Catching Irish: a Summerhaven novella (The Summerhaven Trio Book 4)

by Katy Regnery

  “Hmm,” she hummed, her stomach in knots.

  “Hmm,” he repeated, narrowing his eyes and cocking his head to the side. His glance flicked to the hands by her sides, which she kept balling and releasing. His voice was cool and measured when he spoke. “I’m pretty sure you’re about to tell me why I can’t have a ride to Boston today.”

  She shoved her hands in her jacket pockets and nodded. “I think it’s best.”

  “Because…why? Hmm. Let’s see…” He tapped his lips. “Because last night sucked?” He stared so deeply into her eyes, she couldn’t look away. “No. That’s not it. We both enjoyed last night.”

  “I just think—”

  “What? That I might try to make this into somethin’ more? Borrow a car, drive to Florida, profess my undyin’ love and declare I can’t live without you?”

  It did sound ridiculous when he put it like that.

  “You told me not to get attached,” he said, standing up and facing her. “I listened.”

  But I, apparently, didn’t.

  “Listen, Tate,” he said, his voice relaxed. “I assume you have to drop off your car at the airport in Boston this afternoon, right?”

  She nodded.

  “So give me a ride, I’ll take you out to lunch at the Druid to thank you, and we can say good-bye there.”

  “The…Druid?”

  “They pull the best Guinness pints in Boston and have Irish stew on the menu.” His lips tilted up in the slightest smile as he started walking toward the dining hall doors. “You wouldn’t deprive me of some real Irish stew, would you, now? Not when I’m so far from home? Missin’ my mam and da…and me wee sister Bess?”

  Was it her imagination, or was his accent suddenly twice as strong as it had been two minutes before? She fell into step beside him, letting him open the door for her and preceding him into the bustling breakfast room.

  “Do you really have a sister called Bess?”

  “Nah,” he said. “We don’t call her that anymore. It’s Elizabeth now, thank you very much.”

  “Is she your only sibling?”

  He shook his head, grabbing a plate at the fruit salad bar and handing it to her before taking one for himself. “I’m one of four.”

  “Any brothers? Or just sisters?”

  “I have one brother and two sisters. Callum, Elizabeth, Grace, and me.”

  “The baby,” she said, rolling her eyes as she scooped from fresh pineapple onto her plate. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, reaching around her for a spoonful of strawberries, his forearm brushing her waist in the process. “Why are you not surprised?”

  She turned to look at him.

  Wait. How had this happened?

  She was going to tell him he couldn’t have a ride to Boston, and somehow she’d agreed not only to give him a ride but to have lunch with him too and was presently choosing breakfast fruit like she hadn’t had a full-blown panic attack fifteen minutes ago. How did he keep doing this? How did he know exactly how to put her at ease without coming on too strong? Or too pushy? Or too needy?

  “The youngest in the family is often the most underrated, y’know.”

  She looked up at him. “How’s that?”

  He grinned. “Because they weren’t plannin’ on you. They never saw you comin’.”

  ***

  The Druid turned out to be exactly the sort of spot that Fin had been longing for, but there was no way around it: lunch was spoiled before it even began.

  Halfway through their meal—fish and chips for Tate and Irish stew for him—a sense of longing, even stronger than that for home, had taken over his mood, and he found himself less gregarious and more peevish as the minutes ticked down. It all boiled down to one thing: he didn’t want to say good-bye to Tate.

  His life in New Hampshire had been lonely before she showed up; he wasn’t in any rush to get back to it.

  Fuck me, he thought, staring at her pretty face across the table and remembering, vividly, what it looked like when she was in the throes of orgasm, I really don’t want to feckin’ say good-bye.

  And yet, by his calculations, he had about ten minutes left before she finished her last sip of beer, stood up, and walked out, heading for the airport.

  “So you’re off to Florida,” he said.

  She nodded. “You ever been?”

  “Never been anywhere but home and New Hampshire,” he said. “Well, and now here.”

  “It’s warm there,” she said. “And the water’s turquoise.”

