Taming Irish
C.M. Seabrook
Seabrook Books
Copyright © 2018 by C.M. Seabrook
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.
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Contents
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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue I
Epilogue II
Preview: Theo
Preview: Moody
About the Author
Also by C.M. Seabrook
Chapter 1
Makena
Turbulence makes the plane jolt and the lump in my throat expand. Squeezing my eyes shut, I breathe in deeply, trying not to think about the thousands of feet that separate the tin can I’m flying in from the Atlantic Ocean below.
Breathe, Makena.
I take in a lungful of air.
The plane is relatively empty, and the few passengers that are scattered around the cabin are either sleeping or immersed in the tiny screens in front of them.
We’ve only been in the air for a few hours, which means it’ll be at least another four before we land in Dublin.
I hate flying. Always avoided it every chance I could. Sure, I’ve read all the literature, heard the same speech multiple times about how it’s the safest way to travel. But nothing, not even the three stiff vodka and sodas I had before the plane took off, have eased the mounting pressure inside my skull.
It’s not just the flight I’m stressed about. It’s my whole damn life. More specifically, the relatively rash decision to do a house swap with a woman I’ve never met, and move to Ireland for six months.
A small groan rises in my throat, and more anxiety tightens my chest.
I’m really doing this.
The contracts are signed, and there’s no going back now.
My cousin, Quinn, was the one who convinced me to do it. She’s always been the adventurous one, a little bit crazy and whole lot wild, just like her brothers. I always wondered if them sharing the last name Savage had influenced their behavior. God knows my cousins are as different from me as a Habanero pepper and a potato.
And I’m the potato.
It’s hard growing up as a Fraser in a small town full of Savages. I never really found my place. Never fit in. At least, not until I met Chad. Then, I wasn’t just plain, boring old Makena. I was more. I was his. We had it all. The whole cliché. Prom King and Queen. Voted most likely to get married and live happily ever after.
Bullshit.
My chest tightens like it always does when I let my mind wander to the man who stole my heart, then shredded it into a thousand tiny, irreparable pieces.
He’s the reason I finally made the decision to leave Port Clover. To get as far away from him and his new, very pregnant wife as possible, as well as all the other prying, overly sympathetic eyes, always eager to share every tidbit of gossip they could find.
My stomach does another set of somersaults when the plane jolts again, but no one else seems to be disturbed, and the seatbelt sign remains off.
You’re being paranoid, Makena, my brain reprimands, repeating the words that Chad used to say whenever he’d come home late, smelling of women’s cheap perfume. But I hadn’t been paranoid. I’d been right. And I’d learned a valuable lesson.
Men can’t be trusted. Any of them. And promises will always be broken.
A deep, masculine laugh, followed by a woman’s giggling, pulls my gaze towards the half wall that separates business class from economy.
The sound, and everything it implies, does something to me. It stirs a need in my belly that I haven’t felt in years, and at the same time raises all my defenses.
It’s not that I’ve sworn off men completely. Although you wouldn’t know it from my non-existent love life. But I have sworn off relationships, which has put a real damper on my sex life. Because much to my cousin Quinn’s dismay, I just haven’t been able to do the whole meaningless sex thing.
Not that sex was ever great with Chad. But he’s the only man I’ve ever been with, and there’s something terrifying about being with someone else. It’s not that I’m a prude like Quinn seems to think. What I am is a coward.
More laughter drifts down the aisle.
The cabin lights have been turned low, and in the shadows, I make out the hulking frame of a man’s back as he whispers something into the stewardess’ ear. Even in the dim light, I can see the way the pretty blonde’s eyes roll appreciatively down his chest, then back up to his face, her fingers lingering on the dark ink that covers his forearm when she touches him.
The two of them are about ten feet away from me, and though they barely touch, the way he leans in, suggestively, I feel like a voyeur in a game that will most likely end with the two of them slipping into one of the lavatories and joining the mile-high club.
The man’s voice, deep and melodic, carries across the cabin, but I can’t make out his words. He lets out another low, rumbling laugh. A sound that goes straight to my core.
Damn.
He’s good looking. I don’t need to see him to know it. The way he stands, relaxed and yet taking up all the space around him. The arrogance that rolls off him. He’s a man who knows how to use his charm and looks to get exactly what he wants.
I know his type.
Chad had the same way about him. Like life was one giant smorgasbord to be devoured, no matter whose heart got crushed while he consumed it.
Bastard.
The plane shakes, tilting one way and then the other, causing my stomach to roll and sweat to bead on the back of my neck.
“Everything’s fine,” I mutter, my fingers whitening around the armrests. But I can already feel one of my anxiety attacks starting to press in the center of my chest.
