by Alexx Andria
Forever His Girl
An Ireland Forever Short Story
Alexx Andria
Alexx Andria
Contents
Back cover blurb
A Note From Alexx
Hollis
Collum
Hollis
Collum
Hollis
Also by Alexx Andria
About the Author
To all the people who lost us — may they forever lament their terrible judgment.
Back cover blurb
I knew the moment I saw her — she was meant to be mine.
Except we are all wrong for each other. Complete opposites.
I’m a widower and CEO of my own company in Dublin; she’s a California girl with sunshine in her heart and fire in her hair.
Our chemistry is off the charts, electric and dangerous.
Her name tastes like sweetness in my mouth; her breathy sighs ignite my soul.
I want her like I’ve never wanted another human being and I’m going to make her mine.
***
It’s time to pack your bags, darlings! We’re headed to Dublin!
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This shared world brings together Amazon and USA Today bestselling authors Fiona Starr, Angel Devlin, Tracy Lorraine, Rebecca Gallo, Olivia Hawthorne, Laney Powell, Kim Lorraine, Frankie Love, Rebecca Norinne, Alexx Andria, Dori Lavelle, and Derek Masters!
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A Note From Alexx
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Hollis
To be clear I wasn’t running away from my problems — I like to think of myself as more original than something as cliched as the broken-hearted millennial with bad credit — but I suppose surface values were hard to ignore.
My boyfriend of five years had dumped me over text (ouch). May you rot in hell, Ricky Crowden. I hope your next Tinder date gives you crabs.
My credit score was definitely not something I’d paid enough attention to. C’mon, does everyone really pay all their bills on time? (upside, nobody wants to steal my hot mess of an identity).
And to say I was adrift on a sea of ennui was an understatement of my burgeoning and very early mid-life crisis if not a tad bit melodramatic but not entirely untrue.
But not quite as dramatic as hopping a plane to the land of my ancestors to see if I could drink my weight in dark beer and catch myself a leprechaun or at the very least rack up some better memories than the ones currently taking up space in my head.
Of course, I’m talking about Ireland.
Quick backstory info dump: My former sorority sister Janie Locke managed to land herself quite the cool gig managing/promoting some Irish band called Blackthorn (Blackfoot? Blackburn? I dunno, not really my scene, to be honest) and she invited a bunch of us to the kickoff event in Dublin and even put us up in this rad castle — Castle GlenKerry — for our stay.
However, what I didn’t want to tell Janie was that even though my hair might be fire-engine red and there’s definitely the luck O’ the Irish running through my DNA, I didn’t have any interest in the actual band. I mean, they might be the cat’s meow but the way Janie described them, “a rock band like U2” was more than enough of a turn-off for me. She might as well have said, “smooth jazz” or “the classic sounds of elevator tunes” to send me running in the opposite direction.
No thanks.
But stay in a Irish castle for free? Hell yes, to that. Besides, Janie was so busy I doubt she’d notice I wasn’t in the group.
In fact, she hadn’t even bothered to meet us at the castle when we checked in. Just a nice welcome basket with wine, two glasses, chocolate-covered strawberries and a short note that read: Hello darling! Welcome to Dublin! I hope you have the BEST time. Hope to catch up, but I'm busy as balls, so if we don't, know that I love you. Enjoy the castle, and the show! Xx
Ahhh, typical Janie. Always running a mile a minute. But that suited me just fine. I didn’t like to be micro-managed and I certainly didn’t want to be pestered about the dumb concert when I was trying to drink my weight in beer.
Hell, now that I was single as a Pringle I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I planned to eat and drink my feelings. Ricky had never missed an opportunity to comment on my hips and ass, like , “Hey babe, slow down, getting a little thick, don’t you think?” so whatever, fuck you, Ricky, I’m a beautiful butterfly and this butterfly likes carbs.
I checked my cell. Two missed calls from my mom. I chewed my lip. I should call her back. It was the responsible thing to do. Was I feeling responsible? Clearly not. I’d just said, ‘Screw my problems’ and ran away from everything in my life.
But I had to call my mom back. For one, I still believed that mothers had some ability to curse their daughters with some karmic voodoo and seeing as I’d been a handful for a single mother, there was no sense in using all my chips on stupid shit.
“Hi Mom,” I said with my cheeriest voice even though I knew she was going to screech at me for not calling the moment my plane touched down.
“My app said your plane landed hours ago,” she said predictably. “I’ve been worried sick. What is wrong with you? Are you trying to give me an ulcer?”
“Should I start a list? And if you don’t have an ulcer by now, you have an iron stomach,” I retorted but followed with, “I’m sorry, I should’ve called but I’ve been a little busy. Check-in was a little stressful.” Not entirely a lie. Checking into a castle wasn’t like checking into the Hyatt and it was drafty as hell here. Pretty as a postcard but my nipples were definitely at full attention. “But you’d love my room. Nice view of the rolling hills and there’s a village pub I plan to spend a lot of time in.”
