Kiss of the Irish (Foreign Fling)

by Lauren Hawkeye

  “I came to see you, of course.” His spine stiffened as Cian cleared his throat from behind her. “Perhaps this is a bad time.”

  “Well, I…” Part of her, the voice that she’d obeyed entire life, wanted to smooth over all of the awkwardness. Wanted to cut through the tension and testosterone that she could feel simmering between the man at her back and the one at her front.

  No. No, she wasn’t that person anymore. Still, she’d once promised to marry this man, had planned to spend her entire life with him. Surely she could sit down and have a conversation with him, since he’d traveled all this way.

  “Why don’t we have a seat?” Swallowing, she looked around the packed pub. Nell caught her eye at the table where she sat drinking whiskey by herself, standing after casting Ross a dirty look. Sarah gestured toward the empty table. “Go sit. I’ll grab us some drinks.”

  She turned quickly to hide her expression, aware that the entire room was watching. Before she could move even a step, Cian caught her chin in his hand.

  “You don’t have to do this.” His face was set in stiff lines, the way she’d learned it was when he was upset. “You don’t owe him anything.”

  Was he upset on her behalf? Or was he angry with her? Why would she assume that he was upset with her?

  Because Ross would have been, walking into the same situation. And though it wasn’t fair to compare them, that difference was what drew her to Cian like she’d never been drawn to Ross.

  Cian encouraged her to be who she was and no one else. So he might not be pleased that she was off to have a chat with her ex, but he wouldn’t say a word more about it.

  “I’m just going to grab some drinks, all right?” She looked up at him with wide eyes, hoping to convey what she felt, which at the moment was a huge, confusing jumble of emotions. “I’ll take them out of my wages for the night.”

  He rolled his eyes before sliding back behind the bar. “Clearly that’s what I’m concerned about.”

  He set about building her a Guinness, which she’d now come to think of as “her” drink. After setting the cool pint glass in front of her, he arched an eyebrow, waiting.

  “Um…let’s do the house red.” She winced a bit—Ross was a complete wine snob, and she doubted he’d drink it, but it would be rude to go over to the table with nothing for him.

  Cian silently filled the glass, setting it on the bar in front of her. Then, without warning, he bent over the polished surface and grabbed her by her elbows. Hauling her up to the very tips of her toes, he claimed her mouth, demanding that she respond with just as much passion as he gave her. She sank into the embrace, moaning slightly when his tongue flicked over hers.

  From somewhere behind her, she heard Ainsley whoop. They broke apart, Sarah’s heart hammering. Cian stared at her, wild blue flames in his eyes, before sliding the drinks closer to her and turning to a customer without saying a word.

  Wow. Lips burning, she closed her fingers around the cool glass. In a bit of a daze, she wound her way back through the crowd, toting the drinks to the tiny corner table that Nell had vacated for them.

  Ross sat gingerly on one of the polished wood stools, as though he were afraid of getting something sticky on his clothing. He eyed her warily as she seated herself across from him, dipping her head to take the first delicious sip of her drink.

  Awkward silence stretched between them. She was about to ask him for the third time what he was doing here, but he spoke first.

  “Sarah, are you well?” Placing his palms flat on the table, he leaned forward, looking deep into her eyes. His voice was full of seemingly genuine concern.

  Laughter rose inside of her, tickling the insides of her belly before bubbling its way up and out of her mouth. It started as a giggle, coming harder, only to be cut off abruptly when Ross slammed a hand on the table.

  “That’s uncalled for.” Swallowing back the laughter that still wanted to rise, she sipped at her drink again, settling back in her seat. She watched as he gripped the stem of his wineglass, noting how smooth and soft his hands looked, his nails perfectly buffed.

  Cian’s hands were large, the palms rough. That roughness when they scraped over her skin was a kind of deliciousness she hadn’t known existed.

  “Damn it, Sarah, I’m serious.” He gestured around the room, condescension heavy on those refined featured. “This isn’t you. The Sarah I know would never have chosen to hide out in the…in the wilds of Ireland. The Sarah I know isn’t a damn barmaid.”

