I pick up the object. It’s a weird little square plastic tube with a cartoon head on it that looks vaguely familiar, but the character is one I can’t recall the name of.
“What the hell is this?” I ask.
Delia gently sets down the ruffled hen, looking over at the thing in my hands.
“Oh, lord, that demon Pez dispenser.”
“Excuse me?”
She laughs, taking the object from my hands.
“Your aunt has a huge collection of Betty Boop memorabilia up in y’all’s attic,” she explains, pointing to the little caricature on top of the object, “And for some reason, this Pez dispenser keeps ending up outside. She’s had to pull it from a cow’s nostril, she’s run over it with her tractor, and somehow the bastard thing is still in one piece.”
“Why the hell doesn’t she throw it out?”
“She did. Twice,” Delia admits, “But somehow the thing kept coming back. I would have laughed and said she was making up the stories, but I saw her throw it out the week before it became a cow bogey.”
I shudder a little bit. Betty Boop’s little painted plastic face will probably haunt me the rest of my days, if Delia is to be believed. I wonder why her collection is relegated to the attic, since she lived alone, but I’m grateful that we weren’t assaulted with a house full of visuals of the little cartoon flapper.
“Maybe I should burn the damn thing,” I grumble.
“You’d probably unleash some evil spirit that would burn your house down,” Delia jokes.
At least I hope she’s joking.
She hands me the Pez dispenser, lingering for a long moment and gazing up at me with huge green eyes. After a long pause, she clears her throat. “Well, I’d better get back, but I’ll see you around.”
She slowly steps away from me and starts to head out of the coop, but is interrupted by Keenan stepping into the doorway. “Everything all right, Patri-? Oh, hello,” he says, as he looks at Delia.
“Hi, you must be Rowan’s brother,” Delia reaches out a hand to shake, “I’m Delia Lambert, I live next door.”
He takes her hand and smiles. “Pleasure to meet you, lass, Keenan Donoghue.”
Her cheeks turn a bit pink when he calls her “lass,” and I feel jealousy bubbling in my gut.
“Delia just helped rescue me from a chicken choking,” I say, explaining why we’re in here.
Rowan’s eyebrows shoot up. “Um, wow, that’s-”
“A literal chicken,” Delia interrupts, struggling not to laugh.
“Ah. Well, lass, would you like to join us for dinner?” Keenan asks, sounding hopeful.
I kick myself for letting him be the one to ask. But regardless, I’m glad when she nods. “I’d like that.”
We lead her back into the house. “Can I get you a drink, Delia?” I ask, “Wine, whiskey, beer?”
I realize too late that I’m probably only reinforcing the stereotypes about the Irish being heavy drinkers by offering nothing but alcohol.
“A beer would be fine,” she says.
And somehow even that’s a turn-on. A self-reliant woman like this who will kick back and enjoy a good beer? I hand her the bottle and the sight of her lips wrapped around the opening of the bottle makes my cock twitch.
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Four Times the Luck: Irish Reverse Harem Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 10