by Tessa Layne
She’s not said a word. Not made a sound so I push forward, “It’s all arranged. In Ireland”—her head snaps up, eyes wide—“My family is there. I’d like for you to meet them before we wed, but Addie, if that’s not what you want, I’ll marry you tomorrow at the justice of the peace. Anything—absolutely anything to be with you.”
She looks from the phone to the ring, to my face, searching. Processing, maybe. And on a sigh, she reaches into her pocket, dropping the damn cocktail napkin that she’d clutched in her hand. I want to pick it up, shred the thing so she can’t call whoever’s number it holds.
“Can we go now?” she asks, her voice husky and a little shaky.
I tear my eyes from the napkin and look up to see her holding a claddagh between her fingers.
“Go where? To Ireland?” Why does she have a Claddagh? She nods, slowly. “We can go whenever you’re ready, but we can’t get married there until December. Irish law, we have to file an intent to wed, at least three months in advance. That puts us so close to Christmas, I thought we could do the holiday and wedding together. Addie?” My ramblings come to an abrupt halt as she sinks down to her knees and swipes her tongue across her plump lower lip.
“I got this for you,” she says. “I didn’t know you were going to ask, and—so I decided to ask you. I googled how you should wear it until we get married, but—is that stupid? Am I being stupid? Did I ruin everything?”
“Adelaide, my chosen, my heart…the pulse that sustains me, I would be honored to marry you.” Now of all times, my hands tremble. She takes my hand and slides the Claddagh on my left hand with the heart pointing out just as it should. And Addie gasps as I slide her ring onto her delicate hand.
“Finn—”
“Say yes. Please say yes.”
“Yes. With all my heart, yes,” she breathes her response. And it’s somehow perfect that in the glow of the soft green light, alone in this odd little room, we each ask and answer.
I stand and scoop her up into my arms, kissing her absolutely stupid. “We’re getting married,” I whisper against her lips.
“We’re getting married,” she says.
Chapter 12
A ddie
I couldn’t wait.
As we checked out of the hotel, I printed the intent form, we signed it and dropped it in the mail. It’s official. We’re getting married in Dublin at Christmas.
I glance at the one-of-a-kind ring sparkling on my left hand and start thinking of all the things I need to do over the next couple of months. My passport is set, but I need to shop for airfare, ask Lis if she can dog sit yet again. And the wedding. What will I wear? It’s not like I’m going to pull off a traditional wedding gown, nor do I really want to have to fly with something like that. And as our plane takes off for New York, it hits me. The flight. I’ll be stuck on a plane for over six hours with strangers.
And germs.
And so many people.
I’m not gonna make it. I’m so not gonna make it.
My heart throws itself against my ribs, pounding in a furious attempt to break free. My hands start to tremble, each breath comes out in a rasping pant. My feet—I swear, they were attached to my body a minute ago, but I can’t feel them. I shiver, sweat beading up on my skin. Is this a heart attack?
I feel woozy.
I can’t breathe.
I think I’m dying.
My field of vision is narrowing down to a pinpoint surrounded by fuzzy darkness—getting darker—darker. A warm hand slides along the back of my neck, pushing my hair away from my clammy skin. Calming me, soothing me, that touch brings me back from the brink. Back from a complete and utter panic attack.
Sweet oxygen-rich air fills my lungs, and I melt into the seat of the plane, even going so far as to allow my head to rest ever so briefly against the head rest.
“I’ve got ye, love. We’ll figure out how to get you there in one piece,” Finn soothes. His free hand squeezing mine, he leans over and places a kiss to my temple. One to my cheek, and then nips at my earlobe, my heart fluttering and skipping for an entirely different reason now. “Plenty of time between now and then to calm your fears. And to figure out how we’ll fuck in the loo…”
And there he is, folks.
The man of my dreams.
Have questions about Finn and Addie?
Like, how did these two even get together?
What’s the deal with her dog? And why is she so prickly?
Why are the pickup lines a big deal?
I looked at your Instagram (@authorkcenders) and found a bunch of #Finnisms. What is that?
Go to the beginning and catch up on all things Finn and Addie.
Grab Twist here.
Then, make sure to sign up for my newsletter so you know before anyone else, when their trip to Dublin is scheduled!
…and if you still have more questions or just need more of the men of Beekman Hills, pick up Troubles (Lis and Aidan), Tunes (Gavin and Gracyn), and finally Tombstones (Jack and Kate).
www.kcenderswrites.com
About the Author
Karin is a New York Girl living in a Midwest world. A connoisseur of great words, fine bourbon, and strong coffee, she’s married to the love of her life who is also her best friend. The mother of two grown men, she is proud to say that they can cook, open car doors for the ladies, and clean up after themselves (you’re welcome, world). Even though her boys no longer live at home, the big ol’ dogs she’s rescued have taken up their empty space.
Redheaded $lut - USA Today Bestselling Author, Kayti McGee
Bridget Riley is getting married. So what if she's more excited about the wedding than the groom? Being an adult means making boring choices. Until one unexpected decision changes everything.
