CHAPTER 9

One month later

 

“Finian!”

In his usual corner spot, he looked up to see a blonde woman walking toward him. For just a second, he thought it was Tate, and his heart—his ridiculous heart—swelled with hope.

But it wasn’t Tate. It never was.

It was Cynthia, with pasty faced Jamie Gallagher nipping at her heels like a wee terrier. Fuck.

“Hello, Finian.”

“’lo, Cindy,” he greeted her with a wan smile.

“Anyone sittin’ with you?” she asked, looking around the packed bar.

“It’s mad here,” added Jamie.

It’s always mad on a Sunday, he thought, giving Jamie an unwelcome look.

“Eh…no,” he said, wishing someone else would come and join him. Anyone. The bloody queen o’ England would be more welcome than these two. “Though me mates could be by in a bit.”

“How about we sit with you until they get here?” she suggested, taking a seat.

“Yeah. Grand,” he said, though his tone stated it was anything but.

“So,” said Jamie, in his pressed fucking golf shirt. Twat. “Cynthia says you went abroad for a while. How was that?”

“Yeah. Good. Thanks.”

Cindy picked up her pint, wiggling her fingers against the glass as she took a wee drink, and it was impossible to ignore the ring she was wearing.

Oh, fer fuck’s sake.

“New ring?” he asked.

“Engaged!” she crowed with a satisfied grin. “Jamie asked me.”

“Didn’t think the baby Jesus did.”

“Blasphemy,” whispered Jamie, looking horrified.

“You look like shite,” said Cynthia sweetly.

Finian took a long drink of his beer, staring at her like he wished she’d get lost.

“We’re gettin’ married in August,” she said, very pleased with herself.

“Knocked up?” asked Fin.

“Gabh síos ort fhéin,” growled Cynthia, which roughly translated to the suggestion that Finian go fuck himself.

“Cynthia!” gasped Jamie.

“Better me wankin’ myself than puttin’ up with the likes ‘o you,” he muttered.

“Well. I’ll tell you one thing! We’re not puttin’ up with this a moment longer,” said Jamie, rising from his seat. “Come along, Cynthia.”

“Yeah. Good. Go fuck yerselves,” said Fin, watching them go.

He finished his beer and slammed the glass down on the wooden table.

Fucking Cynthia was getting married. Well, that was great. Bloody weapon. He wished her a hundred years of tepid sex with her pasty-faced grocer.

But on one count and one alone, Cynthia was probably right. He probably did look like shite.

It hadn’t exactly been the best month of his life.

When he’d first gotten home, it’d been good to see his mam and dad and the lads. His old job was waiting for him, and his mates Colin and Tommy had offered him a spare room at their flat until he got set up again. In some ways, it was good to be home…but in others, it wasn’t.

The first week, he’d still been on a high from meeting Tate and hopeful that she’d suddenly stroll into the bar one weekend, excited to see him. They’d connected over Facebook and Instagram and Skyped a few times too. But the distance was an unholy bitch, and he could feel her slipping away from him. He could feel all of that beautiful fucking potential fading day by day. And he hated it.

From what she said, her uncle was doing much better, but she was still nervous to leave him. Which had made Fin start wondering if she’d ever leave him. The more time that went by, the more he thought that she probably wouldn’t. And the biggest problem with her reticence to visit was that Fin had already used up his immigration allowance for the year. He’d spent ninety days in the United States from October to December and another ninety days from January to March. Technically, he wasn’t allowed back until next year.

So if Tate wouldn’t come and see him? They were fucked.

Not that he had anything better to do than sit in this fucking corner every weekend. In fact, in a weird and likely masochistic twist of fate, he actually felt closest to her here. And deep in his heart, the hope that she would one day show up was the only thing that kept him sane.

He sighed, looking up to see if a waitress was passing by or if he’d have to give up his coveted seat to go get his own beer.

And that’s when he saw her.

Platinum-blonde hair.

Blue eyes like the summer sky.

Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, she stood about twelve feet away from him in the crowded bar.

Tate.

Tate.

Tate is here.

A million times, he’d imagined how it would feel to see her, but now that she was actually here? He froze for a moment just watching her, just processing the beautiful fucking reality that the woman he desperately wanted was finally, finally, finally…here.

His adrenaline skyrocketed, and he bolted up, heart racing, crossing to her in a moment and pushing two blokes out of the way to stand before her.

“Tate!”

“Fin!” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck.