  “The Sarah you know isn’t real!” It came out louder than she’d intended, and a table full of gray-haired men looked over, but she ignored them, focusing on Ross. “And forgive me if I’m wrong, but please do tell me why you care. Does your new fiancée know that you’re here with me?”

  He at least had the grace to look abashed, running a hand through his dark red hair with agitation. Sarah didn’t bother telling him that the strands now stood up, making him look like a hedgehog.

  “That’s over. It never should have started.” Sarah’s pulse skittered as he reached across the table. He tried to twine his fingers in hers, but when she didn’t move, he settled for placing one of his hands on top of hers. “It was…it was oats.”

  “The stripper was oats?” Her voice was raw. Anger surged forth again, starting a simmer low in her belly. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Hannah is a burlesque dancer, not a stripper.” Ross winced as he spoke. Right, because proposing to a stripper was too far beneath his blue-blooded familial ties. A burlesque dancer, though—well, that was scandalous instead of unacceptable. “And yes, oats. Wild oats. I…I got scared about getting married. About something so permanent. And I…I went a bit crazy.”

  He smiled at her hopefully, and that anger in Sarah’s gut burned just a little bit higher.

  “Oh, well then, that’s just fine.” She smiled as well, but there was nothing warm in the expression. “She was just wild oats. I guess that makes it completely all right that you broke off our engagement, broke my heart, and humiliated me in front of everyone we knew.”

  Ross simply blinked at her before lifting his glass of wine. For him to actually drink something without knowing the winery, the vintage, and various other details that Sarah had never been able to keep straight, this must not be going at all like he had anticipated.

  After one sip, his expression froze in a grimace before he spat the wine back into the glass, sputtering. Sarah sighed, rubbing her fingers over her temples before leaning forward and tugging the glass away.

  “Jesus, Sarah.” Ross glared at her as he scrubbed his hand over his mouth. She couldn’t refrain from rolling her eyes—he was acting as though she’d let him drink bleach rather than a perfectly respectable, if not pedigreed, cabernet sauvignon. “I don’t get it. In Boston you have your parents. Our friends. Your job at the auction house, and your apartment, with the possibility of a house on the lake when you marry. You have everything. You’re so much better than this. So why, please tell me, are hiding out here.”

  You’re so much better than this. The words felt like a punch to Sarah’s stomach. Swallowing through a throat as dry as sandpaper, she looked over Ross’s shoulder while she struggled to compose herself.

  While they’d been talking, yet more people had squeezed themselves into Wild Irish. Back home, this many people in one room would have irritation snaking through the air. People would be whining about slow service and lack of seats.

  Here? A group of college-aged woman got up to make room for the newcomers, since they’d finished their meals. Clearing a space in the center of the room, they arranged themselves in two lines, facing one another. To the side of the room Sarah watched Ainsley change a CD on the old stereo—no fancy digital systems here—and bagpipe music quickly poured out of the speakers mounted overhead.

  Across the table, Ross snorted with derision. Sarah, though? She was riveted as the two lines of girls began to dance. They moved around the small square of wooden floor
with an athleticism that was stunning to watch, their legs flying in time to the rich accompaniment, their upper bodies held nearly still. All around them, people clapped, shouted, sang, and drank more.

  Nowhere in Boston could Sarah picture a spontaneous dance-off happening in the middle of a drinking establishment. Not unless Britney Spears was in the house.

  Sarah loved it. And yet, when she turned back to Ross, who was watching her with disdain written all over his face, her spirits sank.

  “I understand why you wanted to hide. I embarrassed you.” He nodded, tapping his fingers on the table as Sarah narrowed her eyes. “No one back home will say a word, though. They understand. I was just…going through something.”

  Ross was going through something. Ross needed to sow wild oats.

  What about me?

  “Ross.” God, he was still talking. Sarah repeated herself, and then again, finally cutting through his monologue. “I’m not going back.”

  “What?”

