“No, not officially …” Patrick’s tone sounded flat, as if he might not approve of the casual understanding she and Sam shared.
She peeked at him out of the corner of her eye, the tight clamp of his jaw convincing her she had an ally in the reformation of Samuel O’Rourke. “I wonder—do you feel the way Sam does? You know, about postponing marriage till later?”
Marcy blinked in surprise when a ruddy blush crawled up Patrick’s neck to bloody his cheeks. The spatula he was drying slipped from his hands and bounced on the floor, landing on top of Marcy’s shoe.
He scooped it up, his face completely aflame. “Of course not,” he said, voice hoarse. “Believe me, I’ve had my fill of dallying with women—I’m hoping to settle down with the right one, and the sooner, the better.”
“Really?” Marcy spun to face him, the barest twinge of jealousy that Sam didn’t feel the same.
Patrick studied her with a keen eye. “Yeah, really. You and Father Fitz have changed my mind on a lot of things lately, Marceline, including marriage.” Two tiny ridges bunched in his brow. “I know Sam has always professed he wasn’t the marrying kind, but I just figured after courting a girl like you, that would change.”
So did I ... It was her turn to blush, enough heat surging to her hairline to singe her eyebrows. Swiftly wringing out the dishrag, she whirled around to wipe off the table, loathe for Patrick to see the embarrassment in her face. She strove for nonchalance. “Actually, Sam and I are having too much fun getting to know each other to worry about anything more at this juncture.” Cupping a palm to the edge of the table, she swiped the remaining crumbs in her hand and turned, her body going cold at the fierce look of concern on Patrick’s face.
“I see.” The urgency of his next words—barely audible—fairly shimmered in his eyes. “Well, stay the course then, Marcy, please,” he whispered, “and stay strong.”
Heat scorched her face all over again. “W-what do you mean?” she asked weakly. But she knew exactly what he meant, and the warning in his eyes told her that he knew too. Sam’s carnal nature. “I’ll w-wipe the tables in the d-dining room,” she stuttered, bolting to the sink to rinse out the rag before wheeling around, desperate to escape.
He stayed her with a gentle hand, paralyzing her limbs. “You forget I’m a rogue,” he said quietly, “and Sam’s best friend for nigh on fifteen years. I know how he thinks, how he feels, how relentless he can be when there’s something he wants …”
Her eyelids flickered closed while a knot dipped in her throat.
She felt his grip tighten, as if he wanted to protect her. “The reason Sam and I were both attracted to you in the first place was because you’re different, Marcy, special, a woman of strength and moral conviction.” His thumb kneaded her arm, its touch suddenly gentle. “Don’t change for anyone … please.”
“Of course not,” she whispered, his words infusing her with the resolve to curtail all time alone with Sam. She drew in a cleansing breath and patted his hand, avoiding his eyes. “Thank you, Patrick, but I’m fine, truly.” Chin high, she hurried into the dining room to complete her tasks, returning just as he was finishing up. “Shall we toss to see who mops the floor?” she asked, forcing a levity she didn’t quite feel.
He slipped the now damp dishtowel over a brass hook bolted to the side of the cabinet and turned, a glimmer of tease invading his serious gaze. “Odd, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a gambling woman, Miss Murphy.” He slanted against the counter, arms folded.
She flipped a stray curl over her shoulders and sashayed into the kitchen, dishrag in hand and a smirk on her face. “Of course I am, Mr. O’Connor—I gambled on friendship with you, didn’t I?”
Fishing a coin from his pocket, he shot her a grin. “That was a matter of intelligence, not risk.” He lobbed a nickel at her, and she caught it one-handed, coaxing a throaty chuckle from his lips. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before?”
“Because I have,” she said with a cocky smile, feeling a bit reckless. She strutted over and fisted her hand, thumb tucked and dishrag dangling while she positioned the coin on top. “Julie and I used to toss to see who got to read a book first, you know.”
His teeth gleamed white. “How decadent.”
Her smile was smug. “No, Mr. Wiseacre, ‘decadent’ will be me enjoying an oatmeal cookie at the table with feet propped while you mop the floor.” She arched a brow. “Ready?” With practiced dexterity, she popped her thumb beneath the nickel, and it launched in the air, her breathing suspended while the coin toppled over and over.