“Hollis, don’t go do something stupid,” my mom warned and I laughed. “I thought you were there to see a band or something?”
“Aren’t you supposed to do stupid things when you’re on vacation? I’m pretty sure that’s kinda the point and the band is not really my jam. I think I’ll just play tourist. Besides, wouldn’t you rather hear that I’m out whiskey tasting rather than belly shots with a bunch of groupies?”
“Is there a third option? I’m really not sure this was the best idea,” my mom said, the worry creeping into her voice. “Ireland? So soon after Ricky—”
“Ahhh, we don’t say his name, remember?” I cut in with forced cheerfulness. I didn’t want to think about my ex or how he’d ripped my heart out without so much as a second glance. I mean, five years didn’t even warrant a phone call? My eyes watered up and irrational rage threatened to ruin all the good feelings that simply being in another country had created. Damn it. Time to change the subject. “Hey! I’m going to bring home so many cool souvenirs that you’ll be swimming in Ireland crap up to your eyeballs.”
“That’s something to look forward to.”
I heard the worry in my mom’s tone beneath the wry quip. She knew me better than anyone. It’d always been she and I — the dynamic duo — the terrible twosome. We’d always had each other’s back.
In some ways, she’d been more like my friend than my mom but then that’s what happened when kids had kids. In some way
s, it forced me to grow up too fast but in others, I was emotionally stunted because my mom hadn’t yet learned herself how to deal with certain things.
Yeah, my mom got preggers young — like fifteen young.
But before you judge her for being too young to be a mom, she did a pretty good job. I mean, I’m not a serial killer or anything.
I graduated high school, went to college, and I file my taxes without an extension.
I never even got pregnant. Bonus points, I never claimed to still be a virgin while having anal sex like some girls because, you know, the booty hole doesn’t count (insert eye roll). For the record, Karen, it counts.
Had the same boyfriend for the last five years (last year of high school, all four years of college). Dubious accomplishment given the circumstances but it was going in the “win” column.
And now, I was in Ireland on a grand adventure.
The place of myth and legend, historical intrigue, poetic beauty and potatoes.
Not too shabby.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked again, her voice gentling.
Ughhhhh, the tears weren’t far behind, especially when she used that tone. I sniffed back the pain I was hiding. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I mean, c’mon, I’m in freaking Ireland. Who cares about some guy who didn’t have the sense God gave a goose, right?”
“Of course, it’s his loss,” my mom said “but you loved him and it’s okay to admit that.”
“Mommm, I don’t want to admit shit. I just want to eat my feelings, drink exotic beer, kiss the Blarney stone, and maybe have wild, forget-my-ex-sex with a stranger.”
“You probably could’ve left that part out,” my mom grumbled.
“Probably but you’re always wanting me to be honest.”
“I should be careful what I wish for.”
“Hashtag fact.”
“Just be careful, please,” she said with a heavy sigh. Like I said, I was a difficult child. She should be used to this by now. “I love you, kid.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, hating that Ricky was ruining even one second in Ireland. “I love you, too, Mom.”
I clicked off and sank onto the bed. It really was a lovely room. I ran my fingers over the rough coverlet, noting the hand-sewn details in the green and red threading. A slid down my cheek to wet a spot on the bed and I rubbed at it with an apologetic frown to the poor woman who no doubt had spent months of her life stitching together this masterpiece.
My gaze wandered my room, stopping to rest on a cross-stitched blessing in emerald green thread, “May you live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live” and I choked back a laugh. How had I made such a colossal mess of my life in such a short time?
Talent, I guess.
The faint sounds of my travel group echoed through the rock halls of the historic castle. Too bad I was in such a frumpy frame of mind, otherwise I would’ve had a blast roaming the halls putting my English degree to use, maybe even finding a private corner to start writing that novel I’ve always talked about writing but I wasn’t in the right frame of mind.
What a waste.
Okay, so I had two choices: 1). Mope around and ignore the fact that I was in the coolest country in the world when I could just as easily pout and eat chocolate back at home; or 2). Sack up, find the pub and start my epic adventure in dark beer tasting.
Right.
Easiest choice ever.
I stuffed my phone in my backpack and headed out for Mackey’s Public House, which as luck would have it, was only a short walk from the castle.
My frothy dark beer awaits.
Collum
“Here’s to you, macushla,” I murmured before lifting the pint of Guinness to my lips for a draught. Our tradition, something I’d kept going in her memory, made the pain of her loss sting a little less even though my younger brother, Ian thought otherwise.
“I’m just saying, some traditions you ought to let lie, brother,” Ian said with his customary weary sigh as if he were worried I were trying to climb into Mary’s grave alongside her. “Christ, it’s been three years now. Mary would’ve wanted you to keep livin’ not turn into a fuckin’ man of the cloth. Lord rest her soul, o’ course.”