  She quivered as soon as the words left her mouth, with both nerves and excitement. Was she really doing this?

  She needed to plan, right? She needed a list of pros and cons before she could decide whether to stay.

  Either way, she wasn’t going back with Ross. Wasn’t going back to her old life. Not ever again.

  “I understand how you see…this.” She waved her hand, gesturing around the room, raising her voice to be heard over the people. “But I’m afraid I don’t see it the same way. Yes, I miss my parents. But our friends? They’re really just yours. I don’t have any of my own.”

  She never had, not really. She had acquaintances. Colleagues. But no one with whom she felt anything close to the camaraderie she felt with Ainsley or Nell.

  “My job at the auction house? I hate it. I don’t want to curate art. I want to make it.” Her heart pounded wildly.

  Ross arched an eyebrow. “Exactly how do you plan to live off of your art?”

  Her temper simmered higher still. When they’d first met, she’d tried to show Ross some of her sketches, some of the old paintings she’d done in college.

  He’d laughed. The memory of it still hurt as much as the occurrence had at the time.

  “Well, it’s not likely that I can do it indefinitely, of course.” Not unless I’m very, very lucky. “But I have enough saved to indulge myself for a while.”

  More still if I sell the condo. Which, of course, was the next thing Ross mentioned.

  “And your home?” He tapped a finger on the table. “It’s exactly how you like it. Your furniture, your art collection—you’ll just give that all up for this?”

  Her anger coalesced, becoming something thick and brittle. One deep breath and it snapped, and with it came a dizzying rush of freedom. Sarah found herself grinning as Ross eyed her warily.

  “Can I tell you something?” Leaning across the table, she cupped her hands around her mouth as if she were going to say something extra salacious. She waited until he leaned in as well before letting loose. “I hate that condo. Not just dislike. I hate it. I bought it because it was time to invest in a home and because research indicated that it would only go up in value. But I hate it. I hate the location, I hate the furniture, I even hate the neighbors. I hate it all. I don’t know what my plans are for sure yet, but I’m not going back.”

  Ross’s lips parted, but instead of finding it sexy, as she once had, Sarah thought he looked like a fish. She was tempted to reach across the table and tap his chin to help him close it back up.

  “Who are you?” He stared at her as though she were a puppy straight from the pound, one with fleas and in desperate need of a bath.

  “I’m the same person I always was.” Ross just kept staring. It was the look she’d faced a thousand times, every time she’d stepped even a little bit out of line.

  What are you doing, Sarah? That’s not how good girls behave.

  Sarah, don’t you think that skirt is a little bit short for an office?

  I’m just not in love with you anymore.

  The memories were like a hailstorm, a million tiny pains that added up to an overall ache that she couldn’t ignore. Sarah found herself wilting as she stared around her at the dancing, singing, laughing people.

  She was no more one of them than she was the kind of person able to go back to her old life in Boston. She was too reserved. Too careful.

  Her eyes started to sting as she cast her gaze blindly around the pub. As always, she found her eyes inexorably drawn to Cian.

  As he usually was when at work, he was behind the bar. Those sexy hands of his flew smoothly as he filled drink orders, a pint here, a whiskey there. The low light cast the tattoos that sleeved his forearms in dark jewel tones, and as the muscles beneath them rippled Sarah’s breath caught.

  That there was art—the kind of art that Ross would never be able to appreciate. The kind that called to her very soul.

  She didn’t understand it—she never would—but this massive, gorgeous Irishman wanted her. Wanted to be with her. She had no idea where their relationship was heading, but just like her art and this place, it made her happy.

  She caught Cian’s eyes, that brilliant blue blazing into her own, melting what had been frozen inside of her for so long. Who said that she had to have her entire life planned out?

  Wasn’t it enough to just be happy? To just be?

  “I’m sorry, Ross.” Still watching Cian, she shook her head. “I’m not coming back to Boston.”

  Ross uttered a sound somewhere between a growl and a gag. “It’s him, isn’t it? That big biker who all but peed on you.”

