by Ava Miles
“If he does,” Aileen said, patting Boru on the head when he gave a short bark, “we can set the sheep on him.”
“You’d think the Merriams would have troubled to do their research, but he didn’t seem to know about our new enterprise. Whatever they want our land for, they’ll not have it.” After combing through the various Merriam holdings online—there were many—Becca was running toward them developing her inn and the land into some kind of seashore luxury hotel.
Aileen gave a rude snort. “Maybe they don’t see one hundred and fifty sheep, a dozen alpacas, and sixty angora rabbits as a moving problem.”
Becca had watched the rise of the indie dyeing market in Ireland with interest—and envy. She loved everything about yarn, from the colors to the textures to the woolens she could knit them into. Knitting was a passion for her, one that perfectly suited her lifestyle, although finding the perfect yarn online could be challenging. She couldn’t feel the texture, couldn’t see the way the yarn changed in the light. One day, after a particularly frustrating online shopping session, it had occurred to her that this was something she and Cian and Aileen could do—they had the land, why not buy some animals and produce and dye their own yarn?
The bed and breakfast was the largest of its kind and one of Ireland’s top places to stay, so they had a solid base of guests. Perhaps some of them would care to buy her Irish yarn and woolen goods. They already had a small storefront for crafts and goodies from locals, mostly women in the community. Plus, they could sell their yarn online on their website. Word of mouth brought in business for their bed and breakfast. Why not yarn?
Cian and Aileen had agreed to give it a go, sensing she needed a new challenge. Plus, it would hopefully get her outside more. Every day was a constant battle to walk out of these walls.
Agoraphobia. A big word for what amounted to a small life.
They’d hired some men and women from town who’d been forced to sell their farms due to hefty tax increases to look after the animals and do the shearing. It was early so far, but she knew it was going to be a success. Maybe not as big of a business as the Merriams were used to, what with their oil and gas and their pharmaceuticals and other holdings. But she was proud of their enterprise, and she wasn’t going to let a bunch of bullies with more money than sense stand in her way.
“Powerful men like to have their way,” Cian said, shifting on his feet as if calling on his old boxing training.
“The Merriams can’t take what’s mine by law,” Becca said, feeling the need to assure him. Cian understood her condition better than anyone. He was the one who’d pried her out of that small, dark closet in Angola where she’d hidden from her parents’ murderers. Her parents and Cian had been doctors with Doctors Without Borders in Angola, but he’d left the service to see her settled back in Cork with her grandmother. He’d ushered her into these safe and cherished walls, and she’d never left since.
The Wild Irish Rose was more than her home. It was her sanctuary.
“Your grandmother won’t give it a thought in heaven, Becca, my love, and neither should you,” Aileen told her with a brush of her hand on her cheek. “When you came here and fell in love with The Wild Irish Rose and the O’Neill land, she knew you’d be the one who’d keep it going until it could be passed on to your son or daughter.”
Aileen had meant it as a comfort, but the words didn’t settle easily. Becca still hoped she would have a child to continue the O’Neill tradition of running this bed and breakfast, but the cynical side of her doubted it would happen. What man wanted to be with a woman who couldn’t leave her home to go on a simple date?
While her agoraphobia was more manageable than it had been in early years—thank God, the transformer in town had only blown once, causing one of her worst attacks ever—the Merriams’ offer had caused a noticeable setback. She hadn’t been able to take Boru on a walk since Connor Merriam had called.
She patted her beloved Irish setter, and he rubbed his face against her hand as if he knew she needed the comfort. Cian had gotten the puppy for her at a low moment, hoping it would force her outside. She’d named her dog after the famous Irish king noted for his courage, a courage she very much craved for herself.
When Boru had needed to walk, she’d gritted her teeth and taken him out. That first time she’d barely made it more than a few steps, and by the time she’d closed the door to the outside world, she’d been panting and covered in sweat. Back then, making it past the hedge of wild roses surrounding the sides of the house had felt like a miracle. Every attempt had been agony, but she hadn’t given up.
