Proper Irish (Jaded Lily #1)

by Zeia Jameson

  “They will be put to good use.”

  “Good.” He looks at the food I’ve laid out on the counter. “You making dinner?”

  “I am. I was going to throw together a quick stir-fry and just lounge around. Decompress from all the drama of the past few days.”

  “I think that’s exactly what you need. I’ll go. I just came to give you those.” He points to the bag.

  I really do need some alone time. But God, I want him to stay.

  “You can stay,” I say before I think too much about it. “There will be enough food for two. I was going to save the rest for leftovers, but you are welcome to stay.”

  Please stay.

  His grin turns wide, and he wedges himself between me and the counter, his leg pressed firmly in between mine. “You sure?” he whispers.

  Fuck yes.

  “Definitely sure,” I say, letting his eyes melt me into a puddle. He kisses me, and I breathe him in. He wraps his hands into my hair, and my arms go around his waist, running my hands up his back.

  He pulls away. “I’ll cook dinner,” he commands, moving hair from my flushed face. “You go sit. Relax.” I nod, but I don’t go far. I sit at the bar and watch him chop and dice, his arms and chest flexing with each press of the knife. Each stir and flip of the pan show me the definition in his back. I want to pounce on him and rip off his shirt. I want to . . .

  “D’ya like spicy?”

  What the fuck did he just ask me?

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  He points to the wok. “Spicy or no?”

  “Definitely spicy.”

  As if I need more heat. It is already a hundred degrees in here.

  We eat his delicious, spicy stir-fry, binge on a few episodes of Vikings while he massages my shoulders and then my legs and feet, saying he doesn’t want to be the reason I am not able to decompress tonight.

  Then he scoops me up, charges to my bedroom, and decompresses me more until the early hours of the next day.

  We spend most of the morning in bed, tangled in each other. Just before noon, we make our way to the living room and lounge with each other on the sofa. This is the most relaxed I have ever been. I feel absolute comfort in his arms. Safe. I could certainly get used to this. As he lazily plays with strands of my hair, it makes me wonder if he feels the same. I don’t even know how to describe these feelings to talk about it with him. I had a few boyfriends in the past. One long-term relationship. Sure there were butterflies and the feelings of newness associated with a crush. But this is different. More than butterflies. More than lust. I admire him. Adore him. I am lured by the mystery of him. It is more than surface feelings.

  I close my eyes and relax into his chest. I think on all of our time together. How even when he was an asshole to me, I was drawn to him. How fucked up is that? I giggle to myself lightly.

  “What’s got ya laughing, Aoibhinn?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. Just thinking about us. How I met you. It’s easy to laugh about it now.”

  He pulls my hair back and kisses my neck, sending tingles straight down to my toes. “I’m so glad you aren’t who I thought you were. I was so pissed that someone so beautiful, with your amber eyes and your perfect smile, could be like the whore bitch with no brains. It drove me crazy for a year.”

  I turn to look at him. “You’ve been pining over me for a year?”

  He smiles. “Aye, I suppose. Although it didn’t feel like pining. When I first saw you last year, in that fucking dress, with your hair pulled back, you took my breath away. I wanted to know you. But then you were hanging around the whore b—”

  “Can you just call her Victoria?” I tease.

  “No. But when I saw you with her, I was crushed.”

  “How is it that you are so kind and generous to rose ladies and street musicians, but you instantly judge someone you don’t know and hate them because of your assumptions.”

  He shrugs unapologetically. “I hate her and everything she represents. She’s an alcoholic, money-grubbing socialite who wouldn’t spit on someone beneath her social class if they were on fire. She’s shallow and trite, and she’s made my father miserable.”

  “Yeah. Your father. I don’t understand him at all. How could he do that to your sweet mother?”

  I feel Padraig tense. He’s silent for a moment, and before I am able to know if he’ll answer, my doorbell rings. I jump at the sound. I run back to my room to get my robe. Tightly wrapped and more decent, I open the door. “Are you Ms. Stella Rosencourt?” A guy looking to be in his early twenties, or possibly late teens, stands before me. He’s staring at my robe. I clutch it tighter to my chest.

