Wild Dreams: A Friends to Lovers romance (Wilder Irish Book 12)

by Mari Carr

  Wild Dreams

  Wilder Irish, book twelve

  Mari Carr

  Copyright © 2021 by Mari Carr

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  This book is dedicated to Nan, my partner at work and in crime for twenty-nine years. Be sure to save a spot for me on your back porch for wine and plotting after your retirement!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Wild Chance

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Patrick Collins slowly rocked back and forth as his youngest grandson, Oliver, nestled in his lap. He was spending the night at his son Sean’s home, babysitting. Sean was currently at the hospital with his spouses, Lauren and Chad. Sadly, Lauren, who had been ten weeks pregnant, had suffered a miscarriage earlier in the evening.

  Patrick had driven to their house the moment Sean called to ask if he could stay with Oliver. His chest grew tight as he considered the tension in his typically affable, happy son’s voice. This wasn’t Lauren’s first miscarriage. In truth, it was her sixth, each loss driving the sadness that seemed to be his daughter-in-law’s constant companion even deeper.

  Lauren had dreamed of a large family, a houseful of kids. After she’d first married Sean and Chad, she’d told her husbands countless times she wanted to break Patrick and Sunday’s record of seven children.

  She hadn’t made that joke in years.

  Patrick knew Sean was worried about Lauren, and not just her physical health but her emotional state as well. This evening when she’d gotten in the car, she looked like a ghost of her former self, an empty shell. She hadn’t shed a tear. Patrick suspected it was because she’d cried every single one of them out over the past decade. His heart ached for her, for Sean, for Chad.

  Sean had been fearful of another miscarriage ever since Lauren told him she was pregnant again. She’d suffered four miscarriages before Oliver came along. And since his birth…two more. Sean had confided in Patrick just last week that this was it. He simply couldn’t watch his wife’s heart break again, couldn’t suffer the pain of losing another child.

  They called Oliver their miracle baby and no little boy was more doted on, more adored.

  Oliver had just turned five and usually he was a rambunctious ball of energy. Patrick often compared him to a bull in a china shop, something he’d often said of Oliver’s father when he was growing up as well. The boy took after Sean in terms of stature and disposition. He was a full head taller than the other kids in his kindergarten class, his strength was off the charts, and he was never without a huge grin on his face.

  Patrick’s daughter, Riley, had given him the nickname Bam Bam a couple years earlier, likening him to The Flintstones’ character, after Oliver, only three at the time, had managed to dismantle the stone border she’d placed around her herb garden.

  There was none of that energy present in Oliver tonight. While he didn’t know where his parents had gone or why, Oliver clearly sensed something terribly wrong had happened.

  The two of them had claimed this rocking chair on the front porch after Sean and Chad got Lauren to the car, the three of them driving away, and they’d remained just like this for the better part of an hour.

  Patrick thought perhaps Oliver had been tired, but the young boy hadn’t fallen asleep. Instead, he sat quietly on his lap, looking out across the yard.

  “Would you like to go inside and watch TV, lad? Or maybe have some ice cream?” Sean told Patrick they’d just finished dinner when Lauren had felt the sharp pains, then noticed the blood. Mercifully, Oliver hadn’t seen any of that.

  Oliver shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

  That response told Patrick everything he needed to know. Oliver might not understand what was going on, but if the boy was turning down dessert, it was obvious he was scared and sad.

  Patrick decided it was time to distract the boy from his heavy thoughts.

  “Have I ever told you what your name means, Ollie?” Patrick asked.

  Oliver twisted in his lap to look at him, shaking his head. “What it means?”

  Patrick loved learning about the history of names, the meanings, the symbolism. He’d taken to telling each of his twelve grandchildren about their names. Some, like Padraig, loved hearing the stories tied to past namesakes, while others, like Colm, were less impressed by the game. Granted, Padraig had the fascinating story of St. Patrick driving the snakes from Ireland to entertain him, while the best he’d had to offer Colm was the symbol of the dove.

  “Every name has a meaning. And in your case, it has three.”

  Oliver grinned, clearly excited by this discovery. “What does it mean?”

  “Well, some people say Oliver is derived from the olive tree. Have you ever heard the expression extending an olive branch?”

  Oliver shook his head, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What’s an olive branch?”

  “It’s a limb, a twig, from a tree.” Patrick pointed to the large maple in the front yard, then to the ground below it. “See that stick over there?”

  Oliver nodded.

  “That’s a branch from that tree.”

  “Why would somebody want a stick?” Oliver crinkled his nose, unimpressed by the gift.

  Patrick chuckled. “Well, in this case, the olive branch isn’t actually there. It’s more of a symbol.”

  Oliver tilted his head and Patrick hastened to continue his explanation, lest he lose the boy’s interest.

  “If someone extends an olive branch, it means they are offering a promise not to fight. It’s meant as a symbol of peace and friendship.”