  “What?” Startled, Sarah turned her attention back to Ross. “Peed on me? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Is that really what you want? Some meathead whose biggest talent is pouring beer?” Ross smirked, leaning forward to make his point. “I never took you for the type to care about a big dick, but I can’t imagine what else he has going for him.”

  He did not just say that.

  Gone was the congenial Ross, the one who had put his charming pants on in an attempt to get her to come back to the easy, boring life they’d once had. In his place was the man who had hurt Sarah in a million different ways, starting with all of the tiny put-downs and hints that she wasn’t good enough, and ending with him leaving her at the altar for a stripper.

  Excuse her, a burlesque dancer.

  And now this man who didn’t deserve to even look at Cian was spewing filth about the one man who had opened the door to the whole world for her.

  “Shut up.” When Ross looked at her, startled, Sarah inhaled sharply, then calmly lifted her Guinness to her lips. Taking a long, deep drink, she set the glass back down and rose to her feet, shoving her chair out behind her. “I want you to leave.”

  Ross watched her wildly for a moment, as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Finally, he managed to untangle his tongue.

  “You’re drinking beer.”

  Sarah barked out a laugh, and it was tinged with a bit of hysteria. Beer? So much shared history between them, and all he could find to comment on was her choice of beverage?

  “Oh, Ross.” She shook her head, trying to laugh but not finding any energy. “Just go.”

  “If I go, you’re coming with me.” His eyes sparked spitefully, and he swept out his hand, knocking over his glass of wine. The gleaming red liquid spread over the table in a crimson pool. “You’re clearly not in your right mind. You need help.”

  Extending his hand as if he was going to help his poor, addled little ex-fiancée, he waited. Sarah gaped, her fury a tide rising up inside of her, taking her over in a way it never had before.

  “I’m thinking clearly for the first time in my life.” Baring her teeth, Sarah pointed at the door and stomped her foot. “Now get out before I punch you in the face and wreck that nose job you think no one knows about.”

  The people at the tables near to them, who had all been watching avidly, burst into lau
ghter, which caused Ross’s pale skin to go purple with rage. One of the old gentlemen at the next table punched his fist in the air. “You tell ’im, girlie!”

  “It’s the biker. You’re choosing him over me.” Ross reached for her, and Sarah felt a tiny lick of fear. This was Ross. The man she’d promised to spend her life with.

  “I’m choosing me over you!” She thought she might be shouting, but she didn’t care. “But guess what? That biker would be a better fiancé than you ever were, because he actually cares enough to treat me right!”

  Ross’s face turned a mottled purple, and Sarah hissed out a breath. He wouldn’t actually hurt her, would he?

  She didn’t get the chance to find out. The clean scents of soap and sweat and laundry detergent hit her nose seconds before Cian wrapped his arms around her from behind. One of his hands splayed over her stomach and one drifted up to loosely encircle her throat.

  She didn’t need even half of a right mind to read that body language. Cian was shouting for the whole pub to hear, all without saying a word.

  This is my woman. Mine.

  “I can’t deny that it would make me hot to see you give this wanker a black eye, darlin’.” The hand splayed over her stomach traveled up until his thumb rested just below her breast. Nothing indecent, but as always, he made her burn. “But as the meathead whose only talent is pouring beer, I suppose it’s my responsibility to keep the peace and get him out of here without bloodshed.”

  Ross stiffened, and Sarah half expected him to fly at the pair of them. Instead, he sized Cian up, and whether it was the fact that the larger man had several inches and forty pounds on him, the tattoos and piercings, or just the dangerous spark in Cian’s eye, Sarah’s former fiancé took a step back.

  “If this is what you want, then I’m well rid of you.” He smiled cruelly before turning toward the door. Half of Sarah sagged with relief that he was finally, finally leaving, but the other half of her was still enraged, her hands curled into fists, ready to fly.

  What was wrong with her? She didn’t feel emotions like this—until coming to Ireland she hadn’t felt strongly about much of anything at all. But right now, if she didn’t find an outlet, she was certain she was going to explode.