by Gage Grayson
“What are you implying, Killian?” I pretend to be outraged at his question. “That I’m so irresponsible I’d do something like that?”
Killian laughs and puts his arm around my shoulder. He gives it a little squeeze for good measure.
“How about something bold, something dark, and a little bitter?”
In mock horror, I punch him in the chest. “It might be the drink of the Irish, the one to fix every ailment, but Guinness is still alcohol.”
He rolls his eyes. “I meant coffee, in case it wasn’t clear.”
Oh.
“Irish coffee?”
“Rebecca…” His voice is stern, like I’d imagine an Irish school headmaster might sound like.
“Just kidding.” I throw up my hand in exasperation. “Can’t a gal have a little fun?”
“Strong black and one whiskey—neat,” Killian calls to the bartender.
I’m amazed how his order is fulfilled straight away.
“So, how much do you pay to get this type of service?” I tease, following him to two empty bar stools.
“Pay?” He pulls back in horror. “Haven’t you heard? I’m a hotshot author in this town—I mean planet—and I indeed get paid to come here and drink their stuff. The people here worship the ground I walk on, after all.”
I giggle. “Really? And why would an author of critically acclaimed, yet occasionally challenging material, receive such superstar treatment?”
His brow furrows. Our drinks arrive, and he lifts his glass.
“Fucked if I know. But who am I to question the actions of an entire town?”
Fair point.
“Well, I guess, but aren’t you the least bit curious?” I say, leaning toward him a little.
As I do so, my thigh brushes against his.
“Haven’t you heard?”
I shake my head and sip my coffee. Now he’s coming a little closer to me—and he was already plenty close—but hey, maybe it’s a cultural thing with these saucy Irish boys.
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
We both burst out laughing, almost as hard as we were back in that field of heather.
“Can I have another?” Killian calls out to the bartender but continues to look right at me.
“I’m all good, if that’s what you want to know. If I drink too much caffeine, I go silly,” I confess before taking another little sip.
It’s great coffee, exactly the way he ordered it—strong, bold and a little bitter.
It beats the ever-loving shit out of what you’d get at a bar or anywhere back in the States.
As far as I’m concerned, life’s too short to drink bad coffee. If you drink the stuff, you may as well drink the good stuff.
“Do you now?” Killian raises his eyebrows. “And exactly what happens to you?”
“Oh, Killy, you don’t want to know.”
“Ahh, but I do.”
I shake my head.
How does he do it?
It must be him. I’m not lying about caffeine giving me the goofs, but two goddamned sips aren’t enough to get me acting like…
What am I acting like, anyway?
Maybe it is the coffee—they just make it that strong here.
The next sip of coffee is even better than the last. “Okay, so all the caffeine bounces around my body like isotopes around a nuclear reactor and, bingo, you’ve got one dangerous person on your hands.”
Killian just stares at me for about two seconds. Hey, if he doesn’t find me funny, that’s his goddamned problem.
And I’m enjoying the look on his face as he stares anyway.
Killian finally breaks into a robust laugh. It’s a hearty belly laugh, one that has him almost doubling over at the waist.
“I’ve got to see this,” he exclaims and rubs his hands together. “Can I have an extra-large, extra strong coffee in the biggest mug you’ve got, please?”
Now it’s my turn to laugh.
“You’ll regret it,” I assure him and empty my current cup.
He rests his left hand on my thigh. I like it.
I probably like it too much.
“I don’t think so. I mean, I’d love to see the famous illustrator, the woman always in total control of her life, lose a bit of it.”
“That’s not very nice of you,” I mumble, and fold my arms.
“So?” He shrugs. “When did I say I was nice?”
I pretend to mull over his words. “I guess you didn’t.” I look him directly in the eyes.
There’s something there. Something I’ve not seen in the last few days.
Is it a spark of some sort?
Is this what inspiration seeping through an Irish novelist looks like?
“I just assumed you’re nice, you know, what with you being an author and all. And owning a horse.”
Killian leans into me again. His lips are right near my ear. I can feel his warm breath against my neck.
My own breathing increases, and I’m at the edge of my seat.
This is worse than any horror movie I’ve ever watched.
In fact, this is worse than watching Freddie Kruger. I mean, I have no fucking idea how this is going to end.
Real life is like that, I guess. No happy endings guaranteed, and nobody really knows what’s to be found outside the multiplex after it’s all over.
“You know what happens when you assume?”
I shake my head.
Each of my nerve cells quivers in anticipation. My body is practically screaming for him to touch me.
“When you assume, you put u between me and, wait, whose ass is that on the other side of you?”
