CHAPTER 6

 

“Pick up Tate at t’ airport, wouldja, Finian?” he mumbled in a high-pitched, wheedling voice, adjusting and readjusting his sweaty fingers on the steering wheel of a Summerhaven truck. “I need Rory to fuck me some more before we’ve got a wailin’ brat runnin’ ’round t’ place.”

Blowing out an annoyed breath, Fin pressed the brake at a red light and glanced at the GPS. He was minutes away from the Manchester airport, which meant that his plan to stay the fuck away from Tate had pretty much been blown to shite right out of the gate. It wasn’t like he could say no to a woman seven and a half months pregnant, now, could he? No. So he’d answered yes. Yes, Britt, I’ll pick her up. But how was he supposed to avoid Tate when he was about to be trapped in the cab of a pickup with her for the next bloody hour?

And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst of it was that for the past two weeks, he hadn’t been able to think of anything but seeing Tate again. His bloody wanker had been wanked so much, he wondered that he had any cum left in his balls. And he’d been distracted—so fucking distracted—that his cousins had started to notice, happy to give him shite about it because they were all cunts and that was the truth, even though he loved them hard.

“He’s not even fluthered, and he’s out of it!” observed Rory.

“Are ya knackered after doin’ nothin’ all day?” asked Ian.

“Nah, he’s just got an early bout o’ spring fever!” said Tierney.

Ha. The only fever Finian had was the one with Tate Jennings’ name on it.

And man, but he fucking hated it.

“Stupid man wantin’ what he can’t have,” he muttered, turning into the airport.

He had a quick choice to make. Did he want to park the car and meet her in the terminal? Or did he want to pull up and wait for her in the arrivals area? He decided on the latter, hoping that it would seem more casual and disinterested than waiting eagerly at the foot of the escalator as she slowly descended. Pulling over to the curb by the baggage claim area, he scanned the sidewalk for her platinum head but didn’t see her waiting, which made sense because her flight shouldn’t be landing for another five minutes. He cut the engine, hoping the airport police would leave him alone to wait, and checked his reflection in the rearview mirror.

His brown hair was cut short, and he wore a light beard covering his jaw. He had the trademark green Kelley eyes, and a smattering of freckles across his nose.

Yer man looks cla, he thought with grim satisfaction, twisting his neck to see the sliding doors open, then looking away as a businessman exited the airport.

His heart thumped with anticipation as he checked out the clock on the dashboard. 4:35. She’s landing now.

Reaching for the tuner, he turned on the radio, turning the knob until he settled on “Castle on the Hill,” by Ed Sheeran, who, for all that he was born in England, was one quarter Irish through his father, which was good enough for Fin.

Listening to the catchy, U2-style ballad about childhood friends and going home had Fin in a proper reverie, playing drums on the steering wheel and singing along with Ed, when a sharp knock on the passenger-side window made him jump a foot high.

And there she was. A good ten minutes early.

“I miss the way you make me feel, and it’s real,” sang Ed as Fin stared in surprise at her expectant, slightly amused face.

Opening the door, she grinned at him from the sidewalk. “Ed Sheeran?”

Fin nodded, barely able to get his mind around the fact that he was hearing her voice in person once again.

“Yeah,” she said. “He’s good. No shame.”

He reached for the radio knob and switched it off. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Her hair had grown out a bit since he’d last seen her—it was past her shoulders now but as light as ever, with one aqua streak, the exact color of her eyes, framing her face. And it was dead sexy.

“Yer hair’s blue.”

“Not all of it,” she said, a spot of pink appearing on each cheek.

Was she feeling shy around him? Hmm. That’d be new.

“Got a suitcase?”

She nodded.

He slid from his seat and walked around the back of the truck, careful not to make eye contact with her as he took it. Collapsing the handle, he hefted it into the back, then opened his door and climbed into the truck. Next to his hip, she buckled her seat belt.