The man is still blocking the entrance to the lavatory, and as much as I don’t want to interrupt the couple’s little tryst, I need to splash cold water on my face before I start hyperventilating.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and stand, my legs feeling like they’re going to collapse under me as I start down the aisle.
“Excuse me,” I mumble when I reach them.
The man is even bigger than I thought. A good foot taller than my tiny, five-foot-two frame. Broad shoulders pull his black t-shirt tight, and the muscles in his back bunch and coil under the material with each small movement.
I swallow past the appreciative lump that’s formed in my throat.
“Excuse me,” I say, louder this time. Too loud. God, why do I have to be so awkward?
His movements are slow as he straightens, but the stewardess quickly ducks away, her cheeks a bright shade of red, obviously embarrassed to have been caught ogling one of the passengers.
Not that I blame her. I haven’t even seen the man’s face and his presence is already intoxicating.
He still blocks the door of lavatory, and even though I don’t look up, I can feel his heavy g
aze taking me in, assessing me, waiting for something.
With a frustrated breath, I bite out, “Would you please-”
The plane shakes and I have to place a palm on the wall to steady myself. When I do, my arm grazes his. Warmth spreads through me. Little pinpricks of heat that play tricks with my mind. I quickly pull away.
With a cocky grin that I catch from the corner of my eye, the man leans toward me and says with a deep, Irish brogue, “Would I what?”
The suggestion in his voice sends both a tremor of excitement and a shock of warning through my system, and for a heartbeat I contemplate what it would be like to have more than just his gaze, that I sense roaming down my body, on me.
Large hands.
Thick, corded muscles.
The heavy bulge in his pants…
Shit. Focus, Makena.
But every dirty thought I’ve ever imagined blasts through my mind, and this stranger is starring in the lead role.
One long, heated second passes before I’m jerked back to reality.
Another jolt and the seatbelt sign above the man’s head turns on, followed by a flight attendant’s voice on the intercom. “We’re heading into a bit of bad weather. The captain has turned on the seatbelt sign. Please return to your seats and keep your seatbelts fastened. Thank you.”
I don’t have time to start back before the next series of bounces make the plane creak and groan like it’s collapsing in on itself. I let out a small squeal as the cabin pressure drops and I’m momentarily weightless, before being slammed back down, and tumbling forward into a wall of hard, sinewy muscle.
“Steady there, love.” The words roll from the cocky grin that stretches across the man’s lips, in a deep Irish brogue. Large hands grip my upper arms, and heat blasts through the thin fabric of my shirt at the contact.
Silently, I curse the ache that starts between my legs from the closeness of his body.
My divorce was only official two months ago, but it’s been years since anyone has touched me as intimately as this man is now.
How pathetic is that?
My pulse, which is already racing at a perilous speed, quickens then stops when I glance up.
I finally take a good look at the stranger whose arms I’m currently wrapped in. The face that stares back at me is a dangerous combination of arrogance and warmth, strewn across rough, masculine features.
Like I already assumed, he’s gorgeous. But not the clean-cut, all-American good looks that Chad boasted. No, this guy is good looking without even trying. All rough edges, dark, with a cocky, lopsided grin that promises trouble.
And trouble is the last thing I’m looking for right now.
Releasing one of my arms, the man drags a palm across the dark scruff that coats his jaw, and my gaze follows the movement as his fingers rake back the hair that’s fallen over his forehead, exposing a silvery scar that cuts through one brow towards his hairline.
“I…” Words get stuck in my throat.
“Ye what?” Sage eyes, rimmed with a darker green, twinkle with humor as they study me, and a grin pulls at the corner of his full lips.
Lips that beg to be kissed.
I feel myself leaning into him.
Shit.
What am I doing?
“Sorry,” I mutter, dropping my gaze quickly, but when the plane jerks again, my hands instinctively reach out, palms flat on his stomach, to steady myself. I can feel the hard ridges of his abs through his shirt, the way they bunch and tense beneath my touch.
Oh my God. The man is ripped.
He reeks of sex. His voice. His easy, relaxed movements. Even his scent – rich, earthy, and masculine. And I have no doubt he’d be good at it. Hell, after the drought I’ve been in, he’d probably be mind-blowing.
I lift my gaze to his, knowing I’ll regret it. And I do, when I see the look in his eyes.
Dark.
Intoxicating.
Promising pleasure – and the resulting heartbreak.
I know men like him. I married one.
He’s danger and trouble and all the wonderfully wild and perilous things I should know better to stay away from.
He chuckles low, then leans down and says softly in my ear, “Ye ought to be getting back to yer seat. Captain’s orders.”
