To Blake, With Love

by KT Webb

  The only thing I’m sure about is that I will not be wearing a dress or make-up tonight. I’m not trying to look decent for anyone. Once I’ve got on a v-neck black t-shirt and jeans, I slip my Converse shoes back on and head to the bathroom to brush the snarls from my hair. As always, I bring all my hair around to one shoulder and start brushing out the knots at the bottom. When my fingers gently move across my neck, I’m immediately transported back to the moment Gannon whispered in my ear at Trinity College. My eyes close of their own accord. The feeling of his breath against my ear, his beard tickling my neck, the way his lips barely touched the edge of my ear; even now chills are spreading across my skin. I doubt he was trying to flirt with me. Sometimes I’m not even sure he likes me beyond fulfilling the responsibility given to him by his mother. But then there was the hand holding; he took my hand and led me to the Book of Kells. He held my hand. I have no idea what possessed him to do something so sweet and almost too familiar for someone he just met. With a shake of my head, I dismiss the thoughts. I’m not even interested in romance. That ship sailed a few years ago, and nothing is likely to change that.

  With one last look in the mirror, I decide I’ve made myself presentable enough to go down for dinner. I’ve made a bit of a mess in my room; I’ll have to make sure to take care of that when I get back upstairs. It looks like a tornado came through and whipped my clothes all over the place. My mom always used to rant about my tendency to walk into a room and leave everything askew behind me. Grandpa Molloy came to my defense more than once. He insisted the insanity in my life was just evidence of my creativity. I definitely preferred his view over that of my mother; that usually happened.

  When I get down to the restaurant, Gannon is waiting for me. He’s already gotten us a table and has a bottle of wine chilling in a bucket. So many mixed signals from this guy, I don’t know if I should just come out and ask him if he’s into me or just leave it alone. At least if I know, I can set some boundaries.

  “Good evening miss, may I interest you in a glass of the house merlot?” Gannon asked in his best maître d impression.

  “Why, yes, kind sir. I would love a glass.”

  He pours half a glass of wine for each of us and takes a seat again. I can’t help but giggle at him, trying to be a proper gentleman. I don’t know him that well, but Gannon is not the gentlemanly type.

  “You look nice,” he says, glance at my hair cascading over my shoulder.

  “Thank you, so do you.”

  It’s hard to tell how long my hair is when I’ve got it piled on top of my head. I’m sure it surprises him to discover that it practically reaches my butt when it’s down. I’ve always loved having long hair, although I did go through a phase when I kept my hair cropped short, which was short-lived. Vince preferred short hair, I’m pretty sure that was part of the reason I stopped cutting it. There was no way I was going to let anyone tell me how I should look, let alone a man who was supposed to be in love with me.

  The waiter comes and goes, taking our orders and bringing another bottle of wine. I keep catching Gannon watching me out of the corner of my eye, but every time I look up, he looks away. If only I could hear his thoughts, maybe I’d determine if he’s just trying to be kind or if he actually enjoys my company. I intend to write in both my personal blog and some travel blogs while on my extended stay in Kinnitty. It would help me to have a friend who knows the country well enough to possibly join me on some of my excursions. We’ve fallen into a semi-comfortable silence, even though I’m itching to ask him questions about my grandfather's hometown.

  “So, tell me about your pub,” I start off with something that should get him talking.

  “It’s nothing much, but it’s mine. We have plenty of traffic between tourists and locals, so I’m busy every weekend and steady most weeknights.”

  “What made you want to open a pub?”

  Gannon looks at his plate and pushes his food around for a few minutes before answering. “It was my father’s pub. His friend took it on after dad passed, but when I was old enough, I knew I wanted to carry on. I worked with Errol Molloy for a few years before he retired.”

  Of course, I perk up at my own last name. I don’t know anything about the Molloy family in Ireland, so I’m at a disadvantage when talking about anyone with the name. I’m sure there are plenty of Molloy’s over here. It would be naïve of me to think I’m related to all of them. Still, Gannon had been hesitant when he said the name, which makes me question the man’s relation to me. I’m just going to go for it. I shouldn’t pry, this seems personal, but how else am I going to learn about why I’m here?

  “Errol Molloy? Is he connected to my family, or is there another Molloy clan in Kinnitty?”

  “I guess he would be a cousin of some kind. His father, Nolan, would be your grandfather's younger brother,” Gannon tries to sound non-committal with his response.

  “Do they still live in Kinnitty?” I hope I’m not pressing my luck.

  “Aye. The whole family stayed to work the farm and help with the upkeep on the Molloy B&B. Well, almost the whole family,” his tone is laced with disdain.

  “Hmm. I see. I suppose I’ll be doing more than getting to know long-lost relatives. It sounds like I’ll be mending some fences.”

  Gannon doesn’t say anything while he chews his steak thoughtfully. I didn’t realize it was still a touchy subject, even for people who weren’t immediately impacted by the departure of my grandparents. I guess it was a little silly for me to think I wouldn’t have to pay for the pain Grandpa Molloy caused his family.

  “What do you do when the pub is closed?”