“Shut your pie-hole, Ian,” I retorted without taking offense. “You don’t know my business. Maybe I’ve been dating, maybe I haven’t.”
“Have you?” he asked, interested.
“Fuck no,” I shot back with a glower. Like I had time to date. I ran my own company — the company that kept him employed, I might remind him — and the economy wasn’t as it used to be.
Money didn’t fall from the fucking skies. It took diligence to keep things afloat but Ian didn’t like to bothered with facts and figures.
He was just worried that I wasn’t dipping my wick nearly enough so that surely must mean I was pining for my dead wife and I was going to do something dreadfully drastic like end it all in a drunken fit or join the priesthood.
Fuck all, he was such a drama king.
I missed Mary, that wasn’t a stretch but I’d processed my grief, put it in it’s place and moved on. I’d always love my girl — and cancer was a right cunt — but I couldn’t change what’d happened.
She was gone and not coming back. Life had to keep going for the living. No, what kept me from dating was simply finding the time to invest in someone else.
And maybe I was a little gun-shy.
Mary was a tough act to follow.
Sweet, kind, gentle as a summer breeze, Mary had been too fragile for this world — always had a smile for anyone who needed one.
Even down to the last moment of her life she’d been worried about me and how I’d carry on. Fuck, how’s the world supposed to carry on without a soul like hers in it?
Couldn’t stand the taste of whiskey but my girl had loved her Guinness.
And so I always lifted a pint in her honor without fail on her birthday, which landed so near to St. Paddy’s.
“She was a right doll, she was,” Ian said, lifting his glass with me. “We all miss her.”
As I nodded in agreement my eye caught on a woman walking into Mackey’s, her gait all piss and vinegar, her bright red hair glowing with the sunlight at her back.
Holy fuck, a thunderbolt couldn’t have hit me harder in that moment. “Who is that?” I asked before I could stop the words from dropping from my fool mouth.
Ian followed my gaze, lowering his pint with the same interest and curiosity. “No clue but I say let’s find out.”
Mackey’s was a local hang out. I knew every person in this place and she was a breath of fresh air in a stale room.
She plopped up to the bar with a grin for old Mackey, the 60-year-old barkeep, and when a Guinness was delivered into her wee hands, she looked as gleefully as if she’d waited her whole life for that very moment.
I recognized that joy. My Mary had always loved her beer in the same way. Even her toes were tapping a jig.
“Well now, can’t say fate isn’t real, now can you?” Ian said with a short whistle beneath his breath.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you can’t take your bleeding eyes off her since she walked into the place. You haven’t noticed another woman since Mary died and on the day we’re celebrating Mary’s birth, a woman like her walks in. Seems like fate to me.”
“You’re daft,” I scoffed but I continued to stare like a hungry man. My eyes couldn’t get enough. Ian rose before I could stop him. Alarm colored my voice as I grabbed at his arm, “What are you doing?”
“Welcoming the lass, obviously,” he answered with a grin, shaking me off. “Don’t get your bollocks in a jam. I’m just being neighborly.”
I watched as Ian sauntered over to the wild-haired young woman like the Dublin Welcoming Committee, chatted her up for a moment and against the odds, must’ve said the right thing because she slid off the barstool and joined us.
Ian, the tosser, handled the introductions as
if he were setting us up on a blind date. “Hollis Decker from California, meet my brother Collum O’Leery. Hollis tells me she’s here to see that band Blackthorn with a few of her mates. They’re staying at Castle Glenkerry. Small world, isn’t it brother?”
“Very,” I responded dryly. Glenkerry neighbored my estate. “Nice to meet you, Hollis.”
I wanted to be a gentleman — an ambassador, even but her name tasted like sweetness in my mouth. Up close she was prettier than I wanted her to be. Fuck, my heart was beating like I’d ran all the way from my estate to Mackey’s with a banshee wailing on my tail.
Her eyes, wide and sparkling with mischief, were the kind you could lose yourself in for hours, maybe even days.
She was younger than me, probably around twenty-five or so to my thirty-four, not a huge difference but I felt her youth all around me.
Maybe I hadn’t realized how much grief had sucked out some of my spark but suddenly Hollis had ignited something deep inside me and it was both inexplicable and disconcerting as fuck.
The energy between us sparked with immediate heat. I wanted to leave, I wanted to stay. The discomfort of being caught between two divergent feelings had me gulping my Guinness and shooting a dark look at Ian for bringing her to my table and ruining my tribute to Mary.
But that was bullshit. I wasn’t used to being off-kilter like this. For once, I was thankful to Ian for being a buffer but the prick must’ve sensed I was flailing because that shit-eating grin as he rose told me he was leaving.
“What are you doing?” I asked, almost desperately
“I forgot I have a thing,” he said.
“No you don’t,” I disagreed, glaring. “You aren’t leaving just yet.”