Over time, she’d found a way to focus on Boru and the leash she held tightly in her sweaty hand, and some days she managed to walk a few times around the house. Boru was her champion, always pausing when her feet seemed to turn to clay.
She’d worked remotely with several specialists over the years, but most had suggested drugs—the kind she’d likely have to take for the rest of her life. They had horrible side effects for her, it turned out, and worsened her depression. She’d tried breathing and relaxation techniques, made lists of her fears. Spoken with therapists. Journaled.
The work she’d done had helped, but she still couldn’t leave her land. And so she’d focused on making The Wild Irish Rose a microcosm of everything she wanted from the world. She hosted guests from dozens of different countries and decorated the inn as if it were a global bazaar. They had a five-star restaurant and music on the weekends. Local women came to knit with her every month, and she hosted forums with other community business people. Soon they would produce their own yarn. She’d made it work, and she was grateful at how well her life was going despite the affliction that could have crippled her.
But when Trevor had talked about traveling, she’d felt that deep longing in her heart rise again. She wanted to see those places—Hatshepsut’s temple in Egypt and the Taj Mahal in India and the Eiffel Tower in France—but knew it was never to be. While her courage was great, she measured it in the number of steps she took outside these treasured walls, not the airline miles people like Trevor Merriam racked up.
Her home was everything to her, everything, and she couldn’t let the Merriams or anyone else take it away.
“Let’s not give it another thought,” Becca said, picking Hatshep up off the ground and stroking her fur.
Cian and Aileen shared a familiar look—they thought she was trying to tuck her fear in a back drawer. They weren’t wrong.
The couple had fallen in love straightaway after Cian had brought Becca home to Cork. In some ways, they looked after her like parents might, especially now that her grandmother had passed on.
“Well, I think I’ll make a pot of tea,” she said, heading in the direction of the kitchen. “We can enjoy it with those scones.” Thinking of the comical horror on Trevor’s face when she’d plucked the basket out of his grasp lightened her mood.
“You might take Boru for a walk instead, my dear,” Cian said. “It’s a grand day out.”
Her stomach clenched. All she wanted to do was surround herself with the four sunny walls of the kitchen.
“Maybe later,” she called. “Aileen, why don’t we talk about some of the hand-dyeing we want to test this next round?”
The animals had already given them some wonderful wool to work with, what with the spring and early summer shearings. The alpacas were due for another round in a few weeks given their heavy coats.
She and Aileen were still creating a baseline for her dye samples. So far, they’d had some hits and misses, which was expected, but she was pleased with the progress they’d made. The variegated yarn wasn’t as distinct as she’d liked, and God knew the speckled ones were too muddy. But the solid shades were as rich as the sources of her inspiration outside her window: the heather covering patches of the cliffs; the mist rising up from the sea; the wild flowers punctuating the hills; and of course, the wild roses growing around the main house.
“I’ll grab my notebook,”
Aileen said, patting Cian as if to assure them both.
“I won’t let the Merriams stop my progress,” she felt compelled to say. She couldn’t let this trigger another long-standing agoraphobic episode.
Again, they shared a look, knowing she wasn’t only speaking of the new enterprise. “We know that, love,” Aileen said in a loving tone, one she could always count on.
Somehow Becca would muster the courage to keep leaving these four walls, even with the Merriams coming for her land.
Chapter 3
Normally, Trevor enjoyed talking to his oldest brother, Connor.
Only not when said brother was busting his balls in the run-down bed and breakfast Trevor had been forced to settle for after being kicked out of The Wild Irish Rose.
“This is why I didn’t call you yesterday.” He’d hoped to buy himself some time, but Connor was so eager to get Becca O’Neill to capitulate that he’d called the next morning, which was the middle of the night for Connor in California. The lack of sleep likely wasn’t helping his mood. “I knew you were going to take this badly, but it’s just the first pass.”