Plunk. With a devious smile, Patrick snatched it just inches from her hand and slapped it on top of his. “Call it.”
She pursed her lips, eyes squinted as she tried to visualize which side of the coin it might be. “Heads,” she said with a confident hike of her chin, praying her intuition was correct.
His groan rose in the air when he lifted his palm. “I hate mopping the floor,” he muttered, slipping the nickel back in his pocket.
Giddy over her win, she giggled. “Don’t be a baby, Patrick, a little soapy water won’t hurt you.” Mischief bubbled up along with her laughter as she sloshed the rag in the sudsy dishwater and flicked it at him, intending only to splatter a few drops his way. She gasped when the rag accidentally flew from her hand. Eyes wide, her jaw dropped as it pelted him in the face and fell to the floor, leaving soapy water sluicing down his dark-bristled cheek. “Oh, I am so s-sorry …” Her voice trailed off into a fit of giggles she could no more stop than the water stains that dribbled down his trousers into a puddle at his feet.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that, darlin’ …” he said with a glint of retaliation. Whisking the sopping rag up off of the floor, he squeezed it with a lightning thrust of his arm, showering Marcy’s torso—and Miss Clara’s apron front—with soapy water.
Marcy shrieked and giggled, but not before dousing Patrick’s chest with a slash of her hand in the sink, slamming him with a wave of dirty dishwater before she darted away. Flushed with excitement, she felt like a little girl again, having a pillow fight with Julie. Adrenaline coursed while she scrambled to the other side of the table, her breathing hard and hands braced to a chair. “Come on—truce,” she begged, tone breathless.
Dipping the dishrag into the dirty water once again, he casually tossed the sodden rag back and forth while he ambled toward the table with a wicked grin. “Sure, Marceline—right after I even the score.”
Her stomach skittered as she pleaded, eyes darting to the door and back with a nervous laugh. “Miss Clara will be back any minute, and she said not to start any trouble.”
Step by step, his grin never wavered as he rounded the table. “I didn’t.”
“I’ll be good, I promise.” Her body pulsed with adrenaline as she skirted the table in the opposite direction, praying Miss Clara would return before she got soaked.
His husky chuckle sent goose bumps up her arms. “I know—good and wet.”
With a wild shriek she made a break for the door, laughing so hard, she didn’t hear him coming until he whirled her around. Her laughter turned to squeals when she tried to get away, but he clamped a steel arm to her waist while he held the rag dangerously close to her neck. “Repeat after me,” he whispered, eyes issuing a challenge. “Patrick, I’m a brat, I’m sorry, and I will never do this again.”
Pulse sprinting, she giggled, eyes flicking from him to the rag in his hand, weighing her options. “And if I don’t?”
One dark brow jutted high as his smile eased into a grin. “You won’t have to bathe tonight, darlin’.”
His words warmed both her cheeks and her temper. “You wouldn’t,” she dared.
“Only one way to find out.” There was a bit of the devil in his eye, the rag dangling precariously close to her neck
Marcy sucked in a deep breath. “All right, Patrick,” she said, skin tingling with mischief and eyes on the rag, “I’m a brat, I’m sorry, and I … won’t promise—”
Lunging, she whipped the rag from his hands so fast, he never saw it coming, christening him with dirty dishwater like Father Fitz christened babies in the back of the church.
He hooked her waist before she could escape, and her high-pitch giggles merged with his husky laughter as she flailed in his arms, a death grip on the soppy rag thrashing over their heads. Dishwater flew every which way while he tried to reclaim it, but Marcy hid it behind her back with squeals of laughter. Locking her to his chest with one arm, he circled her waist with his other, his breath warm on her cheek as he grappled to claim the win.
