time, we were all split into teams. Four or five people fit around one table, and we’d sort of naturally teamed up with men competing against women. It was a junior high dance all over again, the guys on one side of the room and the girls on the other.

“List—” Colm squinted at the paper, eliciting laughter from the crowd. “List three breweries from County Cork! Well, who wouldn’t go for a Beamish right now, eh?”

“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” Sarah exclaimed.

Emilia huffed and narrowed her eyes.

“He just gave you one of the answers!” Patrick widened his arms. “You gotta listen, sweet cheeks.”

I smirked and listed three breweries. Anyone knew this, really.

“Shots, mate?” Kellan stumbled back to our table and sat down with a bottle of tequila and a stack of glasses.

“Hit me with it.” I folded up my sleeves past my elbows and contemplating losing the vest, but Emilia had a thing for it. I left it on for now. “Ay, oh, top ’em up properly. What’s wrong wit’chu?”

Kellan chuckled and filled the glasses to the brim. “It’s good to have you back, Finn.”

“Yeah, see, I never left—”

“Oi! Less chatter, ladies,” Colm told us. “Question number fourteen. What’s the second most popular language in Ireland?”

“Oh! You’re a fuckin’ sneak.” I laughed and threw back my first shot, then jotted down Polish as my answer.

Colm grinned proudly. “Can’t make it easy on the foreigners.”

“Yeah, welcome to fucking America,” Emilia retorted. “Who’s the foreigner now?”

“She’s talking about you, Colm,” Luna said with a sniff.

Kellan and I snorted in response and went for another shot. The liquid burned my throat perfectly, heating me up even more.

It was shaping up to be a bloody fantastic night.

* * *

“How the fuck is this possible?” I tore the results from Colm’s hand and read it over and over.

“I did the math twice!” He stepped off the platform and joined me. “You still did good. Fourth place—”

“I don’t care about that. There are always a few nerds who gotta know everything,” I said. “What I don’t buy is Emilia’s team’s ninety-seven percent score.” I looked up from the paper and narrowed my eyes at the girl in question. “Oi! Get over here, princess.”

She sauntered over with an angelic smile, Sarah and one of the other girlfriends in tow. “Yes, dear?”

I held up the paper. “Mind explaining why you’ve got the election percentage of a dictator?”

She laughed and peered at the paper. “I guess we were better than we thought. Third place—nice job, ladies.”

“Fuck that, you googled,” I accused.

Not missing a beat or letting her smile falter, she extended her phone. “Can you prove that?”

“Oh, mate.” Colm let out a booming laugh and clapped me on the back. “Good luck with that one.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I told her. “You could’ve used someone else’s phone or cleared the history.”

“In other words, you can’t prove anything.” She was triumphant—and too fucking cute. I couldn’t even pretend to be mad at that face.

I pulled her to me, the results forgotten, and kissed her hard. “Fuck, you’re sexy when you play me.” I spoke against her lips, hands roaming her back until I slipped them down to palm her ass. “Speaking of playing…” I moved us out of the way as Conn and Eric carried parts of a drum set through the pub. Kellan followed with the snare and a guitar case.

Emilia stayed in my arms, one hand on my chest, and gasped. “Oh my God, are you gonna play for us now? I’ve waited so long for this!”

“We’ll do a few songs.” When my brother joined with his own two cases, I bumped his fist. Everyone had been so quick to notice my changes, but this bastard… Patrick had gone through changes too, and he’d finally found his ambition again. He worked harder, he was focused, and someone who noticed was Sarah. Better late than never, the two were tentatively building something genuine.

“What does Patrick play?” Emilia asked curiously. “I assume one of those is a guitar.”

I nodded. “He’s brilliant on the mandolin too. Pick an instrument for me.”

She scrunched her nose. “Um, how many do you actually play?”

I flashed her a grin. “All of them.” Well, all of the ones present on the stage, anyway, and I had a harmonica in my back pocket that I was saving for Patrick’s favorite tune. “What’re the Irish without music?”

She bit her lip. “Drunks?”

I let out a loud laugh and made a mental note to tell Patrick that one later.

