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

by Katy Regnery

  “More of this,” she suggested.

  He reached for her breasts, teasing her nipples until she whimpered. Then clutching her hips, he controlled the way she slid back and forth on his slick cock until they came together in breathless pants of “fuck” and “yes” and “Fin” and “Tate” and the kind of soft, happy laughter that is only present when you have—for a few blissful moments—discovered that everything you were about to lose is still yours for the taking.

  ***

  Tate swatted at her nose, the sound of buzzing making her semiconscious mind believe that a fly or bee had invaded her love nest.

  Buzz. Buzz, buzz, buzz.

  Buzz. Buzz, buzz, buzz.

  CRASH!

  Her eyes popped open, and she sat up in bed.

  Beside her, Finian lay on his stomach with his naked—and incredibly tight—ass in the air. She grinned at the matching fingernail marks she’d left on the twin globes before pulling the sheets and comforter over his sleeping body.

  Buzz. Buzz, buzz, buzz.

  Looking over the side of the bed, she found her cell phone—the guilty party—scooting around the floor like a Mexican jumping bean with a constant stream of buzzing noises and accompanying vibrations.

  Hmm, she thought, reaching down for it. It buzzed for so long that it buzzed itself off the table? What’s going on?

  Sitting up with her feet dangling over the side of the bed, she turned the phone over. Frank Sturgess. Frank. Uncle Pete’s best friend. What the hell?

  “Hello? Frank?”

  “Tate! Oh, thank God! Tate.”

  Her blood went cold. Cold as ice. And it actually occurred to her, as her breath caught in her throat, to throw the phone across the room and shatter it so she wouldn’t have to hear whatever was coming next.

  Instead she gulped. “F-Frank?”

  “Um. Something happened. It’s Pete.”

  “No,” she said, her voice firm and insistent. “It isn’t Pete.”

  “Tatey? You gotta listen to me, honey. Your uncle’s in the hospital.”

  She couldn’t breathe, and the room was spinning like mad. “He’s dead.”

  The phone slipped from her hand, smacking on the floor and waking up Fin. “Tate?”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, naked and frozen, the faraway voice of her uncle’s best friend calling her name. “Tate? Tatey, you there? Tate? Let me explain what happened! Tate?”

  Fin sat up. “What’s goin’ on?”

  But she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe, or swallow, or see. She closed her eyes against the spinning of the room, her head going dim and dizzy. It’s happening again. You’re alone. You’re going to be all alone.

  “Tate? Who’s—?” Fin leaned over her, reaching down for her phone and bumping it against her elbow. When she didn’t take it, he cleared his throat. “Hello? Uh, this is, uh, Tate’s friend, Finian. She’s, uh…ah. Oh, yes. I see. Mmm. When? Right. Last night.” He paused for a moment, and Tate squeezed her eyes tighter. “Uh-huh. I’ll tell her. Right-o. Huh. So he’s—? Well, that’s good, ain’t it? Yeah. Yeah. Right. Okay. She’s, uh…she’s a bit shaken up, sir. Mm-hm. She’ll call you back. Right. Good. Bye, then.”

  Fin must have positioned his body behind hers, because the next things she knew, she was drawn back against his chest, and his arms were around her.

  “Darlin’,” he said. “Can you hear me?”

  She clenched her jaw so hard she wondered if it was possible to break it.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, his voice soft and very, very close to her ear. He held her tighter. “Listen to me. Yer uncle’s not dead. Do you hear me? He’s alive, Tate. He’s not dead.”

  He’s alive, Tate. He’s not dead.

  If she’d been standing up, she would have collapsed under the weight of her intense relief, but because Finian was holding her so tight, all she could do was fall back against him, her naked body slumping into his, her rigid muscles loosening to jelly, her eyes burning with a sudden and brutal onslaught of tears.

  Her body shook with the force of her sobs, and she reached up to hold on to the arms he had—like steel bands—around her body. She held on to him and cried until she was weak from the effort, and Finian lay back, taking her with him, spooning her against his body, holding her tightly.

  “Tell me when you’re ready to hear more,” he said softly.