“But how could you leave without upping our offer?” Connor asked, exasperation lacing his voice like the cream lacing Trevor’s tepid coffee. “For God’s sake, Trev.”
He supposed he should be grateful the coffee was drinkable since the scones were hard as bricks and the Irish breakfast sitting in front of him, with its runny eggs and even runnier blood sausages, looked more like an abstract painting than a work of culinary art. Even the porridge at The Stag’s Head Inn was goopy.
There were no other vacancies in town. He’d checked twice. Of course, there was also no Beastly Pig Inn. Score joke one to Becca O’Neill.
“I told you to go to thirty-five million,” Connor spat.
“Money alone wasn’t going to do it,” Trevor told him for the third time. “I was trying to get her to like me.” And she had, darn it. Something that had kept him from sleeping as well.
Connor scoffed. “Like you? Who cares about liking you?”
If the lady had been anything other than a business interest, Trev would have been concerned with her liking him—and much, much more. My God, she was beautiful and starchy. Maybe it came from having an Irish-American mother and cousins from the South Side of Chicago, but he liked starchy women.
“Trev, have you forgotten the one rule of business?”
Connor didn’t expect a response, so Trevor didn’t give him one. He lifted his cup of coffee to his lips.
“It’s more important to be respected than liked,” his brother finished.
Of course, Trevor could have mouthed the words. “We do things differently. Sometimes you have to start off with a soft sell.”
“A hard sell usually works for me,” his brother fired back.
“Does it? Becca O’Neill hung up on you. Twice.”
There was an audible pause.
“Connor, I love you like a brother—”
“I am your brother—”
“But you need to get off my back here,” he ground out.
Another moment of silence passed before Connor cursed softly. “Sorry, but do I need to remind you of what’s at stake here? I’m not going to build another offshore rig.”
This time it was Trevor who cursed. Reminders of the accident did that to him. Their first cousin on their mom’s side, Corey Weatherby, had been the lead engineer on their deep-water rig off the Makassar Strait. The steel had buckled in the aftershocks of an earthquake, crushing Corey and some of their workers. Trevor tried to tell himself they were lucky the rig hadn’t exploded and caused a devastating oil spill, but the human cost of the accident still haunted him. So did the memory of Corey’s two young sons crying softly at their father’s graveside.
Connor had taken it the hardest since he and Corey had been longtime pals. They’d even gone to the University of Chicago together to be roommates.
Which was why Trevor was going against his better judgment and not telling Connor to drop his pursuit of the O’Neill land and proceed with their original plan to drill offshore.
“I know the stakes and the reasons, Connor,” he said softly. “Dammit!”
“Patrick still wants the head job at the new rig, and I won’t have another cousin or Merriam employee injured or killed, Trev.”
Shit. More guilt. Patrick Weatherby was as tough as Corey, his brother, and Trevor respected his cousin’s gumption. A lesser man might have let fear stay him, but Patrick was excited by the new opportunity, whether the rig was offshore, as originally planned, or on land.
Connor was determined to obtain the Irish government’s approval to drill on land. But they’d need to convince Becca to make it work. Making matters worse, oil drilling was a notoriously controversial subject in Ireland, something Connor refused to hear. The local community wouldn’t be as open to the kinds of community projects Merriam Oil & Gas funded in countries starving for hospitals and schools. Ireland was different, and Trevor only saw an uphill struggle. Plus, he didn’t like opening the door to anyone else drilling on Irish land. He’d come to love this country he’d made his home.
There was also the larger issue that Connor had unilaterally decided the company wouldn’t pursue new offshore operations. Anywhere in the world. A pretty big damn decision to make without their board of directors, if you asked Trevor, and he was on the board. For now, he was making allowances given Connor’s grief and trying to be a good brother and Merriam employee, but he was ripe with moral dilemmas. He almost laughed at himself.