  “What do you do there?” he asked, realizing he knew very little about her and suddenly desperate to make the most of their dwindling minutes.

  “I run fishing charters for rich assholes.”

  And fuck me again, but she screws like a champion, looks like a goddess, and she’s a skipper and fisherman? Fin’s heart couldn’t take much more.

  He hid his expression of undiluted yearning by sipping his beer as she asked, “What about you?”

  “Here? Maintenance on my cousins’ camp.”

  “And at home?”

  Would she think less of him for not having been to university? “Mechanic.”

  “Cars?”

  He nodded, looking up at the waiter and gesturing for another Guinness. Once she left, he was going to get good and langered to ease whatever ache remained.

  “Ever worked on a DeLorean?” she asked.

  His jaw dropped open.

  There was only one reason she’d ask that specific question. And fuck, but the chances of any American girl knowing the manufacturer of the most iconic car ever produced in Ireland was so inconceivable, it made this lass a unicorn and no mistake.

  Suddenly, he couldn’t fucking bear it.

  “Don’t go,” he murmured, leaning across the table. “Not yet.”

  Her eyes clouded with disappointment as she leaned back in her seat. “Come on, Fin. Don’t do this.”

  Fuck. Shite. And balls. He’d been so cool with her, and now he’d gone and mucked it all up. It made him angry. With himself. With her. With the whole situation of meeting a deadly fierce American girl who fucked for fun and made him laugh and knew that DeLoreans used to be made in Ireland. And he couldn’t have her. He had to let her go.

  “I guess so,” he bit out.

  “I told you—”

  “I know what you bloody told me,” he snapped, lifting the new pint of Guinness to his lips and downing a full quarter before coming up for air.

  She gulped softly, staring back at him, her expression conflicted. Finally, she whispered, like it was a secret she had no business sharing, “I had fun.”

  “Well, thank the dear Lord for that,” he muttered, feeling mean.

  Leaning to her right, she grabbed the straps of her purse and lifted them onto her shoulder, still facing him.

  “Kiss me good-bye?” she asked, standing up and staring down at him.

  He looked up at her, hating her. Hating himself more.

  Then he stood up and clasped her face in his hands, his lips falling fast and angrily onto hers. He kissed her hard, right smack in the middle of the pub, ignoring the catcalls around them that grew louder as the kiss softened and turned tender. He pulled her into his arms, sliding his tongue against hers again and again, his fingers curling into fists on her lower back as he tried to let her know—the only way he could—how much he wished they had more time.

  But they didn’t.

  When the kiss ended, she opened her eyes, and damn if they weren’t glistening. They were. Fin would stake his life on it, and it made him stupid. He rested his forehead on hers. “Stay.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered, backing out of his arms. “Fin…don’t call me, don’t—”

  “Don’t feckin’ worry,” he bit out.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “Good-bye.”

  He watched her go, his heart hurting like hell.

  “Mate,” said a guy at the adjacent table, his eyes sympathetic. “
I think you’re fucked.”

  Fin sat down and chugged his beer before turning to the bloke. “I think you’re right.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Four Months Later

  “Captain Tate,” said the white-haired gentleman, “on behalf of the New Greenwich Men’s Association, we want to thank you for leading such an exciting and successful charter!”

  As his five friends clapped in agreement, Mr. Franklin handed over a thick envelope to Tate that contained the tips for herself and her crew. And from the feel of it, the NGMA charter had been a success.

  “Thank you, Mr. Franklin,” she said with a grin. “And don’t you forget to send me a picture of that sailfish on the wall of your den, you hear?”

  “I will do, Tate! I promise. She’s a beauty.”

  “Sure is.”

  She exchanged hugs and handshakes with the six gentlemen before waving good-bye from the dock. When her guests were out of sight, she looked over her shoulder at her boatswain, Tom. “Get her in shipshape? I’ll divvy up what’s here.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap,” said Tom, turning to his crew of four deckhands and calling out a list of tasks from spraying down the decks to securing the tender.