“Give … it … up … Patrick,” she said, her words punctuated by shrieks and shallow rasps as she tried to wrestle free, “you will … never win …”
Her words seemed to paralyze him, and in a single heave of her breath, his body stilled against hers. She could feel the ragged rise and fall of his chest, the hot press of his arm at the small of her back, the wild hammering of her pulse in her ears. All at once, she was painfully aware of his nearness, bare inches away from the dark stubble that peppered his jaw. His hard-muscled chest was so close she could almost feel the dampness of his shirt while the familiar scent of spices and pine whirled her senses. His breathing was ragged like hers, warm and sweet with the faint scent of chocolate from his chocolate cream pie, and when his gaze lowered to her lips, heat coiled through her so strong, it sapped all moisture from her throat.
The silence roared like the blood in her ears as he stared, a battle waging in his eyes that eclipsed to a dark fervor, shocking her when it quivered her belly. “I will never give up, Marceline,” he whispered, his lips parted to emit shallow breaths. Fire singed when his glance flickered to her mouth once again.
“T-take it …” she whispered, alarm curling in her stomach. Dear Lord, had he meant to kiss me? Prodding the rag to his chest, she pushed him away while heat throbbed in her cheeks. She took an awkward step back, gaze on the floor as she buffed at her arms with brisk motion. “Goodness, Miss Clara will have our heads,” she said with a nervous chuckle, unable to look at him even yet. “You win, Patrick—I surrender.” She forced a casual tone and attempted to side-step him on her way to the broom closet.
Her heart seized when he halted her with a gentle hand. “Marcy …” His voice was somber and steeped with regret. “I’m sorry …”
“For what?” A deep voice sounded from the door, shattering what was left of Marcy’s calm. Sam strolled in the kitchen, screen door slamming behind. His dark eyes flitted from Patrick’s hand on Marcy’s arm to her face, now sporting a blush that burned as much as Sam’s scathing look. “What’s going on here?”
Patrick slowly turned, bobbling the rag in his hand with a stiff smile. “Water fight.” His light tone belied the tic in his jaw.
“Y-you’re early,” Marcy stammered, hurrying to give him a soft peck on the cheek.
Sam cocked his head, one thick brow jagging high. “Actually, I’m late.” He shot a hard glance at Patrick before returning to Marcy with a cool air. “But it seems you were too preoccupied to notice.”
“Knock it off, Sam—it was an innocent water fight and nothing more.” Patrick made his way to the broom closet to retrieve a mop, ruddy color bleeding up the back of his neck. “Why don’t you two head out, and I’ll finish up.”
Stomach roiling, Marcy hurried over to grab the mop from his hands. “No, I started the water fight, so I’ll wash up the floor.”
He gripped the handle, fingers strained white while he issued a grim smile. “I’ll have you know I am not a welsher. I lost the toss fair and square—I’ll mop the floor.”
Sam plucked the mop from Patrick’s hand. “Go,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I’ll help Marcy finish up.”
Patrick stared at his best friend, his tight-lipped hesitation constricting Marcy’s chest. With a heavy exhale, he finally released his hold on the mop and proceeded to unroll and button his sleeves, eyes locked with Sam’s. “Have it your way,” he said in a clipped tone, and without a glance back, he left with a slam of the screen that rattled Marcy’s nerves as much as it rattled the jamb of the door.
“I won’t be but twenty minutes—” she said, reaching for the mop.
Sam held it away, eyeing her with concern. “What happened, Marcy?”
She blinked, cheeks burning from his scrutiny. “Nothing, I promise. It was just a water fight like Patrick said, horseplay between two friends, nothing more.”
His tone was as tight as the muscles in his face. “No, Marceline, horseplay is innocent—what I saw was not. In fact, I’ve never seen two people look guiltier.” He gripped her arm. “Did he kiss you?”
Her temper flared along with the heat in her cheeks. “For heaven’s sake, Sam, nothing happened.” She attempted to wrest the mop from his hand, but he held on, drawing her close. “I want the truth, Marcy—did he make advances to you?”
“No, of course not!” She pushed away, shocked that he was accusing his best friend, but no more so than over the desire she’d seen in his best friend’s eyes. “What is wrong with you? Patrick and I are friends, nothing more. For heaven’s sake, he’s your best friend—don’t you trust him?”
“In most things, yes, but not with you.” He cupped her face with firm hands. “He wants you, Marceline, because you’re a challenge … and because you belong to me. So no, I don’t trust him where you’re concerned.”