  “T-Tell m-me,” she sobbed.

  “He had a heart attack yesterday evenin’ at the, uh, the Waterin’ Can?”

  “W-Watering C-Crab.”

  “Yeah, right. Fell off his barstool clutchin’ at his chest. That bloke on the phone went with him to the hospital, and they confirmed it was a heart attack.” He paused for a moment. “But he’s all right, Tate. He’s restin’. He’s goin’ to be okay.”

  Her mind focused to one inviolate and uncompromising thought.

  I need to go to Uncle Pete.

  Grasping at Fin’s hands, she pulled them away from her body, half sliding, half lunging from the bed. She tore open the dresser drawers, throwing her clothes on the bed, and whipped open the armoire to grab her suitcase, unzip it, and lay it open on the floor.

  “Tate, love, slow down,” said Finian, sitting up in bed.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped, pulling a bra from the pile on the bed and fastening it into place before yanking on some panties. She ran to the bathroom and returned a moment later, clutching everything she’d brought in her arms.

  “Tate, it’s six in the mornin’.”

  “And I’m sure there’s a flight leaving for somewhere in Florida by seven,” she said, without flicking a glance at him. “I intend to be on it.”

  She threw all of her toiletries into the open suitcase, then put her arms around the clothes on the bed and added them too. Grabbing a pair of possibly dirty jeans, she pulled them on, then jerked her phone, cord and all, from the wall beside the bed and threw it in her purse.

  “Can you slow down, lass?”

  “No. I can’t,” she bit back, finally sparing a look for him. He looked so confused, so worried and upset that she felt—deep inside—the awful feeling of caring for someone and letting them down, but she didn’t have time for Fin right now, so she squelched it. “Get dressed. I need a ride.”

  “You heard me, right? He’s okay,” said Fin. “He’s goin’ to be okay.”

  “He’s lying in a fucking hospital bed, Finian! He had a heart attack! A fucking heart attack! He’s not okay. He’s a long way away from okay!” She knelt on the floor, about to zip up the suitcase when she realized she was only wearing a bra on top. Pulling out the balled-up black T-shirt that she’d worn on Friday, she wiggled into it, then zipped the case shut. “Are you driving me or not?”

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and leaned down for his shirt and pants. “I’m drivin’ you.”

  As she waited for him to dress, she took out her phone again and scrolled through her messages. Frank had called eight times before she’d finally picked up. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What if Pete had died? What if she’d had a chance to see him one last time and she had missed that chance?

  Finian stood next to her, bracing his hand on the bedpost as he pulled on his shoes. “I’ll go get the truck and come back for you.”

  She nodded curtly, swiping at the tears on her cheeks. Was she crying? Apparently, she was.

  He reached for her face, presumably to kiss her or comfort her, but she didn’t want him right now. She wanted to be with Uncle Pete. She jerked away from Fin, crossing her arms over her chest. He drew back as though slapped, and the look in his eyes hurt her, but she just didn’t have time for his hurt feelings right now.

  Uncle Pete. I need to get to Uncle Pete. Now.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said softly, leaving her alone.

  And Tate, who had tried so fucking desperately since the death of her parents to stay clear of anything that could remotely hurt her as badly as th
eir loss, realized that she’d done a very poor job of achieving her mission. Pain was a part of life. There was no escaping it. There was no denying it. There was no way to avoid it. And it was so fucking unfair, it made her feel eight years old all over again.

  So she did what any frightened child would do: she sat down on the bed, and she wept.

  ***

  Finian understood Tate’s reaction to her uncle’s illness.

  He completely understood.

  Back at home, Fin had a mate, Trevor, who was originally from Belfast and had been a kid there during the Troubles before moving south to Dublin. And anytime there were fireworks or a car backfired, he’d clutch at his head, and his eyes would dart around wildly for a second while he looked for a place to hide.

  It was called PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, and no matter how many shrinks Trev had visited, they’d all said the same: meds and therapy would help, but there was no cure for PTSD, only healing.

  And his Tate? She’d looked just like Trevor, sitting on the side of the bed, frozen in terror, waiting to hear the words she’d dreaded since the day she’d lost her parents: that someone else she loved was dead.

