My thumb hovers over the Delete button, but even though I know I’ll never call him, I can’t bring myself to erase Shane’s number. I hate that I allowed him to get under my skin the way he did. That I let him stir something inside of me – an ache, a desire that I know would only end in disappointment, or worse.
But damn, the man is gorgeous.
And cocky.
“Tea or coffee?” The stewardess who’d been flirting with Shane earlier asks the question icily.
“Coffee, please.” I watch her as she pours the dark liquid into the mug, taking in her slim figure, long legs, and perfect, model-like features.
And I despise the jealousy that presses against my chest. It’s not just that Shane had been flirting back, but that I know I’ll never live up to the standard of beauty that women like her possess. Or the confidence.
“Thank you,” I say when she hands me the coffee.
She gives a forced smile, then moves on to the next passenger.
Maybe Shane was right about her. About her self-assurance and conviction to take what she wants. Maybe that’s what I’m really jealous about. And I wonder what it would be like to be that free. To have no inhibitions. Not to worry about tomorrow, but just live in the moment.
Could I do it?
Funny, I’m moving to Ireland for six months, but the thought of taking a stranger to my bed seems terrifying.
Lost in my thoughts, which admittedly revolve around the hot Irishman up in first class, the rest of the flight goes by quickly. And, thankfully, turbulence free.
Shane is gone by the time I manage to get my carry-on dislodged from the overhead compartment and make my way down to the luggage claim. Which, despite the disappointment that stirs in my belly, I know is for the best.
After fighting to get my oversized suitcase off the spinning carousel, I lug it to the nearest restroom, needing a moment to regroup before I make my way to the pickup where my ride is probably already waiting.
I try to ignore my reflection in the mirror as I splash cold water on my face, because I barely recognize the mess of brown curls that tangle around my pale skin, and the tired, hollow eyes that stare back at me.
“New dreams,” I whisper, breathing through the panic attack that claws at my chest. “New life. New me.”
It’s a stupid mantra Quinn suggested I repeat whenever my new reality hit me.
Bitterness burns a path up my throat, and I swallow it down. I’d had a life. A good one. The kind of life I’d dreamed about since I was a little girl.
It wasn’t perfect. Neither was my marriage. But it was…good. And we were content. Or, at least, I thought we were - until it all came crumbling down around me. My happy-ever-after shattered into a million pieces because I naively trusted that when Chad said “I do,” he meant it forever.
A year ago, no one knew who Chad Hollister was. Just a lowly B-list actor who spent more time playing World of Warcraft than working or going to auditions, while I worked a nine-to-five job to pay for the designer clothes he needed, and the overpriced salon visits to have his hair perfectly highlighted. Not to mention the hotel rooms for his secret rendezvous with whatever Barbie clone he’d been screwing at the time.
God, I’d been blind. And stupid.
But the sucker punch had come a week after our divorce was finalized when he landed his first big role beside Hollywood’s most overrated and over-payed actress, Tess Remington, followed by the most recent announcement that they were expecting their first child.
A child I could never give him.
Karma was a bitch. Just not the kind I’d hoped for.
My cousins had offered to teach Chad a lesson. The offer was tempting. You don’t mess with the Savage men, or the people they care about. And even after I told them not to bother, that he wasn’t worth it, I knew they’d taken matters into their own hands. Because, a week later, Chad admitted publicly about his indiscretions, and offered an apology to me during one of his interviews.
But it was too late to repair the damage he’d already done to my reputation. He swore it had been his agent that put the spin on our divorce being about my unstable mental health, but I knew Chad well enough to know he’d do anything to protect his own self-image, including throwing me under the bus.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, and start living,” Quinn had said those words to me less than twenty-four hours ago when she’d driven me to the airport. “You’re a beautiful woman. You’ll find love again.”
I’m not even sure it’s what I want.
Love.
“Happiness is a sweet lie, and love a cruel mistress.” I repeat the quote my mom used to say whenever I asked her why she never dated again after my father left.
I never understood it until now. Never wanted to. She’d carried her bitterness around like a shield, opening her heart only to me.
I don’t want that. To live my life in fear of being hurt.
But hell, it’s hard not to. Not when I know how painful the fall can be.
Maybe Shane was right. What I need is to remove emotions from sex.
And what better man to start with than the Irish god, that had blatantly laid himself out like a tempting beefcake smorgasbord?
My phone rings, startling me. I’d forgotten I’d taken it off airplane mode. “Hello?”
“Is this Makena?” A woman speaks in a thick Irish accent.
“Yes.”
“This is Nora, Colleen’s sister. She said for me to pick ye up in front of the airport. I’m here now.”
“Right. Thank you. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Colleen should be arriving in New York about now. Quinn had stayed in the city to wait for her and take her back to Port Clover.
This whole experience is strange.
Living someone else’s life.
But anything was better than the one I left behind.
I cart my luggage through the airport, following the signs that are written in both English and what I assume is Gaelic. Dozens of different accents float through the crowded area. There’s a huge mob of people, cameras flashing, girl’s squealing, near one of the exits.
Curiosity has me craning my neck to see what celebrity is receiving so much attention, but whoever it is remains hidden in the crowd.