  Her lead steward, Jones, came up from below decks with four snow-white, recently laundered and folded towels in his arms. “Good job this charter, Jones.”

  “Thanks, Cap.”

  She held up the envelope. “Good tip too.”

  Jones smiled and nodded. “Glad to hear it, ma’am.”

  Tate glanced at the towels. “Restocking the hot tub area?”

  “Aye, Cap.”

  “Carry on.”

  There were some charter captains, of course, who didn’t exercise such formality with their crew, but Tate had learned the old ways from Uncle Pete, and they’d served her well. It didn’t matter the age or experience of her crew; they respected her as their captain because she insisted on it. There was never any confusion about who was in charge, and they’d be fired the second they showed Tate the slightest measure of disrespect or insubordination.

  In return, Tate made smart choices, offered high-end service, and after taking a 20 percent cut of tips, split the rest evenly among the crew. For the five-day cruise they’d just completed? Each of her eight crew members would probably make a gratuity of more than one thousand dollars each. It was no wonder her employee retention rate was so high.

  “Skip,” said her mechanic, Julio, who fell into step beside her as Tate headed for the bridge, “you got a minute for bad news?”

  “Do I have a choice?” she asked.

  “Nope,” said Julio, scratching the back of his perpetually sunburned neck. “I hate to say it, but we got some hull osmosis going on. Doesn’t look good.”

  Hull osmosis? Fuck. That meant blisters on the bottom of the boat.

  Tate sighed, putting her hands on her hips and her sunglasses on her head.

  “It’s only four years old.”

  Julio nodded. “Which means it’s a manufacturer defect.”

  “It’s got to be covered in the warranty.”

  “It is, Skip,” said Julio. “It is, and that’s the good news.”

  “So what’s the bad?”

  “Warranty stipulates you gotta report it when you find it so they can fix it right away.”

  “It’s just osmosis. It’s not like it’s going to sink my ship,” said Tate, feeling annoyed. February and March were moneymakers for her, and she knew—as well as any captain—that the cure for osmosis took time. A boat needed to be hauled out and dry-docked, then sanded down so that the fiberglass could be repaired. It was time-consuming as fuck and would have her boat on land for the next six to eight weeks.

  “It’s a busy season!” she exclaimed.

  “Skip? It’s Florida. It’s always a busy season,” he said, giving her a rueful look. “Do you have cancelation insurance?”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “You got friends who can take your charters? Your uncle?”

  “Maybe.”

  “If I may speak freely, ma’am?”

  “Go for it.”

  “It’s a nine-million-dollar yacht. Call the manufacturer. Get her in dry dock ASAP. Get the hull fixed.”

  Tate ground her teeth together. She really didn’t like hiccups like this. She didn’t like messy. She didn’t like delays. She didn’t like canceling charter reservations. But what choice did she have? Her boat was her bread and butter. If it needed maintenance, it needed maintenance. That’s all there was to it.

  With a grimace, she nodded. “Set it up. Tell Jones I need to talk to him, eh?”

  “Will do.” Julio nodded. “It’s the right call, Skip.”

  “It sucks, Julio.”

  “Yeah, it sucks,” he agreed, pulling his cell phone from his hip pocket and leaving to call QRN and set up the repairs.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” muttered Tate, climbing up the stairs to the bridge and flopping down in her cream leather captain’s chair. Out of commission for all of March and most of April? She’d have to cancel at least six charters. What a fucking mess.

  It wasn’t that Tate couldn’t afford the time off. Her bank account was flush. Not only had her parents left her a very comfortable inheritance, with which she’d purchased the boat outright, but her business—when she had a working vessel—was thriving. It’s just that having two months of dead time didn’t feel right. How the hell was she supposed to fill those endless days?

  Jones knocked twice before sliding the glass door open and stepping inside. “Cap, you need to see me?”

  Tate sat up. “I hate to do this to you and the rest of the crew, but ship’s got maintenance issues and needs to go into dry dock and maintenance through April.”