  “Like the way I gave Billy half my peanut butter in jelly after I accidentally knocked him down at recess?”

  Patrick grinned at the way Oliver insisted on calling his favorite sandwich peanut butter in jelly, despite how many times his parents had explained it was peanut butter and jelly. Of course, Oliver also referred to his second favorite sandwich as a girl cheese rather than grilled. The silly names amused Patrick to no end.

  “I think that’s a perfect example of what it means to extend an olive branch. So Oliver means peaceful.” In Patrick’s mind, it was a perfect representation of his grandson. While Oliver sometimes struggled with his size and his strength, he genuinely hated to ever see anyone hurt or sad, and he didn’t doubt his grandson truly had given away half his favorite lunch to make amends.

  “What else does it mean?” It was clear from Oliver’s tone he was less than impressed with being peaceful. And Patrick was reminded of Colm’s outright disdain over being compared to a dove.

  “Oh, you’ll like the second meaning. It’s a good one. According to the Norse, Oliver means affectionate.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means you are very loving, that you like kisses and cuddles and hugs and tickles.” Patrick backed his description up with an example of each definition, grinning widely when Olive
r giggled as he tickled him.

  “I like that one.”

  Patrick had suspected he would. Oliver loved nothing more than to curl up on Patrick’s lap for a cuddle during story time. And he practically bowled Patrick over every time he saw him, running to him for a huge hug.

  Patrick ruffled Oliver’s hair. “I knew you would. But…I’ve saved the best for last.”

  Oliver’s eyes widened with curiosity.

  “The Germans claim that Oliver represents an elf army.”

  Oliver laughed loudly, his delight almost tangible. “That’s silly, Pop Pop.”

  “Yes, but just think of all the fun you could have with an elf army. So many magical opportunities.”

  That idea sparked Oliver’s imagination, just as Patrick knew it would, and for the next hour, the two of them remained in the rocking chair, creating their own elf army stories, each fictional adventure more outlandish than the next, until Oliver fell asleep in his arms.

  Patrick remained there, enjoying the closeness and refusing to relinquish it. His heart panged as he realized there would most likely be no more newborn grandbabies to hold. Oliver, the youngest, would be the last. He placed a kiss on the young boy’s head, looking down at his sweet, innocent face as he slept.

  Now, as always—whenever he was with one of his grandchildren—he thought of Sunday, and for a moment, he allowed himself to pretend she was sitting right there beside him on the porch.

  “Ah, lass,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “I miss you so.”

  A slight breeze ruffled his hair, feeling so much like her fingers, caressing him. And then he imagined her voice, whispering back, “I’m right here.”

  1

  Four years ago…

  “How was your date?”

  Oliver jerked at the unexpected voice, unaware of Gavin’s presence until he spoke. “Hey, man. Didn’t see you there. Why are you sitting in the dark?”

  Gavin Hawke, Oliver’s foster brother, was sacked out on the couch in the living room of their parents’ house. His folks were out of town for the weekend on an impromptu trip to New York. Oliver’s fathers, Chad and Sean, had surprised his mother with tickets to see Hamilton on Broadway.

  “I was watching a movie. It ended and I’d just turned the TV off when I heard your car pull into the driveway. Thought I’d see how your date went.”

  Oliver walked into the room, turning on a lamp before dropping down next to Gavin. Gavin had come to live with his family when they were both fifteen, and while the first year had been a pretty rough adjustment for them both, over the past five years, Gavin had become his best friend, the two of them as close as true brothers.

  Oliver’s eyes lit up when they landed on a pizza box on the coffee table, and he leaned forward to flip open the lid.

  Hot damn. Jackpot. Two pieces left.

  Oliver grabbed both, flipping one over on top of the other to make a meat lover’s sandwich, and took a big bite.

  “Didn’t you just go out to dinner?” Gavin asked.

  Oliver grimaced. “Mmm-hmm,” he muttered, his mouth full of food.

  “Must be that wooden leg your Pop Pop swears you have.”

  Oliver swallowed and shook his head. “Not exactly.”

  Gavin reached for a beer bottle on the end table and took the last swig.

  That was when Oliver noticed there were several empties on the floor. “Private party?” Though they weren’t quite twenty-one yet, they’d been sneaking beers from their dads for a couple of years. Their dads pretended not to notice because they never took it too far. Given the fact Sean and Chad had been best friends their entire lives, and Sean had grown up above the pub, Oliver was pretty sure they’d done the same thing when they were younger.

  Gavin lifted one shoulder casually. “Rare for me to get the place all to myself. Thought I’d take advantage of it, try out the bachelor concept. Watched some porn, drank a few beers, ordered a large pizza, farted, scratched my balls, and burped at will.”

  Oliver laughed before shoveling in another bite of pizza. “Wow. Best night ever. I should have stayed here with you.”

  “Guess that answers my question about how the date went.”