Copyright © 2019 by Kayti McGee
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, stored, or transmitted in any form or in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews. For information, please contact the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of copious amounts of wine, long walks, and the author’s overactive imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For Juniper, who told me prettier fictions than I could ever write.
Chapter 1
THE BACHELORETTE PARTY
T here’s an awful lot to recommend about having an Irish family. For example, it’s incredibly convenient—not to mention cost-effective—when a distant cousin owns your favorite bar. There In Spirits isn’t exactly what you’d think of as a traditional Irish pub. There’s not even Guinness on tap.
But the code word that gets you into the speakeasy is “potato,” so there’s that little tell.
I know when each of my bridesmaids shows up, because they all like to yell it a little differently. There’s Eileen, my best friend, favorite sister, maid of honor, and the loudest girl on either side of the state line. Everyone in a hundred-mile radius knows when she arrives anywhere. Skye, my back-up favorite sister, has that kind of sultry voice that silences everyone else around her while they look to see who it belongs to. Finally, Erin, my fourth-favorite sister, who spent a single summer in Dublin two years ago and still puts on the accent each and every time we meet up here.
Actresses, man.
My third-favorite sister and I aren’t speaking at current, due to a fallout over the dresses. She said blue wasn’t her color. I said she could fuck right off the Cliffs of Moher. There was fault on both sides, obviously. As long as she shows up for the wedding on Saturday, I could care less whether she’s at my bachelorette tonight.
As for the rest of my sisters, Brian ran out of groomsmen to pair them up with, so they got axed from the ceremony. That makes it sound bad. When you have seven siblings, people get left out of everything. We’re all used
to it.
When you have seven sisters as siblings, though, you can sure fill up a bar fast. And clear it out just as quickly, when someone notices someone else wearing a shirt that doesn’t belong to them and starts a fight. This happens approximately twice a week when various contingents of the Riley sisters hit happy hour. It’s also why Eileen and Erin are seated as far from each other as possible and are currently unfriended on all social networks.
By the end of the night, we’ll all be the best of friends again. It’s a comforting cycle for us.
The pretty bartender’s new. I can tell because she doesn’t know our order by heart.
“Jameson and cokes all around,” I tell her, and she smiles at me. On each side of her full mouth are dimples. It’s the kind of smile that invites a person to unburden themselves in confession. She’s going to be a great bartender, I can already tell.
Once the drinks are ready and waiting, Eileen hollers a toast. “Two down, six to go! Bridget’s getting hitched! Slainte!” Erin got married before me, even though I’m the oldest, which is why she’s currently ranking number four on my list. It stings less today than the whisky’s fiery trail down my esophagus. This was mixed a tad stronger than I’m used to, not that I’m complaining. I knew—I glance at her nametag— that Sierra would be good at this.
“You’ve got a good Irish name,” I compliment her. “By the way, I don’t plan to pay for a single drink tonight. You should just distribute them evenly between everyone else.”
“That would make you Bridget, then. Tell me about your fiancé. Leave no gory details out.” She leans on the bar in front of me, all boobs and dimples, as my sisters bicker around me.
“His name is Brian and he’s not Irish, but I’ve decided to forgive him for that seeing as he put a ring on it and all.” I hold up my left hand for her perusal. The diamond is worth precisely four times his monthly salary as a soap salesman. I know, I calculated it myself and gave him the resulting figure to take to the jewelry store. Sierra cocks a brow and waits for me to continue. Once I get over my jealousy that she can do that perfect Scarlet O’Hara face, I do.
“We met at a bar. He bought me a Jim Beam and I poured it out right in front of him. The second I did it I had regrets, but it made him laugh and then he made me laugh and five years later here we are.”
“And does he still make you laugh?” she asks. I pause to consider.
“No, the humor faded along with the sex. I haven’t laughed in about a year, I suppose.” Give or take the occasional snicker over some antic of a sister. Meanwhile, Sierra’s dimples have entirely disappeared. She pushes her turquoise glasses higher up the bridge of her nose and stares intently at me.
“If there are no gory details, why would you marry him?”
“Because it’s like we’re already married. Your sex life and your sense of humor are always the first things to go in a marriage. We just got a jump on the settling is all.”
“Um, I still get laid and laugh. Like, a lot,” Erin interjects.
“No one asked you, overachiever,” I tell her, but Sierra smiles.
“She’s not wrong. I’ve been with the same guy since I was fifteen, and we have amazing sex. There’s this room in the basement—”
“I’ll take a refill, please.” And fast. I have zero desire to hear more about her basement sexcapades. Actually, that’s not true at all, but I’d rather not be comparing them to mine. Or my lack thereof.
“Ooh, me too. Then tell us more,” says Erin, that traitor, my now fifth-favorite sister. Congratulations, Maggie, you’ve officially moved up a slot. “Do you guys ever try anything… spicy?”
“Lambs, my bedroom is painted Illustrated Kink Encyclopedia Blue by Sherwin Williams. Ask me anything, I’ll gladly spread the gospel.” She pours herself a scotch and dimples back up. I melt faster than an ice cube would in the warm embrace of her bosom.
“Maybe I could learn a new trick or two for the wedding night,” I acknowledge.