“We’re going to drill on land and be the first in Ireland proper to do it,” Connor said, his tone brooking no dissent. “Offer her forty million when you go back,” he added, “and don’t take no for an answer this time.”
It came as a relief when the line went dead. Trevor couldn’t take Connor’s grief and guilt any more than he could his own. Here he was, feeling like shit, when he’d done nothing to cause the earthquake that had killed their cousin and the others. Even if he’d been there, he certainly couldn’t have stopped it. Their final risk assessment had shown all that, but it hadn’t stopped any of them from feeling responsible for the accident.
The O’Neill land was the best they could hope for in terms of drilling and transport. Did a bed and breakfast owner really need four hundred acres for her guests? Maybe she’d part with some of the land, if not all. It was worth a try. He picked up the phone, thinking it might be better to call than show up in person. She might set the dog on him.
“Becca O’Neill, please,” he said when someone answered the phone.
“May I ask who’s calling?” a woman asked. Not Becca. Her voice, he’d recognize. This was likely the older woman with the scones.
He winced. “I’m a local contractor interested in speaking to her about a business offer.” It wasn’t a lie.
There was a pause. “Just a moment.”
He tapped his knee as he waited, impatient and not sure why—until he heard her voice. “Hello.”
Her lilt seemed to caress the words and did tantalizing things to his skin. Good Lord, he’d never been this turned on by a simple word. “Be honest. You’ve been thinking about me, haven’t you?”
“Mr. Merriam?” Her voice sounded like she’d eaten maggots now, and he laughed.
“Trevor. Look, I have this crazy idea.”
“Imagine that.”
Dry wit perhaps, but she hadn’t hung up. “You gave me the impression that you liked to travel. How would you like me to arrange for you to have a private tour with a noted Egyptologist in Luxor?”
Was her breathing faster suddenly? The very idea turned him on.
“We’re talking the Valley of the Kings, Karnak Temple, and Hatshepsut’s Temple, of course. I could even arrange with Egyptian Customs to bring your cat in faster without quarantine. You could stay in one of the luxury hotels. At our expense.”
“Would I have to trade my soul to Osiris?” she asked.
God
of the dead and afterworld. Good one. “No, not at all. I was thinking—”
“I didn’t know you could.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “You have a large spread. How about you sell me two hundred acres, away from your beautiful inn, and I’ll give you twenty million? You could travel anywhere, live anywhere, all without giving up everything you’ve built, Becca.” He made sure to use her name now, and he liked the feel of it on his tongue. “What do you say?”
“I’d say you’re a tease and a charmer, but I knew that when I first met you.”
“See, I told you that you were liking me.”
She gave an indelicate snort. “Be that as it may, I’m going to speak slowly so you understand me.”
“What? I couldn’t keep up you were speaking so fast.”
He could have sworn he heard her chuckle. “I wish we’d met under other circumstances.”
“Me too. You’re still not speaking slowly, Becca. Or perhaps you’d like to do something else that’s slow. I can do slow real nice.” God, he was outright flirting with her. Over a business deal. Part of him was shocked, but she was remarkable, and he couldn’t help himself.
“Goodness, you are cheeky, and while I like the idea of slow, here’s mine. No. Deal. Ever.”
Damn. He’d been afraid of that.
“Was that too fast for you?” she asked, sauce in her tone.
“No,” he said. “Well, I’ll have to think up something else then and come round. I want to see you again, Becca.” There, he’d said it.
“If you were any other man, I’d love hearing it. Goodbye, Trevor.”
She hung up, and he knew the use of his given name was a sign. He was getting to her, although perhaps not in the way he’d hoped. God, didn’t he have enough complications?
His phone rang again, and he was disappointed to see it was his younger brother, Flynn, and not Becca calling him back.
“Hey,” he said when he answered. “Is there a wave of Merriam insomnia or something? Isn’t it four a.m. in the Big Apple?”