Turning the key in the ignition, he glanced at her briefly. “Ready to go?”

Her eyes searched his face for a minute, grave in their own way, before she gave him a fake half smile and nodded. “Sure.”

“Grand,” he snapped, pulling into traffic and pointing north.

***

It wasn’t the greeting that Tate had expected.

But then again, what had she expected? For him to pull her into his arms and kiss her passionately? For him to say something funny or try to make her laugh or otherwise try to engage with her? For him to make some comment about the fact that they hadn’t stayed in touch, but how glad he was to see her?

She wasn’t sure, but there was a palpable awkwardness between them that she didn’t like at all; especially since Fin had made her feel so comfortable the last time she’d seen him.

See, Tate? You were right! During your time apart, you made him into something he wasn’t! You made the right choice to come up here and dispel all the silly longing in your heart! Well done!

Except her pep talk was totally false.

She didn’t feel any sense of victory.

And her longing for Fin was as sharp as ever.

But maybe…just maybe…he didn’t feel the same about her?

Only one way to find out.

“So…” she started, holding her hands up to the heating vents to warm them, “how have you been?”

“Fine.”

A one-word answer. Hmm.

“I’ve been busy,” she offered, when he didn’t ask. “I worked nonstop through the holidays and then through January and most of February too.” When he didn’t respond, she hurried to fill the silence. “How about Summerhaven? Busy there?”

With one hand on the wheel, he shrugged. “Not bad.”

Ooo! Two words. Improvement.

“Any big groups? Weddings?”

He stopped at a stoplight and gave her the side eye. “No big groups.”

She’d only asked the question to find out about weddings. At some point over the last few months, she’d tried to convince herself that Fin probably chose a different girl at every wedding and fucked around with her. It was one of the ways that Tate had assured herself that she wasn’t special to him and should try harder to get over him.

“Um…any weddings?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically timid.

He was staring straight ahead, but the muscle in his jaw flexed before releasing. “Two since Rory’s.”

She’d been holding her breath as she waited for him to answer, and now she exhaled, taking a deep breath as she ran a hand through her hair. Two since Rory’s. Hmm.

It was an interesting combination of words and made her wonder: Did he want to talk about what had happened at Rory’s? He was acting really cool. Almost bitter.

Was he angry with her? But why would he be? She’d never asked for anything. She’d never promised him anything. He didn’t have a right to be angry with her…

…no more than she had a right to feel possessive of him and where—or with whom—he’d been spending his time. But it didn’t lessen her yearning to know.

“Meet anyone interesting at the other two weddings?”

He cleared his throat. “How about some music?”

Without waiting for her to answer, he reached for the radio knob and turned it to the station he’d been listening to before. A super emo Shawn Mendes song filled the cab of the truck, and Tate huffed softly, turning to stare out the window.

Why was he acting like this?

And maybe more importantly, why did she care?

But fuck. She did. She did, and she hated that she did.

Reaching forward, she turned the radio off, then shifted in her seat to face him.

“Look, I’m not sure what’s going on here, but I don’t want things to be awkward.”

“Then leave the radio on—”

“Fin, come on—”

“—and when we get to Summerhaven, I’ll drop you off at Trinity. I’ll help you bring your suitcase inside, and then I’ll turn around and walk away. And that’s how it’ll be all weekend. I won’t look at you. I won’t talk to you. I’ll leave you alone…just like you asked me to. Just like you want.”

Her bottom lip slipped between her teeth, and she bit on it lightly, considering his words, trying to ignore the way they made her ache with loneliness when she thought about the last time they’d spent the weekend together.

“Turn on the radio,” he said softly, the unmistakable color of anger threaded through his tone.

“No,” she answered.

“Turn on the radio,” he growled.

“No! I don’t want you to leave me alone.”

“Really? Because it felt like you did. Yeah, I’m pretty sure you did. Remember in Boston when you told me not to call?” He paused, clenching his jaw as he stared at the highway. “Turn on the goddamned radio, Tate.”