  “Sleep,” Gannon says a little too quickly.

  “Look, I’m sorry if bringing up my family name caused some tension between us. I guess I figured you would know it was going to come up at some point,” I tell him coolly.

  Gannon heaves a frustrated sigh and takes a sip of his water while he continues to avoid eye contact. “You’re very direct, aren’t you?”

  “You have no idea, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

  The less uptight version of Gannon seems to reappear as he laughs at my response. Good, I like him much better than the crass, set in his ways, small-town pub owner. It’s not even been twenty-four hours, and I already know there are at least two versions of Gannon. The one I don’t mind spending time with and the one I want to throat punch.

  “Okay, subject change. Do you like to read?”

  He wipes his mouth with the cloth napkin as he contemplates my question. Dear God, I hope he’s a reader. Books are a massive part of my world, I love so many classics and modern writers that when someone asks who my favorite author is, I have to break it down by genre and era. Every time, I get that “deer in the headlights” look while I have a silent argument with myself about how weird I should be.

  “I read, yeah. I loved to read when I was younger, but I don’t have much time for it now. I assume that as a writer, you also enjoy reading?”

  “I do. Reading pretty much sums up my social life,” I chuckle.

  Once we’ve finished eating and argued over who will pay for this meal, I won, we decide to grab a few drinks at the hotel bar. Gannon asks what I’d like to drink, but my mind goes completely blank. We’ve already had two bottles of wine between us, and for the life of me, I can’t push past the haze to decide on another beverage. Instead of letting on that his question stumped me, I tell him to surprise me. A few minutes later, Gannon returns with two whiskeys on the rocks. I take a sip of mine, relishing the warming sensation as it flows down my throat. I could get used to being one of those whiskey-sipping people, especially if they’re all as smooth as this one.

  “Is this Jameson?” I ask him as my cheeks begin to heat.

  He shakes his head as he takes another sip, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “No, it’s called Writer’s Tears.”

  Now I understand the grin. Gannon thinks he’s playing a funny little joke on me. I can’t help but roll my ey
es and giggle. The alcohol is getting to me, I’m not usually much of a giggler. Before long, both whiskey glasses are empty and Gannon signals to the bartender to bring another round.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

  “I don’t see you turning down any drinks, Miss Molloy,” he replies with his breathtaking smile.

  Well, shit. I didn’t see that coming. Of course, I found Gannon attractive from the moment I met him, but now I can feel that zero-gravity sensation in my gut. Getting drunk is not going to help me make good choices. Oh well, I might as well finish the fresh drink that was just delivered. Was that two or three now?

  “Last one, then I’m going to need to go to my room,” is what I try to say, but I’m pretty sure it sounded completely different to his ears.

  “Okay, bottoms up, Molloy. Then I’ll walk you to your room,” Gannon directed as he finished his drink in one swallow.

  Sweet Jesus, that was hot. No. Bad Blake. I cannot let myself think like that. Just because he’s the first attractive man in a long time that I’ve spent any time with socially, doesn’t mean I need to get myself all hot and bothered. Suddenly, I don’t want this night to end. I want to be able to stare at Gannon Fitzpatrick until I fall asleep, or pass out, whichever comes first. His sexy facial hair reminds me again of how it tickled my neck, and those deep blue eyes are looking back at me with some secrets of their own. I bring my glass back to my lips and slowly take another sip while my eyes continue to explore the delicious man in front of me. This doesn’t have to go anywhere; in fact, it shouldn’t, but there’s nothing wrong with a little harmless flirtation. Just as the thought crosses my mind, Gannon licks his lips. Holy fuck.

  He stands up and offers me his hand. I’ve still got whiskey in my glass, but I can’t say I care. Gannon leads me to the elevator, and as the door closes, I can feel his pulse beating in the hand I’m still holding. As the elevator begins to move, I fall into his side on my wobbly legs. His arms are around my waist, and he’s looking at me like I’ve caught him completely off-guard.

  “Blake. . .” he whispers as he brushes his hand against my cheek.

  My heart is beating to the point that it may burst from my chest. The scent of our whiskey-laced breath mingling in the elevator is even more intoxicating than the whiskey itself. I catch a whiff of Gannon’s cologne and nearly launch myself at him. A cheerful ding interrupts the moment as the elevator doors open on my floor. I’m more than a little disappointed that the moment passed without incident. Gannon retakes my hand and begins to lead me down the hallway to my room. A quiet voice in the back of my head makes a weak attempt at reminding me that I do not want to cross any lines with this man. The whiskey is a little louder as it practically screams at me to shove him up against the door and take control.

  “Where’s your room key, Blake?” His voice is rougher than I’ve heard it.

  I reach into my jeans pocket, but fumble with the plastic card. It falls to the ground, and I release a ridiculous giggle before both of us bend down to pick it up. Our faces are less than an inch apart as we stand back up. He has the key; I have a heavy feeling between my legs. We’re staring at each other, breathing heavily for two people who haven’t done any physical activity.

  “Damnit,” he whispers just before we collide.