“I want to know about butt stuff,” announces Erin.
“Did someone say butt stuff?” asks Eileen.
“No butt stuff until after midnight, ladies,” says Dave the barback. He’s always got to be the responsible one. Everyone groans, but it’s true that I haven’t had nearly enough to drink for a discussion of that magnitude. I always figured anal was for when the normal kind got boring, but frankly, isn’t the normal kind always boring? So then why would I even bother with taking the road less traveled?
Brian is a very reliable guy. Things take reliably ten minutes, by which time I will have reliably worked out the week’s grocery list. Multitasking has always been a strong point of mine. It’s part of our compatibility. I multitask, he focuses. He’s a little bit country, I’m a little bit celtic rock. That old song-and-dance.
Erin’s phone goes off, but she ignores it to ask about cocktails. In her fake accent that I’d be happy to insert in her butt, but consent is important.
“I’ve invented some good ones,” Sierra tells us. “How do you feel about scotch?”
“Inferior to Irish,” I tell her, as my sisters nod along, “but less offensive than anything from England.”
“In which case, may I offer you a Princeton Rub? It’s Macallen 12, bitters, sweet vermouth, and a wash of ginger syrup.”
“Ooohhh, what’s that rub thing mean?” Skye asks, as her phone buzzes.
“Trust me, you don’t want to know,” says Eileen. “But I’ll take two.” She glances at her phone for a second, does a double-take, and flips it screen-side down. I’m starting to get the idea that something’s happening I don’t want to be involved in. God, I hope it’s a male stripper. Brian looks fine naked, of course, but every now and again a girl just wants a little eye candy. A Jared Keeso type. Sure, he’s Canadian, but I’m certain there’s Irish blood in that nearly-ginger body.
“I’m fairly certain we were responsible for giving the Scots kilts and whiskey,” says Erin. “Only we didn’t tell them the kilts were a joke.”
We all crack up. Sierra, less so. Dave pretends he wasn’t laughing as she sternly glances his way. Traitor. I make a mental note to trip him the next time he emerges from behind the shelter of the bar.
I grudgingly accept a Princeton Rub, mostly because I’m not paying for it. A few minutes later, after a brief internet search, I realize no woman has ever truly accepted a Princeton Rub, grudgingly or not. I decide this is what a bachelorette party is, though, a foreign land one must traverse in order to get to the safety of wedlock. And then I await the stripper. I await him through a second round of Rubs. I await him through Kathleen’s phone buzzing, and Darby’s phone chirping. I even await it through Kiera flushing hers down the toilet, as though it would stop whatever is happening on the other end.
I await through discussions of the ceremony. Father Paddy tends to be a bit long-winded, but it isn’t like we we’d use Brian’s heathen Unitarian minister. Mass may not be comfortable for his family, but I’d planned on sending out a Facebook message the day before explaining when the up-downs and the also-with-you’s happen.
I await through Darby and Kathleen dissecting the fact that we’d chosen to hold off on a honeymoon until Brian knows if he got the promotion to Head of Soap Sales or not for half a damn hour.
TL;DR: they are not impressed.
I await through another round of Rubs, wherein Sierra discusses the origin of the term. Only via downing mine rapidly was I able to understand why they had become my de facto bachelorette drink. The answer being, of course, that she likes them and she is too pretty to refuse.
Finally, I open my purse to find that my phone has been going off too. I know it’s going to be Ma before I ever even look at the screen. She gets nervous every single time all the Riley’s are out in public. And well should she be; bail isn’t cheap and she’s paid it more than once. But when I flip my phone over, I’m surprised to see it’s a group text with all seven of my sisters, all sent from an unknown number.
Prett
y sure you don’t know what’s up, says the opening message.
Well no, no, I don’t. So I scroll down.
I just thought you should know. Screenshots attached.
Turns out there’s a whole novel in the scrolling. A romance novel, one that prominently features Brian and someone that isn’t me. So I start at the beginning, the buzzes all my sisters have not-quite-discreetly chosen to ignore. I scroll through another round of Rubs. I scroll through my fiancé picking a nurse up on a swipe-app, and I scroll through their flirting. I scroll through the sexting. I scroll through the mediocre dick pics. I scroll, and I get more furious with every line.
By the end, I’m in a record rage.
This fucking guy. He doesn’t get to be unhappy with us, I am unhappy with us! Just because I was willing to settle? I was being mature. Adults settle! Professor Sierra finally stops preaching when she sees that my face has turned the same shade as the cranberry juice behind her bar.
“Are we… Is there plans for butt stuff or something?” she asks. The bar falls silent, as all seven of my sisters turn to stare at me.
“Oh, there are plans all right.”
Another thing I can recommend about an Irish family—our tempers.
Chapter 2
THE WEDDING
I f anyone says every little girl doesn’t dream of their wedding day, they are a fucking liar. But in my experience, which I assume extrapolates, the most delightful thing about it is that it’s the one and only day of your life that you get to be Veruca Salt. Everything is your way, and anyone who isn’t on board the good ship Bridezilla can just fuck off into the Dover Sea.