  “I am.” He hands me a small envelope, which I take suspiciously.

  He also passes me a clipboard. “Sign here, please.” I use both my hands to take the clipboard and sign the paper. My robe goes slack again, and the guy clears his throat.

  Little creeper.

  “What is this for?”

  “Don’t know. I’m just the messenger.” He gives me a grin as though he lives to say those words every day.

  “Great. Thanks.” I close the door in his face as he tells me to have a good day. I quickly tear open the envelope and unfold the letter. Scanning the words, my heart drops. “What the fuck?”

  So much for comfort and safety.

  “What is it?” Padraig asks, coming to my side.

  “It’s a statement of non-compete. It’s stating that because my employment was terminated by Rachel, I’m not allowed to do event planning in this area for at least a year. I’m supposed to immediately cease and desist all current business.”

  “That’s rubbish. She can’t do that.”

  “Well, this signature by her attorney says she can.”

  Padraig pulls me in for a side hug. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

  I sigh out of desperation and exhaustion. “I know. I just want this to be over.”

  Padraig calls up his father immediately. Seamus asks me to bring the letter to him as soon as I can, and I do. Within an hour of me arriving at his office, his legal counsel reviews the document and declares it bogus and unsubstantiated. He contacts Rachel’s attorney and has a retraction letter from him couriered to the mayor’s office. With that disaster out of my hair, Padraig and I make our way to the banquet hall to assess all of the setup. With less than twenty-four hours to go before the event, I look around the space, inhale a deep breath, and take pride in how everything turned out despite all of the abnormal hurdles I had to jump through.

  Padraig kisses me on the head. “Everything looks beautiful.”

  “It certainly does,” Kerry says, approaching us. “Let’s go peek in on Moira and Phillipe and see if they need help,” she says. We make our way to the kitchen, and upon opening the doors, we hear laughter. No, giggling. Flat-out, schoolgirl giggling. Past the shelves of bulk cans of condensed milk and bags of flour, we move in to find a sight that shocks the hell out of me so much I gasp. Seamus is standing behind Moira with his arms around her waist, nuzzling his face into her neck. Moira is coyly smiling and loving every minute of it. They are both covered in flour. They straighten themselves and disconnect at my gasp.

  Padraig grins from ear to ear. “Dad? Mam? What’s going on in here?”

  Moira wipes the back of her hand across her forehead. She has a slight blush on her face.

  “Just helping your mam with some things, is all,” Seamus says. “Gettin’ set up for tomorrow.”

  Kerry and I remain quiet. This may be a family matter we need to remove ourselves from.

  “Right,” Padraig says. “Where’s the whore b—”

  I gently backhand him on the arm.

  “Where’s Victoria?” he continues.

  “I kicked her out this afternoon. She and that awful Rachel woman were hanging out in my library, completely pissed off of wine. They were cackling about all of the horrible things they wanted to do to sweet Stella here. It was enough. I had security
escort them both off of the premises with strict orders not to let her come back.”

  No wonder I hadn’t seen her today.

  “She’ll take you for everything,” Padraig says.

  “Don’t care. She can have it all. As long as your mam takes me back, I want nothing else.” He kisses Moira on the cheek.

  “But you don’t want him to be mayor. He’s still the mayor,” I speak up. I have no clue why I’m trying to complicate things by pointing this out.

  “Not after November,” Seamus says, squeezing Moira into a hug. “I’m not running for reelection. Positive this time. I’m tired of feeling like a puppet. And I miss my Moira so much. I need to spend time with her to grovel. And then we’re going to open up that restaurant. Finally.”

  Moira nods a confirmation.

  Padraig’s face is completely full of joy. I reach over and pull him in for a side hug. “Wow. That is so great, you two! I’m so happy for you.”

  For a few hours, we help Moira and Seamus with a few prep tasks and with clean up. Then we all go out to dinner on the river to celebrate. The night is cool, and the river generates a good breeze and perfect background noise for our outside seating. Padraig invites Luca. Although Kerry won’t admit it, I know there’s something going on between them. We spend the night dining, drinking, and laughing, all of us carrying on like teenagers. After we close the place down, we head over to where the Frank Sinatra saxophonist plays. Padraig slips a roll of bills into the man’s coat pocket and sets a carryout box full of steak and potatoes from the restaurant into his open sax case.