Outside, I glance down the long row of cars until I see a young woman waving at me frantically from a small, bug-like car that’s the same baby blue as the streaks in the girl’s otherwise silver-white dyed hair.
“Nora?” I ask as I approach.
“That’s me.” She beams down at me and grabs my carry-on, then starts chatting away like we’ve known each other for years. “Colleen sent me yer picture, so I’d know yer face. Ye’re even more adorable than yer photo. Ye know who ye look like? That actress. What’s her name?” Her lips purse as she opens the door. “The one that was married to Ben Affleck.”
“Jennifer Garner.”
“Right. Has anyone told ye that before?”
I nod. Only a hundred times, even though I could never see it myself.
“Did ye have a good flight? I’ve always hated flying myself, but I guess there’s no other way to get here. Unless ye take a boat, but that would take forever…”
Nora puts my luggage in the trunk of her car.
“I appreciate you picking me up,” I say when I sit down in the passenger seat beside her, which feels weird since it’s normally the driver’s side.
“The less Yanks on the road, the better.” She winks, but I can tell she’s not really joking. “It’s not that ye’re all bad drivers. But best ye learn how to navigate Irish roads out in the country, rather than starting here in the city.”
I don’t argue with her, because I hadn’t planned on getting behind the wheel while I was here, even though Colleen left her car for me to use.
Nora doesn’t stop talking as she pulls out of the airport pick-up area and into Dublin traffic.
A few times I have to close my eyes and clench my teeth to keep f
rom letting out a little squeal as she weaves through the narrow streets. And I understand why Colleen didn’t recommend me getting a rental car.
It’s not just driving on the opposite side of the road, or how unnatural making any turn is, but it’s the speed at which the other drivers approach, looking like they’re about to take off your mirror as they pass. A few times, I have to force myself not to let out the gasp that forms in my throat as Nora navigates through traffic.
As we start west, the roads turn into more of a highway, and I’m able to relax.
“So, this is yer first time to Ireland?” Nora asks, tucking her hair behind one ear and exposing more than a handful of piercings.
“First time outside of North America,” I admit, taking in the rolling green hills that replace the old buildings of Dublin.
“I know why my sister wanted to do this, but she didn’t tell me why ye want to come here.”
I shrug. “Just needed a change.”
“Well, if endless fields of sheep are what ye’re looking for, then ye came to the right place.” She gives me a side-glance and winks.
“I’m kind of looking forward to the quiet.” Or rather, the seclusion. The lack of prying eyes wondering if I’m going to eventually lose my shit again, like the tabloids reported.
Not that they were completely wrong. The large dent I’d put in the side of Chad’s Mazda convertible, the one I’d bought with my own hard-earned cash that he somehow convinced the judge belonged to him, wasn’t my smartest move. Not when his apartment cameras had picked up the images of me doing it. And then, the bastard had sold them to the paparazzi with a sob story about me being a crazy stalker who couldn’t come to terms that he’d moved on.
Asshole.
“Are ye a writer like my sister?” Nora asks.
“No.”
“Really?” She lifts one blonde brow, the one with the piercing through it. “Ye’ve got that look about ye.”
“What look?”
“The dreamer look. Same as Colleen. She always had that look, like she was searching for something. Something she couldn’t find here. That’s why she left.” Nora shrugs. “But maybe this is where yer story starts. It is love that ye’re looking for?”
“No.” I shake my head adamantly. “It’s what I’m trying to forget.”
She frowns. “So ye’re running from a broken heart?”
“I suppose.”
“Well, ye won’t have many men to bother ye in our small town. Nothing exciting ever happens here. Unless ye’re a Wild Irish fan.”
“Wild Irish?”
“The band.” She blinks at me like I’ve just grown two heads. “Ye really don’t know who they are?”
“No. Should I?”
“What rock have ye been living under? They’re only the hottest rock band to come out of Ireland since U2. Here…” She picks up her phone and scrolls through it. A second later a familiar song begins to play through the speakers. “Ye have to have heard this.”
“I see her face. Blurred by time. Arms outstretched, but never mine…”
I know the song.
“I have. Just didn’t know the band’s name.”
She gives a small, dissatisfied grunt, then says with a touch of pride, “They grew up in the next town over. I can introduce ye if ye want.”
The last thing I need is another celebrity in my life, but I can tell Nora is proud of her connection, and I don’t want to burst her bubble.
“They still live there?”
“When they’re not touring. So, what do ye say, want to meet them?”
“Rock stars aren’t really my thing.”
She laughs. “Rock stars are everyone’s thing.”
“Not everyone’s. Trust me. I’ve seen what the whole celebrity thing can do to a person.”
One eyebrow raises at me when she glances away from the road. “Spill.”
I don’t usually talk about Chad. Avoid it any chance I can. But as we drive, I find myself sharing everything with Nora. Everything but Chad’s name. Not that it would be difficult for her to find out. All she’d have to do is a quick Google search on me and find out that the man I was married to is this month’s Hollywood Candy choice for newest celebrity crush.