  “You going to rent a sub?”

  Tate shook her head. She didn’t trust the maintenance on other boats. She wasn’t comfortable going out to sea in someone else’s ship. “I’ll roll over the smaller groups to Uncle Pete, if he’s free. The rest I’ll try to reschedule with other captains.”

  “And us?” asked Jones, referring to his staff and that of the boatswain and crew.

  She sighed. “I’ll pay two months’ salary to all of you to cover your contracts.”

  Jones winced. “Out of your own pocket?”

  “It’s the right thing to do, Jones. Hoping you’ll all come back in May.”

  “I think you can count on it, Cap.” Jones, who was a career steward and twenty-two years older than Tate, nodded. “You’re a class act, ma’am.”

  “Thanks for that, Jones,” she said, watching him go.

  Pushing away from the console, Tate left the bridge, heading down two flights of stairs to her cabin. Sitting down on her bed, she took a deep breath and sighed.

  Eight weeks. Eight weeks off.

  What the hell am I going to do for eight weeks? she wondered, looking around the bedroom that she called home.

  She could pack a suitcase and stay at Uncle Pete’s place, where he kept her childhood bedroom ready and waiting for her. Maybe he could use some help on his charters too—Tate would be glad to lend a hand. It was the least she could do if he was going to cover some of her business.

  Glancing at her desk, her eyes landed on her laptop. She reached over, pulled it onto her bed, and opened it. It had been weeks since she’d looked at Facebook or opened her personal e-mail account—she’d been slammed with winter sailfishers, and it was all she could do to keep with messages and reservations that pertained to business—but with a two-month hiatus suddenly and unexpectedly lying before her, time had suddenly slowed down.

  Scrolling through dozens of junk e-mails, she stopped when one subject line caught her eye: Spend St. Patty’s at Summerhaven!

  She bit her bottom lip as she eyed the message. Rolling over onto her stomach with her feet in the air, she clicked on it, her heart hammering as she watched the hourglass icon spin, waiting for it to open.

  Since leaving Finian at the Druid back in
November, she’d tried very hard not to think about him, mostly because it didn’t feel good. It stung, and she didn’t know what to do with those sharp jabs of pain when she remembered him. Sometimes, she relived their fast and furious love affair in her dreams, however, and she’d wake up slick with longing and tempted to message him over Facebook. It would pass, though, that quick, acute yearning. If she ignored it, it would go away. And as the months sailed by, he faded little by little.

  It was just a weekend fling. Don’t try to make it more than it was, she reminded herself whenever she did think of him. To pour salt on the wound, he too hadn’t gotten in touch over Facebook or Instagram, though both of them had active profiles.

  Does he ever look me up? she wondered.

  In November and December, she’d checked on him from time to time, gazing at the picture on his profile or smiling at a shot of him holding up Jenny so she could put the star on the top of Ian’s Christmas tree. Finally, by January, she’d had to force herself to stop looking. She’d put her laptop away and mostly ignored it since.

  Until now.

  The message appeared on the screen, and Tate held her breath as she read.

  Dear family and friends,

  You are cordially invited to spend St. Patrick’s Weekend with us at the Summerhaven Event and Conference Center this year!

  We will be opening a handful of winterized cottages located on Oxford Row and planning meals and events that will highlight our Irish heritage. Cost will be nominal.

  Please let us know if you will be joining us from March 14–18, and we will look forward to honoring our patron saint with you!

  Love,

  Rory, Brittany, Tierney, Burr, Ian, Hallie, Jenny, & Finian

  Finian.

  She took a deep breath, filling her lungs.

  Sliding her eyes up the screen, she noted that the message had been sent three weeks ago, on February 10, and her lips pursed as she wondered whether or not there would still be space for her.

  That is, if she decided to attend.

  The idea of seeing Britt and Hallie again was compelling, but the idea of seeing Finian again had her stupid heart soaring…which made her snap her laptop closed with a huff.

  “You’re not going,” she said softly aloud. “Absolutely not.”