I tremble as the musical lilt of his voice races across my skin, sending goosebumps skittering across my flesh.
“I would if you let me go,” I say stiffly, struggling to put my defenses back up.
He chuckles again and leans closer so his breath is warm against my ear. “It’s ye who’s still holding on.”
I glance down at my hands that are currently fisted in his shirt. I let go abruptly, heat rising up my neck into my cheeks. Spinning around, I don’t look back, despite the warm laughter that follows me all the way to my seat.
Once my buckle is securely fastened, I close my eyes and breathe through the anxiety that has my throat constricting.
“Damn planes,” I mumble. “Damn men.”
I feel movement in the chair beside me. “Do ye always talk to yerself?”
Even before I open my eyes I know that Trouble has followed me.
The man is grinning at me, a deep dimple in one cheek as he dangles two mini Jameson bottles in front of me. “Thought ye could use a stiff shot. Ye seem a little tense.”
Every word he says is drawn out, full of secret meaning and promise, and damn if my body doesn’t respond to the invitation I see in his eyes.
“I’m fine,” I say, making the mistake of looking out the small window across the aisle just as a flash of lightning brightens the dark, gray sky.
I. Hate. Flying.
The way this year is going, it would be just my luck if the damn plane crashed.
I grip the armrests, knuckles whitening when the plane rattles again.
“It’s just a bit of turbulence,” he says, still grinning at me while opening one of the mini bottles and downing it in one swallow.
“Don’t you have a seat of your own?” I glare at him, doing my best to hide the way my body heats up as his gaze focuses on my mouth, unable to stop my tongue from darting out, licking the exact spot his gaze lingers.
A grin tugs at his lips as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “I like the company here better. And I bet I can help take yer mind off whatever’s bothering ye.”
“Nothing is bothering me, except uninvited seat guests.”
He laughs, deep and throaty, not wavered by my rudeness. If anything, it only makes him seem more determined to act out whatever game he’s playing. And I’m smart enough to know his endgame.
“But ye invited me, love,” he says, flashing a grin that should be illegal, then whispering so that only I can hear. “Ye may not have said the words, but I saw the invitation in those pretty brown eyes.”
“Cocky much?” I grunt and roll my eyes, despite the butterflies that take off in my stomach.
He shrugs. “It’s part of my charm.”
“Debatable.”
He lets out another deep laugh. “I’m Shane.” He stretches a large hand out to me and holds it there until I’m forced to take it.
Once again, I’m blasted by a dozen volts of electricity as our skin connects. I pull back quickly.
“Makena,” I mumble, hating the way he makes me feel, and yet enjoying it more than I want to admit.
“Makena.” He says my name slowly, rolling it over on his tongue, the sound smooth and raspy at the same time, like the way he’d say it if he were buried between my thighs.
But it also reminds me how dangerous this man really is. Because the last thing I need is another complication in my life.
One ex-husband, a pile of debt, and a million shattered dreams are enough to make anyone swear off men. Especially men like the one sitting next to me. I wouldn’t doubt if he has Heartbreaker etched in ink across his chest.
Unfortunately, my gaze drifts down to the tight pecs that are stretched against his t-shirt, causing me t
o swallow hard.
“There’s that look,” he growls out, low enough for only me to hear.
I glance away quickly, grunting as I pull out a magazine from the slot in front of me and start flipping through the pages, hoping he’ll get the hint to move on.
He doesn’t.
“Is this yer first time to Ireland?” As best he can, he stretches his long legs out in front of him, and when he does, one calf rests against mine.
“Yes,” I mutter, not looking up from my magazine, wanting to pull away but unable to. Like our damn skin is magnetized. I hate the way my walls are crumbling, the way my shoulders feel lighter than they did before he sat down. There’s something about him that relaxes me.
Five minutes ago, he was flirting with one of the stewardesses, I remind myself. But God, it’s been a long time since a man has paid any attention to me.
In a town the size of Port Clover, where half the men are related to me and the other half are married, there aren’t a lot of options. Not that I’ve been looking. One heartbreak is enough. I just wish my body was as on board with the whole celibate thing as my brain.
Shane is looking at me with one brow raised as if expecting an answer.
“What?” I say a little too harshly, shifting uncomfortably under his intense gaze.
He doesn’t seem to notice. Or, if he does, he doesn’t seem to care. “Are ye on vacation?”
“No.”
“Work?”
I sigh and shake my head.
“Ah,” he says in a knowing tone, as if it answers all of his questions. His eyes twinkle with humor when he continues. “Ye’re looking for a man, then. A pretty thing like ye won’t have any trouble-”
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