  Even now, sitting beside him in the truck as he drove her back down to Manchester, he wondered if she’d ever gotten any help. At this point, he had nothing to lose, so he decided to ask her.

  “When you were little,” he started, “you said yer uncle didn’t know how to be a parent.”

  “He did his best,” she said, her tone defensive.

  “I know he did,” said Fin, treading lightly, “and I know you love him for it. But what I’m wonderin’ is…did he get you help for it?”

  “He adopted me.”

  “Right. But did he get you a therapist? Someone to help you grieve?”

  She didn’t answer, and when Fin glanced at her, her jaw was set and her arms were crossed tightly over her chest.

  “I’m not criticizin’ him,” said Fin gently. “I’m sayin’ that you were traumatized at a young age, and I’m wonderin’ who helped you see yer way through it.”

  “Uncle Pete,” she muttered.

  “Yer uncle, who had no idea how to be a parent to a little girl.”

  “Shut up, Fin,” she said, her voice like gravel.

  “It’s never too late,” he went on. “My mate, Trev, is still workin’ through the Troubles.”

  “The Troubles?”

  “Yeah. In, uh, Northern Ireland? He grew up on the northwest side of Belfast where they had years of bombin’ and the like. Saw too many terrible things for a wee one. Still crouches down when a loud noise surprises him.” He paused for a second. “You did that this mornin’ when yer uncle’s friend called.”

  “I didn’t crouch.”

  “No. You froze. You froze out of fear.”

  “Are you a doctor? A psychiatrist?” she snapped, turning to glare at him.

  He stopped at a red light and met her furious eyes with his. “No, lass. I’m just a dumb paddy who cares somethin’ fierce for you.”

  Physically, she crumpled. Her head drooped forward, and he heard her harsh intake of breath, more a twisted sob than anything else. Her shoulders shook and instead of crossing her arms, he realized she was holding them. She was hugging herself. Maybe because when she’d been so little and so alone, there’d been no one else to do it for her.

  Pulling the car over, Finian unbuckled his seat belt and hers, gripped her upper arms firmly, and drew her body against his. He held her tightly, rubbing her back and whispering soothing words in Irish. She cried against his shoulder until the fabric was soaked and she was hiccupping every few seconds.

  “I’m a mess,” she said. “A fucking…mess.”

  “Nah, Tate. Yer trapped,” he said, rubbing her back. “When somethin’ bad happens, yer eight years old again, just like the second a car backfires, Trev is back in Belfast.”

  “Is therapy h-helping your f-friend?” she asked through sniffles.

  He realized that she’d relaxed against him, and he savored the moment, knowing that it was likely his last chance to hold her. “I think so, yeah. Can’t hurt, right?”

  She sniffled again. “Sorry I was s-such a b-bitch this morning.”

  “Nah. You had a scare.”

  She leaned away from him to look into his eyes. “I’m sorry we won’t have an extra day or two.”

  It hurt Fin’s heart to hear the words, but talking her out of going home to her uncle would be not only impossible but pure selfish.

  “Me too. But you know where you need to be.”

  No, he wouldn’t be a selfish prick and try to talk her into staying, but he wasn’t a saint either. He knew full and well that this was his last chance to let her know how he felt and to let her know how much he wanted to see her again. And he wasn’t going to let it pass him by.

  “In Dublin,” he said, reaching for her cheek to wipe away her tears, “my favorite bar is called Donoghue’s. It’s near St. Stephen’s Green. Black-and-white front. Bit o’ a dive inside. It’s where the Dubliners got their start.” Her eyes were luminous as she stared at him. “On Sundays, I play guitar there sometimes. If we get some fellas together, we might go on for two hours or more. It’s the best place in Dublin.” She scanned his face, nodding at him to let him know she was listening. “Now. Picture an old guy in the corner. Gray beard, white hair. He watches the door like it’ll run away if he doesn’t guard it, like he’ll miss somethin’ if he looks away.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I am him,” said Fin. “In sixty years, that’s me…still waitin’ for you.”

  Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “What? What do you—?”

  “I’ll be there every Sunday at four, Tate, no matter what. No matter who gets married or who dies on a Sunday, I’ll be there. I’ll be watchin’ the door for you to walk through it, darlin’. Nothin’ will keep me away. I’ll be waitin’.”

  “Fin,” she sobbed, her tears falling fresh all over again.

  “I didn’t mean to get attached. I didn’t mean to fall for you, mo cailleach. I didn’t mean to, but I did. And all I want…” He gripped her cheeks harder, blinking his eyes against his own tears, as she reached up and covered his hands with her own. “All I want…is more time…with you.”

  She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his, their tears mingling as they shared the sorrow of bad timing and the rush of finding each other. Despite the odds, Fin somehow fit into the puzzle of her life like he was destined to be there all along.

  “And now I’ll drive you home,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers one final time before helping her back into her seat and pulling back onto the highway.

  CHAPTER 9

  One month later

  “Finian!”

  In his usual corner spot, he looked up to see a blonde woman walking toward him. For just a second, he thought it was Tate, and his heart—his ridiculous heart—swelled with hope.

  But it wasn’t Tate. It never was.

  It was Cynthia, with pasty faced Jamie Gallagher nipping at her heels like a wee terrier. Fuck.

  “Hello, Finian.”

  “’lo, Cindy,” he greeted her with a wan smile.

  “Anyone sittin’ with you?” she asked, looking around the packed bar.

  “It’s mad here,” added Jamie.

  It’s always mad on a Sunday, he thought, giving Jamie an unwelcome look.

  “Eh…no,” he said, wishing someone else would come and join him. Anyone. The bloody queen o’ England would be more welcome than these two. “Though me mates could be by in a bit.”

  “How about we sit with you until they get here?” she suggested, taking a seat.

  “Yeah. Grand,” he said, though his tone stated it was anything but.

  “So,” said Jamie, in his pressed fucking golf shirt. Twat. “Cynthia says you went abroad for a while. How was that?”

  “Yeah. Good. Thanks.”

  Cindy picked up her pint, wiggl
ing her fingers against the glass as she took a wee drink, and it was impossible to ignore the ring she was wearing.

  Oh, fer fuck’s sake.

  “New ring?” he asked.

  “Engaged!” she crowed with a satisfied grin. “Jamie asked me.”

  “Didn’t think the baby Jesus did.”

  “Blasphemy,” whispered Jamie, looking horrified.

  “You look like shite,” said Cynthia sweetly.

  Finian took a long drink of his beer, staring at her like he wished she’d get lost.

  “We’re gettin’ married in August,” she said, very pleased with herself.

  “Knocked up?” asked Fin.

  “Gabh síos ort fhéin,” growled Cynthia, which roughly translated to the suggestion that Finian go fuck himself.

  “Cynthia!” gasped Jamie.

  “Better me wankin’ myself than puttin’ up with the likes ‘o you,” he muttered.

  “Well. I’ll tell you one thing! We’re not puttin’ up with this a moment longer,” said Jamie, rising from his seat. “Come along, Cynthia.”

  “Yeah. Good. Go fuck yerselves,” said Fin, watching them go.

  He finished his beer and slammed the glass down on the wooden table.

  Fucking Cynthia was getting married. Well, that was great. Bloody weapon. He wished her a hundred years of tepid sex with her pasty-faced grocer.

  But on one count and one alone, Cynthia was probably right. He probably did look like shite.

  It hadn’t exactly been the best month of his life.

  When he’d first gotten home, it’d been good to see his mam and dad and the lads. His old job was waiting for him, and his mates Colin and Tommy had offered him a spare room at their flat until he got set up again. In some ways, it was good to be home…but in others, it wasn’t.

  The first week, he’d still been on a high from meeting Tate and hopeful that she’d suddenly stroll into the bar one weekend, excited to see him. They’d connected over Facebook and Instagram and Skyped a few times too. But the distance was an unholy bitch, and he could feel her slipping away from him. He could feel all of that beautiful fucking potential fading day by day. And he hated it.