  The saxophonist stops playing briefly. “Thank you, brother.” Padraig nods and gives him two pats on the shoulder. We dance by the dock to the tunes of the Rat Pack until we are exhausted from it. This was absolutely the best night of my life.

  St. Patrick’s Day and the evening of the ball finally arrive. Everything is phenomenal. The music is magical, the food is heavenly. Guests rave and rave over everything all night. Matilda’s dyed-green marigold centerpieces are a hit, as I predicted. They were Victoria’s idea, and she isn’t even here. They turned out lovely anyway, and I wonder if Victoria would have liked them. Not that I care either way, but I wonder just the same.

  Guinness, Harp, and Smithwick’s flow steadily from the taps all night, and our signature Jameson mint cider cocktail is a hit. No one complains about not having green champagne, like Victoria had fretted over so much. Smiles. The room is full of smiles and laughter. Every now and then, Seamus belts out some Irish limerick, and everyone raises their glasses to the sky. During dinner, everyone oohs and aahs and mmms over each dish that is served. Seamus introduces Moira, Phillipe, and his assistants as the chefs of the evening. They receive a standing ovation. Phillipe graciously gives Moira all of the credit. After we rightly stuff ourselves, the Irish folk band fills the room with Celtic tunes. Seamus takes center stage with Moira, and they perform a jig as gracefully as two people could. The room joins in, bouncing around, spinning and laughing, all the while dressed to the nines.

  Nearing the end of the evening, Kerry approaches the stage and explains a festive activity to the crowd. She holds up two bowls of small brass lapel pins. Harps for the gentlemen, shamrocks for the ladies. Everyone is to take a pin, find your love, and give the pin as a token of promise and hope. I stand to the side while guests select their pins and trade with their partners. The band plays slow, beautiful music in the background. I relish the moment. Everything about tonight has been perfection. I am very proud of what we’ve accomplished.

  A hand snakes around my waist, and I can smell him. I close my eyes, inhale, and lean back into him. He brings his other arm around, hand open. “I brought you something.” I look down to his hand to see two pins. “Would you like to dance?” he asks. I turn into him and nod. I take the harp pin and place it on the lapel of his tux. He places my shamrock on the spaghetti strap of my dress. “You look gorgeous tonight,” he says, kissing me on the cheek.

  “As do you.” I run my hands down the front of his jacket. “You clean up pretty nice.” Padraig pulls me in, and we dance slowly for what seems to be blissful eternity.

  I feel a faint shoulder tap, and it pulls me from my utopia. I look to see Kerry behind me.

  “Hey,” she says, “the party is dwindling out. Why don’t you two get out of here. Go have some fun on River Street. I have the rest of the evening handled.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She winks with a smile. “Positive. Now go.”

  I look down at myself. “I can’t go anywhere else dressed like this.”

  Kerry holds up a duffel bag I didn’t realize she was holding. “Your man thought of everything. Go change, hang your dress in the coat closet, and I’ll take it home. Padraig, I’ll take your tux, too.”

  He nods and looks at me. “Let’s go change, shall we?”

  I make my way into the ladies’ room and open my bag. I don’t know if Kerry or Padraig actually packed this, but it’s perfect for River Street. Jeans, Chucks, and a green T-shirt with a big shamrock on it that reads “Hands off, I’m stabbish.”

  I change, hang my dress, and go to find Padraig. He’s wearing low-hung jeans and a tight, black short-sleeve shirt, making the tattoos on his arms look gorgeous and edible.

  “You aren’t wearing green. They’ll annihilate you downtown.”

  Padraig pulls me in for a hug. “Don’t give a fuck.”

  “Okay. Your funeral.”

  We leave the hotel and walk the few blocks to River Street, hand in hand, taking in all of the drunken festivities. The squares are bursting at the seams with people; I can only imagine how crowded it will be on River Street. We pass by a few guys sitting on a curb with their heads sunken between their knees. They didn’t manage their booze well.