“Please,” she said, her heart skipping beats. “I just want to talk to you.”

“Damnú air! About what?” he asked, his tone incredulous. “What the hell do you want from me, woman?”

“I want—I just want—I want to—”

He pulled the truck over to the side of the highway, the tires screeching to a stop. “Do you even know what you want?”

“I—I just…Why are you so mad at me?”

“Because I had to fight m’self every day not to call you, not to text you, not to message you on goddamn bloody Facebook. Because four months of wantin’ someone sucks balls. Because I tried to feckin’ forget you!” he cried, shifting his body to stare at her. “And I was almost out of the goddamned bloody woods, and you show up again!”

She gulped, looking at things from his point of view, through his eyes.

“Tell me this, Tate. How come there’s one set of rules for me and another for you? I’m not allowed to call or text or reach out after you leave…but you’re allowed to come back? If I hadn’t fucked ya, I’d think you had balls of steel to pull a trick like that.”

She stared at him, beyond surprised that her decisions—meant to keep them both from any pain—had caused so much. “I didn’t mean for—”

“What? For one of us to develop actual feelin’s?” he said, his green eyes roiling with emotion. “I get it. You don’t believe in love. You don’t want it. Yer not interested. Fine.” He paused only for a moment before continuing that thought. “But I’m not as cold as you, Tate. I fell for you that weekend. I know you told me not to, but I couldn’t bloody help it. Stupid Fin. Stupid me.” He huffed loudly, banging his hands on the steering wheel. “Anyway, I’m leavin’ for Ireland next week. And you’re…you’re…impossible. So let’s just stay out of each other’s way this weekend, right? We’ll just…leave each other alone.”

But Tate had meant what she said before: she didn’t want Fin to leave her alone. Not to mention, slicing through all of this emotional vomit was an all-consuming need to have her original question answered.

“Were you with anyone? At the other weddings?”

“Fuck,” he muttered, staring at the highway. Finally, he turned to her and spat, “No!”

Tate learned that important lesson the moment he said, No.

It isn’t just bad things that can sucker-punch you.

Good things can knock the wind out of you too.

Maybe she didn’t even know the right answer to the question until he gave it. She didn’t know why it mattered so much. But it did. And the word no, small though it was, was suddenly her favorite word in all the world.

Reaching for his forearm, she rested her fingers tentatively on his brown, wiry hairs for a moment, then curled her fingers, holding onto him, her breathing becoming increasingly jagged and shallow.

“Jaysus, Tate,” he whispered, a note of pleading entering his tone. “What do you want from me?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I only know that it makes me…happy…that you weren’t with anyone.”

He didn’t look especially pleased by this admission, but he didn’t pull his arm away from her either, so it was hard to tell.

“Were you?” he asked, looking deeply into her eyes. “With anyone?”

She shook her head, her voice a whisper. “No.”

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted softly.

“Me neither,” she said. “Feels like unchartered waters.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Why did you come back?”

And that part of her brain that had laughed at her two weeks ago when she’d RSVP’d and quickly bought her airline ticket from Marathon to Manchester snickered at her knowingly. It was, um, closure, wasn’t it, dummy? Except it wasn’t. It never had been. It was as simple as this: she wanted—no, she needed—to see Finian again, and at the time, she hadn’t known how to admit that to herself. But why? The why behind that question still scared the shit out of her.

As though he sensed it was too difficult for her to face the truth of that question, he asked another instead: “Did you think about me?”

She clenched her jaw. Unable to hold the intense eye contact between them, she looked down at her fingers on his arm and nodded.

“You did?”

“Yes.” She licked her lips and nodded again, gathering her courage to look up at him. When she did, he reached for her face, tenderly cupping her cheek with his hand.

“I’m leavin’ in a few days,” he said, scanning her eyes.