“Never mind, you gotta go with that tin whistle thingy,” she said eagerly. “I looked it up on YouTube, and do you realize how fast their fingers work? It’s like porn, Finnegan.” She touched my fingers while I failed to withhold my amusement. “You already have piano player fingers. Unf, yeah, tin whistle.”

I grabbed her chin and planted a smooch on her soft lips. “Whistle, it is.”

As I joined the guys on the platform, more people huddled around the stage; someone thrust a Magner’s cider in Emilia’s hand, which was her new crack. The day I showed her Ireland, she’d learn it had another name there. Shite, there was so much I couldn’t wait to show her.

“Your favorite singer has arrived,” Colm announced and jumped up on the stage. “We’re gonna show ’em how we do it back home.” Ironically, by starting with a cover by an Irish punk band from Australia. He grabbed the mic to entertain our friends while the rest of us got ready. “There aren’t many songs we all know by heart, so our set list tonight is shorter than Patrick’s cock.”

“What would you know about that, mate?” someone shouted.

I chuckled, listening to my brother’s furious protesting, which went unheard over the crowd’s hollering. Conn was behind the drums, and he handed me my case of tin whistles.

None of my friends knew how to play the accordion, so Kellan and Patrick had lured Mick up from behind the bar to play the first couple of songs with us.

Eric left the platform after setting a bottle of Tullamore and several shot glasses on one of the speakers. “To quench the thirst. Have at it, lads.”

“Get ready with your fiddle for later,” I told him.

“Aye.”

It was hotter than Satan’s asshole with the spotlights on us, so I didn’t waste any time pouring a few shots.

“We’re startin’ with ‘An Irish Pub Song’ by The Rumjacks, so.” Colm had left behind his recent Americanisms and returned to Dublin, where then became so and everyone who visited Temple Bar was either dumb as shite or a tourist.

Kellan tuned his guitar. Mick complained that the younger generation had forgotten the awesomeness of the accordion. Meanwhile, no one was bothered that we didn’t have anyone on the bass tonight.

“Finn, we’re waitin’ on ye,” Colm said into the mic.

“Huh?” I paused with a shot glass midair, only to remember the whistle and the mandolin started the song. That would be Pat and me. “Oh, right.” I took a shot and hissed at the smooth burn. I had my whistle ready, my favorite Gen in D, a brass flute with a black mouthpiece. “Okay, gimme the count-in, big brother.”

I set the mouthpiece to my lips, and he tapped his foot against the age-old wood of the floor. Then we started at the same time, the tempo cheerful and folksy, though that only lasted a few seconds. Colm’s rough voice quickened the pace, and he sang of shinty balls and the craic before Conn and Kellan joined in with a bang.

I laughed as Colm fucked up the words, the tempo too quick, the drums raising the roof of the place. Throwing back another shot, I waited for my cue and removed my tie. The chase was on after that. I stood with Kellan and sped up my own playing to be a dick. He laughed, out of breath, and shook his head as his fingers slid along the strings. Conn shot me a cunty look, and what-the-fuck-ever. I had a girl to impress; he was already married.

By the third song, I got to shine and make my princess look sufficiently horny with a Cooley’s Reel medley. I had help from Eric on the violin, Conn on the drums, and Kellan on the guitar, and the best way to describe the tune was to call it a battle between the whistle and the fiddle. The next part was always faster than the previous one. My fingers fucking ached. They’d be stiff and sore by tomorrow, but I couldn’t very well give in.

Around us, people were clapping and stomping their feet. Every time I got a break, my brother was pouring beer down my throat. Sweat trickled down my temples, and it didn’t exactly get any easier from there. Patrick still wanted us to play “Drunken Sailor,” and they had to go with Barleyjuice’s version. I agreed, it was the best one and a good tribute to a local Philly band that knew Irish music, but Christ, it was quick. I wasn’t as skilled with the harmonica as I was with other instruments.

Conn and I took the lead in another chase, this time between the drums and the harmonica. We upped the tempo more and more until Eric came in with the fiddle, Patrick and Kellan on their guitars, and Colm on vocals.