This time, I laugh so hard tears are streaming down my cheeks. It’s not even that great a joke. I think the original may have been preferable.
But it’s all in the delivery. And Killian has that shit down pat.
“Stop it,” I order him, and wipe my face with the back of my hand. “If you keep going, I’m going to wet my pants, and I didn’t bring a spare slip.”
He strokes my cheek.
The gesture is so gentle—I just want to nuzzle my cheek into his hand and kiss him.
I can still feel his lips on mine from the kiss before. No wait, I can still taste him on my lips. The whisky, his masculinity, and the insecurities.
And I wanted to do it again.
So strong is the urge, I lean back a little to put some distance between us. With a trembling hand, I pick up the fresh mug of coffee and take a sip.
Hopefully, my hands aren’t shaking too much.
“How’s the writing going?” I ask, trying to regain some of my composure.
Killian shakes his head.
“It comes and goes,” he replies and waves his hand in the air as if trying to swipe a fly.
I nod.
I understand creativity. A lot of people don’t. It’s hard to delve into your creative juices every day and produce brilliance.
Some days you just don’t feel like it—but if you have a deadline, you’ve got to produce.
“And you?”
And me. Exactly right. It’s the same for me, only worse.
“I’ve had better days,” I confess. “But tomorrow is another day.”
Killian nods. “Let’s not talk about work.”
“Let’s not.” I look at him. “What should we talk about?”
He doesn’t reply immediately. It seems as if we’re locked in some quiet duel.
Neither of us wants to break the spell.
Neither of us knows what to do next.
Suddenly we’re part of some play, and we don’t have the script.
Should I improvise?
“You know,” I say, holding out my coffee. “This is surprisingly good stuff. I mean, for coffee.”
“You better get used to it, Becks. That’s all you’ll be having for a while. No alcohol for you.”
“So, when’re you giving it up?” I prompt and take a sip from my mug.
“Me, give it up?�
� Killian feigns a pain to the heart and clutches it with both hands. “What’re you trying to do to a healthy man, lassie?”
I grin. “I think it’s called support?”
“Support? How can I be supportive without a fecking drink?”
He looks way more fucking funny than he has any right to as he’s still clutching his heart.
“I can be supportive, but if you take my drink, well, support will go out the window.”
“Can’t have that, then, can we?” I rub his left upper arm to show sympathy. “We wouldn’t want you to collapse in a heap. I mean, what would happen to me if you were, you know…”
I stop because I was about to burst out laughing again. His crestfallen look is priceless.
“Trust me, Becks,” he says and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll be supportive all the way, as long as I’ve got me whisky.”
I nod.
His lips on my cheek are tugging at my insides again. With his face still within easy reach, all I need to do is turn my head slightly to the right for our lips to meet.
And in slow motion, I start turning my head.
Chapter 26
Killian
Feck.
Had someone moved those steps or added an extra one? Whatever they’ve done, they’re fucking messing with my head here—and my feet. I mean, those steps could kill a man.
Lucky for me, I’ve got lightening reflexes. I can save myself from falling down those last two steps. I swear they weren’t there last time I was here.
From what I can tell, Rebecca didn’t notice anything was amiss. Or she’s simply too fucking polite to point out what a klutz I am. Maybe it’s a combination of both.
We leave the pub behind us and walk home.
I gave Ida the day off.
When I took her out of the stable this morning, she had looked a little sore.
“How’s Ida?” Rebecca asks on cue, and I glance at her sideways.
Is she a witch? Does she actually have warts and green hair, and I just didn’t notice?
“Um…She looked a little sore this morning. I think she needs a new set of shoes, but the farrier can’t come till later in the week.”
“Poor thing. Hope she’s okay.”
For a while, we walk in silence.
I love the feel of her body next to me. It’s more intoxicating than a whisky.
“Look,” I say and point ahead of us. “Here is where you hit me, nearly killed me.”
In horror, Rebecca brings her hand to her mouth.
“Oh god, don’t remind me,” she mumbles. “I still have nightmares about that accident. I mean, imagine if I’d seriously hurt you.”
I turn to her and grab her hands.
“But you didn’t seriously hurt me. You only hurt me this much.”
I have to let go of her to indicate the width with both hands. After I’ve made my point, I reach for her hand again. We continue walking side by side, holding hands.
It feels fucking good to hold her hand. I almost hate how good it fucking feels.
“So, what’s life like around here?” she asks.
I can feel her eyes on me, and I shoot her another sideways look.
What is life like around here?
Wouldn’t she have some idea by now?
I’m honestly not sure how to fucking answer this.