  I’m up against the hotel room door, clinging to Gannon while he presses against me, still fumbling for the key to my room. We’re all lips and tongues and hands running all over as the door finally swings open. His lips travel down my neck, nipping and kissing as he goes. It’s more than I can take. The sensation of his beard, the gentle flick of his tongue, it’s all too much. I roughly grab his face and bring it back to mine. We’re lost in another passionate kiss as I lead him toward my bed. He lands on top of me with a huff of air and runs his hands down my body. I moan and tangle my fingers into his hair. Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stops. Gannon pulls away and pushes himself up off the bed.

  “We can’t do this,” he whispers, shaking his head and running his fingers through his hair.

  My head is spinning, my heart is pounding, and all I can think about is the weight of his body on mine. Gannon is pacing in my room. Only now do I recall the state I left it in before heading down for dinner. He doesn’t seem to notice. I can see from where I am that he was enjoying our make-out session, so I’m not sure what made him stop. I certainly didn’t intend for it to go any further, I’m not exactly a “sleep with a guy I hardly know” kind of girl. The man who was just grinding against me is now staring at me with what I can only describe as disdain. Without a word, he turns and walks toward the window.

  “Gannon?” I stand up and tentatively walk toward him.

  He’s leaning against the floor to ceiling glass as he stares out at Dublin. For whatever reason, he isn’t responding to me. I’m not some girl who’s going to apologize for hungrily attacking him. There is chemistry here, there’s no denying that. I gently put my hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey, I don’t know what’s wrong, but you have to talk to me,” I say softly.

  He turns his gaze on me. There’s something dark in his eyes, a storm brewing that I’m not prepared to be caught in. Gannon isn’t angry. His expression is more hurt than anything else. I don’t think this has anything to do with me.

  “Blake, I’m sorry. I should have controlled myself. You’re drunk, and I’m not thinking straight. This can’t happen,” his voice breaks slightly with the weight of his words. Gannon reaches up and touches my cheek again.

  “I’m not drunk anymore, and I never asked you to control yourself,” I stand on my tip-toes and kiss him softly.

  Gannon doesn’t move to stop me, he releases a low groan as he lets go and loses himself in my lips. This kiss is different than the first few, this kiss is sending a message that I don’t quite understand. He’s letting me wrap my arms around his neck and touch the soft curls at the base of his head. When he finally pulls away, I think there are tears in his eyes.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking. We can’t do this. You are nothing like the kind of woman I want in my life. This was a mistake.”

  Without another word, Gannon storms out of the room. I just met this guy, why do I feel like this? Hot tears form in my eyes and roll down my cheeks. I’m angry at him for being so cruel. I thought there was something between us, some attraction that I couldn’t entirely explain. It started before the alcohol was ever involved. I lock the chain on the door and peer through the peephole. Gannon is still standing in the hallway just outside my door. He starts to walk away, then comes back and gestures as though he wants to knock on the door. After doing that a few more times, I finally fling the door open.

  “I don’t make it a habit to hang around outside the door of my mistakes. Maybe you should go to bed. I’d like to leave for Kinnitty as soon as possible tomorrow,” I tell him even though I know my tears are giving away the hurt and anger I’m trying to keep inside.

  “Blake. . .I . . ,” he begins.

  “No. Please don’t. I don’t want to hear it. I already know how you feel, now I just want to get to the B&B and start doing what my grandpa wanted me to do,” I stop and look pointedly at him, “I’m certain you weren’t part of that plan.”

  I close the door behind me again and don’t bother to look back into the hallway. I don’t care if Gannon is still there. I’m not here for a relationship, I don’t want a relationship, and I have no time for men who don’t really know what they want. From where I stand, Gannon is just like Vince, always looking for something better than what’s right in front of them. Well, I’m not going to be that girl anymore.

  Great job, Gannon. You’ve royally fucked up. I can’t believe I let this happen. Blake is a beautiful woman, and she doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. I’m an asshole. Beyond anything that happened between us, what I said to her is the worst thing I could have done. A variation of the words I threw at Blake was used to destroy my world twelve years ago.r />
  Madigan was my childhood sweetheart. At one point, I was sure I would marry her and spend the rest of my life, showing her how much I loved her. If anyone had asked me if I thought things would end the way they did, I would have told them they were crazy. We were young and in love. I was an idiot.

  Now that I’ve allowed myself to think about Madigan again, I can’t focus on anything else. All I can do is wallow in the depression that’s haunted me for twelve years. Mads was my everything. She promised me we’d be together forever, but the moment she had the chance to leave me behind, she did. I think the sting of her abandonment would have been easier to handle if she hadn’t abandoned literally everything. Mads emigrated to England and never looked back. What she had done left a sour taste in my mouth and caused bitterness to grow uncontrollably for a time. It’s one of the reasons I have a hard time reconciling the choices made by Brion Molloy; he left everyone who ever loved him and went in search of something he perceived as better. Madigan was no different. Now, I think about Blake and realize that even if her intentions for coming to Ireland aren’t malicious, she’s a product of a betrayal that burned a hole in Kinnitty.