It was my turn to fuck up, and I took a quick break to guzzle half a pint of beer. My chest heaved with each breath so I could finish the last chorus with the others. When Colm shouted hoarsely, “What should do you with the drunken sailor?” the men in the crowd yelled back, “Put ’im in bed with the captain’s daughter!”

Emilia was gloriously tipsy, wearing a huge smile, eyes glassy from an unknown number of ciders she’d inhaled, and she couldn’t stand still. She jumped and shimmied with Sarah and Luna, looking like she was having the time of her life.

I hoped she was.

Eric and I stepped up to the front of the platform with Colm and showed everyone how it was done. Feet tapping along with the pace of the drums, I drew from the holes and changed the pitch of the note when Eric played lower. He responded, sliding the bow perfectly over the strings, and together we let the notes fade until the song was over.

We received hoots and hollers and drinks, and we took a gracious bow and exchanged smirks.

In a brief pause in the pub’s chaos, which undoubtedly Emilia didn’t foresee, everyone heard her comment. “Basically, my man is the master with his fingers and mouth. But I already knew that…um.” She glanced around herself and blushed furiously.

I could not grin wider, and I ate that shit up.

“Okay, what’s next?” Patrick demanded.

“Fuck you, that’s what.” I sucked in a breath and ran a hand through my hair, exhausted. The harmonica ended up on a speaker. “I need a break. You guys can play.”

I grabbed my beer and jumped down from the platform where Emilia immediately met up with me.

“You were fantastic!” She threw her arms around my neck. “Oh, sweaty.”

I chuckled and ushered her to a table in the back, wanting some privacy with her.

“Can I call you my whistler?” she asked and plopped down on my lap.

I smirked and took a kiss. If only she knew the meaning behind that nickname in our family. “Does that make you my whistleblower?”

She paused, lips pursed. “Aren’t you the one blowing the whistle?”

I squinted. The alcohol had gotten to me, and I was getting confused by the innuendos. I supposed it depended on what she was insinuating. Maybe? Fuck.

“Tell you what, you can call me whatever you want, and you can blow my whistle too,” I said, satisfied.

She laughed and straddled me, and that wasn’t her best idea. Less so when she scooted closer and pressed her chest to mine. “Hi.”

“Hey, you.” I chuckled through my nose and set my beer on the table. “How drunk are you?”

The fact that she had to think about it said a lot.

I guess the other guys decided to take a break too, ’cause the live music was replaced by a rock song from the stereo system, and Mick dimmed the lights.

“I’m happy, I can tell you that much.” Emilia rubbed our noses together and smiled wickedly. “I can’t get over how sexy you were up there.”

Fuck me, no. She couldn’t do this to me.

“Don’t tempt me,” I murmured.

“When you think about it, this is your fault.” She leaned in closer and grazed her teeth along my bottom lip. At the same time, she rolled her hips over me, and I closed my eyes briefly. “You knew what you were doing to me up on that stage.”

I groaned inwardly and, against what I knew was smartest, I slipped my hands under her dress and cupped her ass. Not giving a flying fuck if she flashed her ass to half the pub. It was dark enough, and our friends were busy. Tables were moved back to make room for dancing, the alcohol kept flowing freely, and there wasn’t a sober motherfucker in the whole place.

“What did I do to you?” I wanted to hear her say it.

My cock thickened as she dipped down and licked my neck. It elicited a shudder from me, and I clenched my jaw.

How the fuck did the atmosphere change so fast? Gone was the Irish pub feel, and now we were looking at a nightclub where everyone was getting ready to score. Even the music took on a more seductive note, the bass heavy and slow.

She nipped at my earlobe. “You made me wet.”

“Fuck.” Lust flared up inside me, and when she tilted her face toward mine, I was already there. I kissed her impatiently and shifted her over my cock, to which she tried to clench her thighs together. I could fucking feel her, the heat she was radiating.

“Finnegan…” She moaned breathily into the kiss and twisted her fingers into my hair. “I never wanna forget tonight. I need you.”

“I need you too, princess.”

An unforgettable night, she’d asked for.