When I glance over at him, I can see what he’s thinking, the question he wants to ask. It’s what most people who know anything about CF think when I tell them about Maeve.
Shaking my head, I answer his unvoiced question. “I don’t have it.”
I can tell he tries to hide it, but I see the relief in his eyes.
“Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier if I did.” I blink back tears, and look back at the pile of rocks in front of me. “I know how terrible that sounds. But I think that maybe if I did, there wouldn’t always be this crushing sense of guilt weighing me down.”
“Guilt? For what?”
“For surviving.” I’ve never admitted that to anyone, and I can’t stop the tears now. They roll down my cheeks, blurring my vision.
He pulls me against him, angling me so that I’m in his lap, head resting on his chest, his hands wrapped around my body protectively as I let out a small sob.
“Ye can’t feel guilty for being alive.”
“You don’t understand. She was beautiful, and smart, and kind. Everyone loved her. She didn’t deserve to suffer the way she did, to lose her life before she even got a chance to live it.”
His hand rests on the back of my neck. “Ye feel like she was better than ye.”
“Maybe.”
He sighs and strokes my hair off my cheek. “I never met yer sister, but I can tell ye with absolute certainty, ye’re beautiful, and smart, and kind.” He cups my chin, forcing me to look at him, then drags his thumbs gently under my eyes, wiping away the tears. “And ye’re just as deserving to live as she was. But I think ye need to start living ye’re own life.”
He takes the paper from my hand, frowning as his eyes scan the page.
“I promised her…”
He starts to rip the page near the bottom, and I panic. “What are you doing?”
“Ye promised her ye’d do these things, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there’s only one thing on this list that I can see ye’re obligated to do.” He continues to rip the page, then hands me the small strip.
I read the words written there. “Find Your Happiness.”
He hands me the rest of it. “Ye can’t live yer own life if ye’re trying to live someone else’s.”
I know he’s right. I came here chasing Maeve’s dreams, hoping it would make me feel anything but the constant numbness that’s been with me since she passed.
The only time I haven’t felt it is when I’m with him. But even that will come to an end. And soon.
If I don’t have Maeve’s list, then what do I have? No job. A pile of student debt. Parents who are too wrapped up in their own grief to even remember my birthday. Even my friends back home have pulled away, or maybe I pulled away from them, hating the look of pity in their eyes.
But those things won’t change if I’m here chasing a ghost.
I tuck the smaller piece in my pocket and stand, clutching the rest of the list. A thousand memories push to the forefront of my mind, and I realize that I’ll never make another one with her no matter how much I want to.
With a shaky breath I fold the list, then lean down placing it under one of the rocks. The small bird is still perched on the rocks above, watching me. I chuckle when I think about what Maeve would say. She’d find some spiritual or significant meaning in its presence. Right now, I wish I could be as willing to believe.
“Goodbye,” I whisper.
As if in response, the bird chirps then flies off, just as a ray of sun breaks through the clouds hitting my face with a sudden burst of warmth.
I sigh, allowing myself to accept the small illusion.
Goodbye.
Cillian holds out his hand. I can’t read his expression, but at least it’s not pity I see.
I take his hand, and let him lead me back to the path. My ankle is throbbing now, and every step I take is excruciating. “Are you sure you don’t want to carry me?” I joke.
He stops and looks at me, frowning, one brow drawn up, then sighs. “Fine. Get on my back.”
I chuckle until I realize he’s serious.
“I was just kidding.”
“I’m not.” He removes his backpack and kneels. “I’d like to get back to the car sometime today, and the way ye’re hobbling along, I don’t see that happening.”
I know the gruffness in his voice is meant to convince me that he hates the idea, and that he’s only doing it for selfish reasons, but even so, as I climb on his back, I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips.
Wrapping my arms over his shoulders, I whisper in his ear. “Thank you.”
He grunts, but I feel his muscles tense, and the small tremble that races through him when I kiss his neck.
“Don’t thank me yet, love. I have an idea of how ye can make it up to me tonight.”
Chapter 16
Cillian
I moaned and complained most of the way down the mountain, but honestly, I didn’t mind carrying her. I also didn’t mind her opening up to me. At least I know the truth now. And I was right about the damn list. It wasn’t hers.
But something has been nagging at the back of my mind. If the list wasn’t hers, if she’s been doing all these out-of-character things just to grieve the loss of her sister, then what the hell is she doing with me?
Was it just to prove something? Is that all this has been to her?
I’m not sure why it bothers me so much.
I’m the one that set the rules. The one who built the walls. But if she’s done with the list, then she’s most likely done with whatever this thing is between us.
A few days of her, and I’m already hooked. Desperate for more.
She’s not like any other woman I’ve ever met. And I’ve known all types. From backstabbing bitches like my ex, to stubborn, insanely devoted women like Emer.
But Delaney...she’s odd and strangely prone to accidents, but she’s unique…special.
It’s like I know her completely and intimately, and yet she’s a mystery at the same time. Something sacred to be cherished and protected.