“He sounds like a class-A asshole,” Nora says, two hours later when we pull to a stop in front of a small cottage.
“Yeah. I can agree with that.”
“This is ye,” she says, opening her door and getting out of the car.
The cottage looks exactly like the pictures I’d seen online. Gray stone covered by moss and green vines surrounds a garden of purple and yellow flowers that grow wild. Behind the house are hills, outlined by stone walls, dotted with sheep.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, sucking in a deep breath of fresh, crisp air.
Nora helps me bring my bags inside, then hands me a paper with her number on it. “I’ll let ye get settled. But call me if ye need anything. I live with my Ma just down the road, and I can drive ye to the mart if ye need groceries, or to the pub if ye’re ever looking for a bit of fun.”
When she’s gone, I walk around the cottage. There isn’t much to it. Just a kitchen, a small living room, a bathroom with a tub and no shower, which I find a bit disconcerting, and a bedroom.
The bed calls to me.
I take my shoes off and crawl into it, pulling a homemade quilt over me and closing my eyes. I have every intention of exploring this beautiful country. But, right now, all I have energy for is sleep.
Closing my eyes, I repeat Quinn’s mantra in my head.
New dreams. New life. New me.
There’s still a tremor of anxiety that lives constantly in my chest, but for the first time in what seems like forever, there’s a flutter of excitement inside me, too. But I’m not sure if it’s from being here in Ireland, or from the image of the Irish god that floats through my thoughts as sleep pulls me into dreams of all the promises I’d seen in those intoxicating sage eyes.
Chapter 4
Shane
“Welcome home,” Owen says over his shoulder when I walk into the sound room of our studio, where he’s currently recording his wife, Bree’s second album.
Bree waves to me on the other side of the glass, then takes off her headphones and starts toward the door, her dark hair falling in waves down her back. Sometimes, I still can’t believe she’s the same scrawny little kid who used to follow us around all those years ago.
“Well?” Owen asks, turning to me.
“Another waste of a trip.” I toss my carry-on bag on the floor and sit down in the chair beside him, spreading my long legs out in front of me. “The kid had a good set of lungs, but there was just no chemistry between the band.”
“Shit. I really thought they had something.” His brows furrow and his lips pull down.
Finding real talent for the label has been more difficult than either of us thought. Sure, there are more than a half dozen want-to-be startup bands in every town on both sides of the Atlantic, but it takes more than just a guy with a decent voice and a couple of guitar lessons to make a star.
The it factor isn’t something you can teach. You either have it or you don’t. And the group I’d gone to scout in New York, didn’t. Which meant more wasted time and money when we should just be making the fucking music ourselves.
I grind my back teeth and hold back the rant that’s been stirring inside of me for months. It’s giving me a goddamn ulcer trying to hold it in.
I’m about to let it all spill out, when the door opens.
Owen’s frown instantly turns into a goofy grin when Bree enters.
Jeezus, the hold these chicks have on my guys is practically tangible. Trouble is, I can’t even hate her for it because she’s not just Owen’s wife; she’s my cousin. And despite, or maybe in spite of, her shy awkwardness, she’s hard not to like.
Owen stands and pulls her into his arms. “That last take was good.”
Bree shrugs, never completely happy wit
h any of her performances, despite how fucking talented the woman is.
“How was your trip?” she asks me, while leaning into Owen, her fingers threading with his, like the two of them have some kind of magnetic field that makes it impossible for them not to touch.
I sit down in one of the leather swivel chairs and rough my hands over my face.
“That good, huh?” She gives me a sympathetic look, one that tells me she gets my annoyance. And I know, in a way, she does. As talented as she is, an injury left her unable to play any instrument without it causing severe pain. She knows the frustration of not being able to play.
At least I can still pick up a guitar, or the sticks, and drum myself into a mindless oblivion whenever the need arises. My fingers tap out a rhythm on my thigh, needing the outlet even more after Makena’s rejection on the plane, since they didn’t get the chance to do the second-best thing they’re good at.
I haven’t been able to think about anything other than strumming that sweet, curvy body of hers, and making her sing my name as she comes on my mouth and then my cock. But I doubt I’ll be getting a call from her.
Despite the connection I know she felt, she wore her reservation like a giant, blinking billboard sign.
Her loss. Even as I think it, I know the truth. I want her. And whoever she finally does turn to for the release she so desperately needs, will be one lucky bastard.
“Have ye talked with the guys about starting another album?” I ask Owen, turning my thoughts to the one thing that does matter – the music. “Ye’ve written more than enough songs to get us started.”
“Until Delaney pops, Cillian isn’t leaving her side.” Owen releases Bree and turns back to the soundboards, turning them off.
“Then have him move her to Dublin while they’re waiting. If we don’t put some new material out soon, we’re going to be obsolete.”
Owen gives me one of his grins, like he’s dealing with a child who doesn’t know half the shit he does. “I think we have some time before that happens.”
“Tell that to the woman on the flight home,” I mutter, agitated, rubbing the back of my neck. “She didn’t have a clue who I was.”
Owen chuckles. “I’m sure she knew exactly who ye were by the time ye were done with her.”
Taming Irish Page 3