Delaney

Today has been perfect. Or maybe it’s just being with Cillian that’s made it so great. The only problem is that I’ve bared my soul to him, and I still know practically nothing about him.

“What?” he asks over his Guinness when he catches me watching him.

We’re sitting in the Crow’s Head Pub at one of the back booths. I keep catching people staring at him, but when I mention it, he just shrugs it off.

I pick at the fish and chips in front of me. “You just haven’t told me much about yourself.”

“There’s not much to tell.” He shrugs, and glances at the band as they start to set up on stage. “What do ye want to know?”

Everything.

His family seems to be a sore subject, so I ask him, “What do you do for work?”

“Work?” He looks at me like it’s a foreign concept.

“A job? You know, that thing you do to make money.”

He chuckles, and places his forearms on the table. “Ye wouldn’t believe me if I told ye.”

That’s sounds like trouble.

“Try me.” I cross my arms and lean back in my chair.

Shrugging, he says, “I’m in between gigs right now.”

I start to ask what the hell that means, but a metal tinging sound fills the room, and someone taps into a microphone.

“We’ve got a special guest here tonight,” the man says into the microphone, causing both Cillian and I to turn our heads in the direction of the stage.

It’s one of the men from the beach, and he’s pointing in our direction, or more specifically at Cillian.

Raising my brows, I look back at Cillian, whose expression has darkened.

“Fuck.” He drags his fingers through his hair and starts to move out of the booth. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

“Why?”

The man, who introduces himself as Patrick Murphy, says something in Gaelic that has the crowd cheering.

“The fecking bastard,” Cillian mutters, leaning with his palms on the table, back towards the stage. “Sorry, love.”

“Sorry for what?”

He takes a sip of his beer, then kisses me hard before turning and heading to the stage.

I am so freaking confused right now. But the crowd obviously isn’t. Everyone here seems to know exactly who he is. They clap and cheer as he steps onto the small stage.

“Wild Irish’s Cillian Gallagher,” Patrick says, before stepping away from the microphone so that Cillian can approach.

Wild Irish.

I’m pretty sure my mouth hangs open as I watch him adjust the stand, smiling out into the audience like he owns the place. Broody confidence surrounds him like an aura.

He takes the guitar Patrick hands him. He leans over and whispers something in the man’s ear that has him chuckling, but I can tell by Cillian’s eyes it was more of a threat than a joke. Yet, when he turns back to the crowd, all the anger is gone, and he actually looks like he wants to be up there.

“Hello. How are ye tonight?” He grins, and the people respond with more applause and cheers.

From the moment I saw him, I thought he was gorgeous. But on stage, he’s magnetic, pulling every pair of eyes towards him. Yet, it’s nothing compared to when he opens his mouth, his deep melodic voice filling the room.

His gaze holds mine as he sings the familiar words from the radio.

“Let the Irish rains wash away yer tears. Let me kiss away yer pain. Come to me, my love. I’m waiting on the shore. It’s safe in yer harbor, but that’s not what ships are for.”

People have their cell phones out, recording him like he’s a celebrity.

I guess he is.

His voice has been on every radio station since I’ve been here.

It hits me, then; he’s a freaking rock star. I’ve been living—and sleeping—with the lead singer of Wild Irish, and I didn’t even know it.

I’m sure there’s a part of the situation that I should be upset about. But I’m so turned on right now that the only thing I can think about is getting him out of this damn pub so I can kiss him.

At the end of the song, Cillian hands the guitar back to Patrick. They exchange a few whispered words. Patrick hands something to Cillian, then slaps him on the back again. Patrick looks at me and gives me a grin that has heat infusing my cheeks.

When Cillian steps off the stage, men and women—but mostly women—stop him as he makes his way back to the booth, some asking for autographs, and others taking selfies with him.

Patrick and his band get through a whole other song by the time Cillian reaches me.

His expression is unreadable, his gaze searching mine. “Well?”

“You’re Wild Irish.” I stand up when he takes my hand.

He shrugs and his arms wrap around my waist. “I was.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

He exhales and rubs the back of his neck with one hand, the other tightening around me as if he’s worried I’ll take off. “Are ye upset?”

“No.”

“What are ye thinking?” His gaze is as dark and intense as it always is when he looks at me, but there’s a hint of vulnerability there as well.

“How freaking hot you are,” I say honestly, curling my fingers in his shirt and tugging him closer. I can feel people staring, and I’m pretty sure a few of them are taking pictures with their phones. But I don’t care. All I care about is the incredibly sexy man in front of me. “And how jealous every single woman in here is of me right now.”

“None of them hold a candle to ye, love.”

“I like when you call me that,” I murmur as his lips find mine.

He kisses me hard and long, and there are a few cheers from people around us.

“Do ye have any idea what ye do to me?” he says roughly, fingers tangling in my hair.

I know exactly what I do to him. Because I can feel the result pressed against my belly.

“Why don’t we leave and you can show me.”

He lets out a small growl before taking my hand and pulling me from the stool. “Patrick gave me the keys to his rental. We can stay here for the night if ye want.”

As long as I’m with him, I don’t care where I am.

I nod, and he grins. “Good. Let’s get the hell out of here. Because I’ve been dying to get that dress off ye all day.”