  The crowd gets thicker the closer we get to the river. I tug on Padraig’s hand and begin leading him through an alley shortcut I know to get to Wet Willie’s. “Where are we going?” he asks.

  “Trust me. You’ll see.”

  I know for a fact Wet Willie’s will be crowded tonight. It’s always the hot spot on St. Patrick’s Day, so much so that people are herded through the place in one organized, single-file line. Come in the front door on River Street, buy your max limit of drinks—two per customer—and head upstairs to the back door to exit. People stand in line for nearly an hour for a taste of the frozen concoctions they offer. I know the guy working the back door. And I know one of the bartenders working tonight. We’ll be in and out in no time.

  As we approach the back door, I wave to Charles, the bouncer. “Evening, Stella. I haven’t seen you around in a while.”

  I lean in for a brief hug. “I’ve been busier than I’d like to admit.” I turn to Padraig. “Charles, this is Padraig. Padraig, Charles.”

  Padraig and Charles shake hands. “Oh, yes, I know Padraig. We go way back.” I look between the two of them. Padraig smiles. “Good to see ya, brother.”

  “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” I say.

  “I could say the same about seeing the two of you together,” Charles says.

  “What can I say? I wore her down with my impeccable charm,” Padraig remarks.

  We all laugh for a beat. Charles motions us through. “Go on in. Christian is downstairs. He’ll hook you up.”

  “Thanks, Charles.”

  “Anything for you, Stella.”

  We fight our way through the crowd that is moving in the opposite direction of us. We receive plenty of dirty looks along the way. I finally push my way close enough to wave down Christian. “Christian!” I yell.

  He looks my way and waves. “Come on back.”

  Padraig and I make our way behind the bar. Christian and I exchange a hug. I introduce him to Padraig, and they, too, already know each other. I find this all very strange, but I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s lived here way longer than I have. I should have suspected he’d know everyone.

  We each grab just one Call-a-Cab: grain alcohol mi
xed with fruity ice. It sounds disgusting and lethal. But it’s delicious. You can’t even taste the alcohol in it. Which, in fact, does make it lethal and why there’s a two-drink-maximum limit. We thank Christian, say good-bye, and fight our way back outside.

  “I know the perfect spot to sit,” I say with excitement, as if it’s Christmas.

  “Lead the way, but I think I know where you’re going to go.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Aye.”

  I lead him to another alley. Just inside the alley is a half wall that I think was put there just for me. It stands about six feet tall, and behind it is a set of four concrete steps that you can walk up to climb onto the wall. It has always baffled me as to why it exists, but I’m glad it does because it’s the perfect spot to sit and people-watch.

  “Is this where you thought I’d go?”

  “It is.”

  “How’d you know?”

  He shrugs. “Seems like a spot meant just for you,” he says as though he read my mind. I smile at the thought.

  We climb the steps up to the wall and perch ourselves on top. We spend hours sipping our frozen drinks and watching the mass of people stroll by. We point and laugh at the silliness of it all. Thousands upon thousands of intoxicated people pretending to be Irish.

  Padraig brings his arm into a low hug around my waist. “So, this is how you normally spend St. Patrick’s Day?” he asks.

  “Yes. And I love it.”

  He pulls me in closer. “So do I.”

  “I can’t believe it. Of all the things, I never would have imagined this.”

  “It’s on every local channel. It’s all over the Internet!” Kerry exclaims.

  I shake my head in complete disbelief. It’s been three weeks since the St. Patrick’s Day ball. Victoria and Rachel are people of my past. Forgotten. Or so I thought.

  At two thirty this morning, the home of highly acclaimed Savannah real estate agent, Theodore Whitman, was raided by a Chatham County SWAT team and the FBI. Although the details are still being sorted by the media, it seems that the authorities have been monitoring Whitman’s home for months because of an anonymous tip. During the raid, many illegal items were found, including forged documents, unregistered firearms, and twenty-eight kilos of cocaine. Whitman was arrested, as were seven other people who were enjoying late-night cocaine-induced activities with him. Two of those people were Victoria and Rachel.