  Oliver reached for a napkin, wiping pepperoni grease off his chin. “The best two words I can think of to describe Vivian are ‘high’ and ‘maintenance.’”

  “That’s not good,” Gavin muttered.

  “Tell me about it. She insisted we try some trendy new restaurant downtown that all her girlfriends have been raving about. Cost me sixty bucks a plate for five bites of food. She kept going on and on about how great it was, even suggested we go back again next weekend.”

  “Okay. So not a wooden leg. You’re hungry.”

  Oliver tore off a large chunk of the crust. “Fucking starving.”

  “Not like it was your first date with her. You know what she’s like.”

  “Yeah. Even so. I’m breaking it off. Would have done it tonight, but…fuck…I was too hungry to even figure out what to say.”

  Gavin snorted in response, then set his beer bottle down with more force than necessary.

  For the first time since he’d walked in, Oliver noticed Gavin hadn’t smiled. Not once. Which was unusual for Gavin.

  “You okay?” Oliver asked.

  Gavin nodded, but a tightness around his eyes and tension in his jaw proved he wasn’t.

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  Gavin started to shake his head—Oliver noticed the slight movement—but he stopped himself. Then his best friend turned on the couch to face him more fully. “How come you never go out with guys?”

  Oliver blinked, completely blindsided by the question. “What?”

  “The day I told you I was gay, you said you were bi.”

  Oliver had suspected Gavin’s sexuality right from the beginning, but his foster brother had grown up with an abusive mother, one who’d beaten him down year after year until Gavin had learned the best defense was a good offense.

  As such, his thoughts and feelings had been locked down tighter than a drum, and it had taken years of living with not one but two psychologists—Chad and Lauren—before Gavin felt safe enough to slowly reveal pieces of himself to his foster family. Oliver didn’t bother pretending they didn’t still have a long way to go.

  Gavin had come out to him just six months earlier. Not that he’d needed to actually say the words. Oliver had seen through what Gavin had called “a night out with the guys” when they were in high school. Obviously, “night out” was code for a date, and they were always with just one guy, most of whom were very openly gay.

  Oliver had never admitted to knowing because he knew Gavin would tell him when he was ready, and he’d learned that pushing for answers only caused his foster brother to shut down and pull back even more.

  Oliver could still recall how happy he’d been when Gavin finally opened up to him. And he’d been glad for the chance to open up as well, revealing he was bi, and that he dreamed of a threesome marriage just like his parents had.

  While society might not consider Sean, Chad, and Lauren’s relationship normal, to Oliver, they had everything anyone could ever want.

  And he wanted the same.

  Desperately.

  What Oliver hadn’t said to him that night— mainly because it would freak his foster brother out—was that he hoped his future would include Gavin.

  With Gavin, he’d learned more was accomplished with baby steps. The fact it had taken his foster brother five years to come out of the closet certainly proved that.

  Gavin had laughed about his future plans, calling them “Ollie’s wild dreams,” and life had continued the same as always. The only difference was Gavin started calling his dates what they were—dates—and he’d begun to share some details about his sex life with Oliver.

  “I am bi,” Oliver said at last, confused by Gavin’s comment.

  Gavin’s scowl grew darker and Oliver tried to understand what he was saying wrong
, why Gavin was so annoyed.

  “Right.”

  The dismissive tone proved that Gavin thought he was lying…and it pissed Oliver off. “What’s your problem?”

  Gavin schooled his features as he shook his head and stood up. “Nothing. I don’t have a problem.”

  Now, as always, Gavin planned to walk away. It was a standard Gavin Hawke move. Hit and run. His foster brother didn’t do fights, didn’t lose his temper. Instead, he’d take a quick jab and walk away. Considering Gavin had spent the first decade and a half of his life as a punching bag for his mother and her insane rages, Oliver could understand that.

  Sort of.

  And sometimes, Oliver let him get away with it, if he thought the fight wasn’t worth it or if it felt like something that would blow over.

  Other times—like now—he dug in.

  He followed Gavin upstairs, dogging his heels. “What the fuck, Gavin? What kind of game are you playing?”

  Gavin turned when he reached the door to his bedroom. And while Oliver’s temper was tweaked, Gavin was cool as a cucumber.

  Which, of course, pissed Oliver off more.

  “I’m not playing a game, Ollie. I’m saying you’re not bi.”

  “And you think you can judge who I am, what I feel, better than me? Fuck you.”

  “Have you ever kissed a guy? Given a blowjob? Fucked one?” Gavin’s tone was almost weary.

  Oliver narrowed his eyes. “Seriously? You know I haven’t.”

  Gavin snorted, acting as if that somehow proved what he was saying.

  Oliver couldn’t let it stand. He wouldn’t. “You want to know why I haven’t?”

  Gavin frowned. “Because you’re straight.”

  Oliver lifted his eyes toward the sky. “Jesus Christ, you’re thick. I haven’t fucked a guy, or kissed one, or blown one because I don’t want anyone but you.”