Get a grip, Cillian. She’ll be gone in less than a week. Don’t make this about anything more than it is.
I sit on the edge of the pier wall and watch her from the distance as she stands at the edge of the ocean, feet buried in the sand, staring out towards the setting sun.
Her long, dark hair whips around her shoulders, and she’s wearing my old leather jacket over her sundress. I pull out my phone and take a picture, wanting to capture the moment, and the day, to have some small piece of her, even if it’s just a picture on my phone.
She’s just a woman, asshole, my brain growls out over the emotions that stir in my chest. A woman who’ll be gone soon. Fuck, we don’t even live on the same continent.
I’m confusing lust with something more, that’s all it is.
“You’re going to miss it,” she says over her shoulder, the oranges and purples of the sky illuminating her face.
So goddamn beautiful.
I pull off my boots, and roll my jeans above my ankles, then hop from the wall.
She leans back against my chest when I come up behind her and wrap my arms around her waist.
“I’ve never seen a sunset over the ocean before. It’s incredible.”
I tighten my grip, and bury my face in her hair, inhaling her scent.
Mine.
She exhales softly as the last of the sun dips below the horizon. “I wish…”
“What de ye wish, love?”
She turns in my arms, then wraps her hands around my neck. “I wish I could stay here longer.”
“How long do ye think ye’ll stay?” I can’t control the tightness in my chest.
“Once I get the car thing straightened out...” Her gaze drops to my chest, brows drawn down. “I’ll go home after that.”
That’s what I was afraid of.
“Then ye better enjoy what little time ye have left.” I tilt her chin up a
nd grin down at her. “Forget the list. I’ll show ye the best of Ireland.”
“I think you already have.” Her fingers trace the outline of my scruff, and a small smile tugs at her lips.
Damn, the emotions that she makes me feel.
I kiss her hard, devouring her like a starving man. Needing to replace the ache in my chest with something far less dangerous. Desire.
She makes me forget the world around us. Makes me forget why I don’t trust people, why I keep my emotions safely hidden behind a wall of cynicism.
A deep chuckle rumbles behind me before a familiar voice calls out my name, “Cillian Gallagher.”
Pressing my forehead against Delaney’s, I exhale and try to gather what’s left of my sanity, before turning to the group that’s walking toward us.
Patrick Murphy, the lead singer of O’Mulligans, grins as he approaches.
“Now, there’s trouble.” I take his hand and he pulls me to his chest, slapping my back.
“What’s the craic?”
“Feck all, and yourself?”
“Doin’ fine.” His gaze goes to Delaney, and his eyes widen in appreciation. “And ye are?”
“Delaney. It’s nice to meet you.” She allows him to take her hand, but he holds it a little longer than necessary, and I feel a growl rumbling in my throat.
“Ye’re American?” He’s still holding her damn hand.
A rush of jealousy smacks me in the chest, and without thinking, I wrap one arm around her shoulder and pull her towards me.
Patrick chuckles. “So, it’s that way, is it?”
I grunt, causing him to laugh harder, and Delaney to look up at me in confusion.
“Are ye coming to the Crow’s Head?”
I nod, which seems to satisfy him.
As they start up to the beach in the direction of the pub, Patrick shouts over his shoulder in Gaelic and the other men laugh.
I grunt, glad Delaney doesn’t understand the language. If she did, I may have had to knock a few of the man’s teeth out. I still might if he looks at her that way again.
“What did he say?” she asks, as we start to walk back to the pier.
“That ye’re beautiful,” I lie.
“Oh.” She pulls her lip between her teeth, and even in the fading light I can see the blush that spreads across her cheeks.
I swear the woman doesn’t know how sexy she is. In a way, it scares me, because she doesn’t see the way men look at her, or the danger they pose.
“What’s the Crow’s Head?” she asks, shivering as a cool gust of wind twirls around us.
“A pub.”
She groans. “No more whiskey.”
I laugh.
“Ye can stick to Guinness tonight.” I scoop her up, and she lets out a little yelp before wrapping her arms around my neck and burying her face in the crook of my neck.
“I could get used to this,” she murmurs against my skin. “You carrying me.”
“Ye’re making me wonder if ye haven’t been faking being hurt all along.”
She chuckles. “I guess you’ll never know.”
There’s a lot I’ll never know about her. And a million things I want to.
Chapter 17
Delaney
Today has been perfect. Or maybe it’s just being with Cillian that’s made it so great. The only problem is that I’ve bared my soul to him, and I still know practically nothing about him.
“What?” he asks over his Guinness when he catches me watching him.
We’re sitting in the Crow’s Head Pub at one of the back booths. I keep catching people staring at him, but when I mention it, he just shrugs it off.
I pick at the fish and chips in front of me. “You just haven’t told me much about yourself.”
“There’s not much to tell.” He shrugs, and glances at the band as they start to set up on stage. “What do ye want to know?”
Everything.
His family seems to be a sore subject, so I ask him, “What do you do for work?”
“Work?” He looks at me like it’s a foreign concept.