His words barbed, not only because of the rift she appeared to be creating between two best friends, but because of the implication that Patrick’s friendship was merely pretense to lure her away. Her eyes softened at the look of vulnerability in Sam’s eyes, something she’d never seen in him before, and somehow it drew her closer. She stroked his face with gentle fingers, his late-day beard rough against her palm. “You have nothing to worry about,” she whispered, “I only have eyes for you …”
He stared for several moments, thumbs grazing the hollows of her cheeks, and then with a low groan, he clutched her close. “I’m falling in love with you, Marceline,” he murmured against her lips, gripping her as if he were afraid to let go. “And I don’t want to lose you.”
She melted against his strong chest, the citrus scent of Sam and soap swirling her senses and sweetening the moment. “You won’t lose me.” Her words sounded sure and strong to her own ears, relaxing his hold, but they whirled in her mind with the image of gray eyes that both warmed her body and chilled her soul.
“He wants you, Marceline, because you’re a challenge … and because you belong to me.”
Hurt prickled that Patrick might actually be the scoundrel she always believed him to be instead of the honest friend she’d come to know and trust, intrigued by a challenge more than a friendship. Closing her eyes, she rested her head on Sam’s chest, the thought provoking a profound sadness that ached more than it should. Either way, the look of longing she’d seen in his eyes tonight convinced her that noble or not, friendship with Patrick O’Connor was no longer an option.
At least, not for her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Patrick stormed down the busy street in a fury, three blocks away from the center before he even realized where he was. Halting on the sidewalk where neighbors milled and children played, he gouged the bridge of his nose to ease the headache that was just beginning to throb and almost wished Marceline Murphy had never come back to Boston. With a low growl, he bludgeoned a stone with the tip of his shoe, hurling it at a cast-iron post box, but the bullet-like ping provided little satisfaction for the angst in his gut. Ignoring the wide-eyed stares of little girls playing hopscotch, he continued on, head down and hands in his pocket. His jaw ground more than the electric streetcar that groaned along the tracks of Monroe Street, rumbling past horse-drawn trolleys and buggies.
He sucked in a deep breath to regain some semblance of calm, but frustration crawled in his chest all the more at the stark realization that Marcy belonged to Sam. No matter how natural it had felt to hold her in his arms, how pai
nful the longing to caress her lips with his own, Sam was the one she was falling in love with, not him, and Sam was the one she wanted.
Guilt soured his stomach like bile, rising to parch his throat with the need for a drink, anything to numb this sick feeling of coveting a woman who belonged to his best friend. The lure of Brannigan’s was so strong, Patrick forced himself to turn off on a side street and head for home instead, no desire to seek comfort either with the bottle or in the arms of another girl. A harsh laugh erupted from his throat as he shook his head. The blasted woman had not only stolen his heart, she’d stolen his lifestyle as well—one that had given him a grim sense of satisfaction, no matter how misguided. And now he was stuck in a friendship with her, with no hope of anything more.
“Do you … think with prayer, Father … I have even the slightest chance to win her heart?”
“Actually, Mr. O’Connor, I’m of the opinion that you don’t have the slightest chance without it.”
He grunted and kicked at another rock, sending it disappearing into the dusky night along with his hope. It was pretty clear from the glow in her eyes whenever she looked at Sam that Patrick didn’t stand a chance. For the first time in months, the realization that friendship with Marcy was all he might ever have settled in like a deep-throbbing ache. Hand to his eyes, he paused on the sidewalk, not sure whether he could continue to be friends with her or not. Not only did she threaten his heart, but his allegiance to Sam as well, knowing full well that Sam had designs on Marcy that were not in her best interest. Anger surged all over again at the look on her face when he’d warned her not to give in. It had been his fear talking, concerns over Sam’s motives with her and nothing more, but she’d validated his unease with a flicker of her eyes and a telling blush. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to take a swing at his best friend, but that wasn’t the answer. No, if he couldn’t love Marcy the way he wanted, then God help him, he’d love her the only way that he could—making sure his best friend treated her with respect.
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