“I know,” she said. “Me too.”

“I like you.”

“I know.”

“No, Tate,” he said. “That’s not good enough.” He searched her eyes, then repeated, “I like you.”

Her breathing was so quick and shallow, she was getting dizzy. To steady herself, she reached up and covered his hand with hers.

“Close your eyes,” he said gently.

Gratefully, she closed them, whimpering softly when his lips—as warm and soft and possessive as she remembered them—landed on hers. He kissed her slowly, his lips brushing and nipping like they had all the time in the world instead of just the opposite. Or maybe as though he was savoring the renewed contact as much as she, like his lips had been doing nothing for four months but waiting—not talking, not laughing, not singing, not eating—just waiting for the chance to be pressed against hers again.

When he drew away, she kept her eyes closed, but every sense was heightened when he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Mo cailleach, I like you so much.”

And Tate, whose lips were no longer her own, took a deep, tremulous breath and formed them to whisper, “I like you too.”

His laugh, so soft and surprised, made a hundred butterflies take flight in her stomach, and she opened her eyes as though he’d commanded it.

“That’s my girl.”

“Your girl?” she asked, still feeling dazed by her admission. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d allowed herself to “like” a man she was also kissing, let alone admit it to him.

He laughed again. “Okay, fine. Have it your way. You’re not my girl.”

Her gaze slid down to his lips. Full and delicious, she wanted them on hers again, and she wanted them there for the foreseeable future, even if that future was only a handful of days.

“Mo cailleach, you’re an infuriatin’, complicated woman. Who told you that likin’ someone was all bad?”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“What? Infuriatin’? Frustratin’. Difficult. Aggrava—”

“I know what infuriating means,” she said. She gave him a look as she wound her fingers through his and lowered their hands to the vinyl seat between them. “Mo kay-leech. What’s that mean?”

He winced, then licked his lips. “You won’t like it.”

Her heart started beating faster. Did it mean something sappy and sentimental that would have her throwing up in her mouth? She braced herself, fighting her facial muscles against an imminent grimace. “Does it mean ‘love’ or ‘sweetheart’ or something else like that?”

“Eh, no. It’s hard to translate. I mean…well, literally, it means…‘hag,’ but I’m not callin’ you a hag, now! It’s a queer word that has secondary meanin’s about a woman bein’ a sorceress or a…”

Her mind acknowledged that he was still talking, but she had stopped listening, her lips tilting up into a smile, a laugh starting in her belly, bubbling up through her chest, passing her heart en route to her throat, which opened with unexpected joy as the sound burst forth into unruly giggles.

“You’ve been c-calling me a—a—a—hag?”

Unable to stop laughing, she stared at him, utterly besotted and totally unable to look away. And if Tate had been a woman who didn’t believe in love a scant few months ago, she couldn’t be certain that she didn’t believe in it now. If he’d been calling her “sweetheart” or “honey” or “love” in Irish, it would have been hard for her to accept, but this man, who somehow read her perfectly without even knowing the complicated, hidden, secret language of her frightened heart, had been—affectionately—calling her a hag. It was perfect. It was beyond perfect.

It was, though there was no way Tate would have acknowledged it even if she’d realized it for herself, the moment she fell in love with him.

He stared back at her like she was completely nuts. “Uh, yeah? You like that, uh, that nickname, huh? But like I said, it doesn’t mean the same thing in—”

“Fin.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up,” she said, clenching the muscles that were demanding his cock, hard and throbbing, deep inside of her.

“Yeah.”

“I need to be in your bed…now.”

“Now now?”

“Now now.”

“Right,” he said, putting both hands on the steering wheel, shifting the car into drive and iron-footing the gas as he merged back onto the quiet highway with a squeal of tires. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Tate, because you know I like you, but I think you may be a bit daft.”

She nodded, crossing her legs tight in an effort to assuage the ache between her thighs. “I think you might be right.”