He lifted her feet off the ground, yanking her against his chest and slamming his mouth against hers. Their teeth clacked together, but they were undeterred, kissing hard and fast in the dense crowd of a spring Sunday at Donoghue’s. When he drew away, he was panting with surprise, his pulse zooming like a runaway train.

“Yer feckin’ here.”

“I’m fucking here.”

“What’re you drinkin’?”

“Beer,” she said, grinning up at him as her feet touched back down on the floor.

“That’s my table,” he said, thumbing toward the corner.

“Just where you said.”

“Like I promised.”

“I’ll sit.”

“I’ll get our drinks.”

***

In the many dreams she’d had of their reunion, it had never included a packed-to-the-gills bar that smelled distinctly of wooden floorboards saturated with hundreds of years of spilled beer. And yet, as she slipped into the corner booth with its roughhewn wooden table, she realized that it was so perfectly Fin, it was perfect for her too.

He joined her a moment later, placing two pints of beer on the table and sliding in beside her, caressing her face with his eyes like he couldn’t believe she was sitting next to him.

“You didn’t tell me you were comin’.”

She shrugged. “It was a last-minute decision.”

“I’m so…Jaysus, I can’t believe yer here. I’m so bloody glad to see you.” Her hands were resting on the table, and he took the one closest to him and held it. “How’s Pete?”

Her uncle had taken to calling her “warden” over the past month, griping that she was cramping his style by coming over every night to make him dinners that consisted of fish or chicken and vegetables.

Three days ago, when she’d stopped by with some broiled cod and grilled zucchini, she’d been surprised to find Pete at the candlelit kitchen table, having dinner with a friend, Lucy Rodriguez. It had taken her a couple of minutes—and observing that her uncle was wearing a dress shirt—to realize that Pete wasn’t just “having dinner.” He was on a date, and by stopping by, she was interrupting. Awkwardly, she’d left the food on the kitchen counter, said good-bye, and left, but Pete had followed her.

“Tate Maureen, wait up.”

Standing in the moonlight in his backyard, he’d pulled her gruffly into a bear hug. “You don’t have to go.”

“I think I do.” She drew away and looked up at the face she loved so well. “At least you made chicken.”

“Lucy made it,” said Pete. “And the rice is brown.”

“I approve,” said Tate, kissing his cheek.

“Got you something, honey,” he said, turning back to the house. “Wait there.”

A moment later, he’d returned, offering her an envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Your birthday present.”

“You usually give me a gift card.”

“Yeah, well. Things are different this year. I’m counting my blessings.”

She’d opened the envelope to find a ticket to Dublin leaving in three days.

“Your vessel’s still in dry dock for a month or so, and I figure…there’s a guy over there waiting for you, right?”

With tears in her eyes, she’d thrown her arms around her uncle, squeezing him tightly. “I can’t leave you.”

“Honey, you are the best niece an old man could ask for. But I got Lucy inside there waiting on me. And you gotta go find your Lucy. Well, that’s not quite what I mean. But…you gotta go live your life, Tate Maureen.” He’d kissed her cheek, the scruff of his beard scratching her skin. “Your momma would’ve been so proud of you.”

How’s Pete?

“He’s good,” she said, taking a sip of her beer and squeezing Fin’s fingers. “Actually, he bought me the ticket to come over.”

“He did?”

She nodded. “And he has a girlfriend.”

“Salty dog!” exclaimed Finian, grinning at her. He bit his bottom lip, his smile fading just a touch. “How long are you stayin’?”

She took a deep breath. “Well…my yacht won’t be ready for four more weeks.”

Finian’s mouth dropped open. “A month?”

“Too long?” she asked, grimacing slightly, hoping that he wanted her to stay just as much as she wanted to be with him.

“Not enough,” he said, leaning forward to drop a kiss to her forehead, his voice warm with relief. “But it’s good, Tate. A good start. I’ll take it.”

“Fin,” she said, clutching his hand as she turned her face to his. “I live in Florida, and you live here. I wish I could, but I can’t make you any promises. I’m seeing a therapist, but I’m still scared as hell.”

“You’re here,” he said softly. “That’s all that matters. We’ll find our way, Tate. We’ll figure it out together.”

She bit her bottom lip, then let it go, looking into his eyes, scared to say the next words, but knowing he deserved to hear them.

 “I don’t know how good I’ll be at loving someone, but I know this, Fin.” She gulped. “I know I want to be loved.”

Palming her cheeks with his hands, he drew her lips to his and kissed them tenderly.

“Then me darlin’ girl, mo cailleach, my sweet Tate, you’re in exactly the right place.”

 

THE END

 

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