“A job? You know, that thing you do to make money.”
He chuckles, and places his forearms on the table. “Ye wouldn’t believe me if I told ye.”
That’s sounds like trouble.
“Try me.” I cross my arms and lean back in my chair.
Shrugging, he says, “I’m in between gigs right now.”
I start to ask what the hell that means, but a metal tinging sound fills the room, and someone taps into a microphone.
“We’ve got a special guest here tonight,” the man says into the microphone, causing both Cillian and I to turn our heads in the direction of the stage.
It’s one of the men from the beach, and he’s pointing in our direction, or more specifically at Cillian.
Raising my brows, I look back at Cillian, whose expression has darkened.
“Fuck.” He drags his fingers through his hair and starts to move out of the booth. “Come on, we’re leaving.”
“Why?”
The man, who introduces himself as Patrick Murphy, says something in Gaelic that has the crowd cheering.
“The fecking bastard,” Cillian mutters, leaning with his palms on the table, back towards the stage. “Sorry, love.”
“Sorry for what?”
He takes a sip of his beer, then kisses me hard before turning and heading to the stage.
I am so freaking confused right now. But the crowd obviously isn’t. Everyone here seems to know exactly who he is. They clap and cheer as he steps onto the small stage.
“Wild Irish’s Cillian Gallagher,” Patrick says, before stepping away from the microphone so that Cillian can approach.
Wild Irish.
I’m pretty sure my mouth hangs open as I watch him adjust the stand, smiling out into the audience like he owns the place. Broody confidence surrounds him like an aura.
He takes the guitar Patrick hands him. He leans over and whispers something in the man’s ear that has him chuckling, but I can tell by Cillian’s eyes it was more of a threat than a joke. Yet, when he turns back to the crowd, all the anger is gone, and he actually looks like he wants to be up there.
“Hello. How are ye tonight?” He grins, and the people respond with more applause and cheers.
From the moment I saw him, I thought he was gorgeous. But on stage, he’s magnetic, pulling every pair of eyes towards him. Yet, it’s nothing compared to when he opens his mouth, his deep melodic voice filling the room.
His gaze holds mine as he sings the familiar words from the radio.
“Let the Irish rains wash away yer tears. Let me kiss away yer pain. Come to me, my love. I’m waiting on the shore. It’s safe in yer harbor, but that’s not what ships are for.”
People have their cell phones out, recording him like he’s a celebrity.
I guess he is.
His voice has been on every radio station since I’ve been here.
It hits me, then; he’s a freaking rock star. I’ve been living—and sleeping—with the lead singer of Wild Irish, and I didn’t even know it.
I’m sure there’s a part of the situation that I should be upset about. But I’m so turned on right now that the only thing I can think about is getting him out of this damn pub so I can kiss him.
At the end of the song, Cillian hands the guitar back to Patrick. They exchange a few whispered words. Patrick hands something to Cillian, then slaps him on the back again. Patrick looks at me and gives me a grin that has heat infusing my cheeks.
When Cillian steps off the stage, men and women—but mostly women—stop him as he makes his way back to the booth, some asking for autographs, and others taking selfies with him.
Patrick and his band get through a whole other song by the time Cillian reaches me.
His expression is unreadable, his gaze searching mine. “Well?”
“You’re Wild Irish.” I stand up when he takes my hand.
He shrugs
and his arms wrap around my waist. “I was.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
He exhales and rubs the back of his neck with one hand, the other tightening around me as if he’s worried I’ll take off. “Are ye upset?”
“No.”
“What are ye thinking?” His gaze is as dark and intense as it always is when he looks at me, but there’s a hint of vulnerability there as well.
“How freaking hot you are,” I say honestly, curling my fingers in his shirt and tugging him closer. I can feel people staring, and I’m pretty sure a few of them are taking pictures with their phones. But I don’t care. All I care about is the incredibly sexy man in front of me. “And how jealous every single woman in here is of me right now.”
“None of them hold a candle to ye, love.”
“I like when you call me that,” I murmur as his lips find mine.
He kisses me hard and long, and there are a few cheers from people around us.
“Do ye have any idea what ye do to me?” he says roughly, fingers tangling in my hair.
I know exactly what I do to him. Because I can feel the result pressed against my belly.
“Why don’t we leave and you can show me.”
He lets out a small growl before taking my hand and pulling me from the stool. “Patrick gave me the keys to his rental. We can stay here for the night if ye want.”
As long as I’m with him, I don’t care where I am.
I nod, and he grins. “Good. Let’s get the hell out of here. Because I’ve been dying to get that dress off ye all day.”
Chapter 18
Cillian
Patrick’s rental apartment is small, pretty much just a bedroom and bathroom with a small kitchenette against one wall. But it has a bed. And for what I want to do to Delaney tonight, that’s all I need. All day, the only thing I could think about was the heat of her pussy gripping my cock, her muscles rippling around me as she came, and hearing my name on her lips as she cried out in pleasure.
“What?” she asks when she catches me watching her.
I lock the deadbolt and grin. “You.”
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