One would think she just asked me to multiply five million six hundred and fifty-six thousand by three hundred and eighty-eight.
Actually, I might have some hope of being able to answer a multiplication question. I mean, a multiplication question has a specific answer—and if I reach for my phone I can work it out.
For this question, there’s nothing to reach for except my own thoughts.
“You know, it’s great,” I reply knowing goddamn well that it sounds fucking lame.
She laughs, and I can feel her squeeze my hand.
“Okay. Tell me more about these great days you have here.”
After an inward grumble, I try and think of something to say. “It’s nice. It’s peaceful and…you know.”
There, I had strung about three words together.
“If I didn’t know you were a writer,” she says, nuzzling into me, “I wouldn’t have guessed it. Don’t you like it? Are you living here because, you know…”
She’s not making fun of the way I answered. She’s implying something else.
It’s as clear as all those fucking stars in the sky right now what she means.
She wants to know if I’m living here because I’m hiding from life.
I shake my head.
“No. I’m from here. But that’s still a tough fucking question to answer. Whether I like it, why I like it…you’ve put me on the spot. It’s like someone asking you for your phone number and even though you know it, you can’t straight away think of it because it’s kind of buried deep in your memory.”
“Wow. There are some great ideas there.”
“How about you?” I decide to change the subject. “Your life in the USA—what’s that like?”
The clouds I’ve seen in her eyes before return. I’m almost sorry I’ve asked.
“Unlike you, I can’t say it’s been nice.”
She pauses. I don’t think it’s for dramatic effect. She seems to be walking down her own memory lane, picking and choosing what she’s going to share with me.
I’m okay with that.
“So, my marriage was shit. And I think when a large part of your life is shit, most of your life seems that way. I mean, that’s the reason I came here—I needed to get away from the toxicity of him and all that was associated with him…and the city, I guess.”
I don’t say anything. I listen. My thumb is caressing the top of her hand.
“Negativity is a real and destructive thing. It seems to invade everything. Before you know it, you wake up negative, you spend the day negative, and you go to bed negative.”
She sounds lost in thought.
We keep walking side by side, two kindred spirits who’ve found each other after being lost in the woods for so long.
“Negativity breeds negativity. It’s really hard being creative when the world around you is negative and toxic.”
“But things are better now?” I press.
She nods.
“Things are definitely better. This place, everything is amazing.”
I suddenly know what to say.
“The best thing about living here is your freedom. I mean, you don’t have far to go to leave civilization behind and get in touch with nature. Getting in touch with nature cleanses you. At least, it cleanses me.”
Rebecca nods.
“And Ida helps,” I add. “Being responsible for another living being adds another dimension to life. And not just any being, but a truly noble majestic being.”
“Have you had her long?”
I chuckle.
“Let me put it this way. I don’t remember my life without her. Ever since she came into my life, it’s not been the same again. I swear sometimes, I think she’s possessed, the way she can read me; my grandmother reincarnated.”
She laughs, a soft laugh.
“I’ve always wanted a horse,” she mumbles and descends into silence again.
“Well…” I clear my throat. “Ida seems to like you, which is like a big deal. You can always share her, now that we’ve got you know…”
Okay, it’s best I stop there.
“What does an author do all day?”
It’s probably a good thing she doesn’t pick up that last conversational thread where I dropped it.
“Read, write, read, write—and did I mention I read?”
Rebecca shakes her head. “What do you like to read?”
I mull over the question.
“It’s not so much reading what I like to read. I think the trick is to read widely, read out of your comfort zone, and most importantly, read every book like a writer.”
“Wow.”
“But,
” I say, leaning into her, “I confess I do like some of the Irish authors. I’m partial to Niall Williams, and who doesn’t like Maeve Binchy?”
Her hair smells of sweetness, desire, and a field of wildflowers in full bloom.
I kiss the top of her head. The silkiness of her hair is like a balm to my soul.
All I can think of is running my fingers through her hair and pulling that face of hers close to mine for a kiss. Before I can act on my impulse, she starts to trip.
It plays out in slow motion.
Arms flail as her upper body bends forward at the hips. Just in time, I manage to grab her arm and shoulder.
But I’m not fast enough.
All I’m able to do is slow the inevitable and soften her landing. Together, as one, we land in the dirt on the side of the road, and she rolls on top of me.
“You okay?” she whispers, her eyes searching mine.
For some reason, I’m choked up with emotions, and no words escape my lips.
I nod.
With my right hand, I brush a strand of hair out of her face while my left one caresses her cheek. My thumb finds her lip.
I can feel her breathing become short and shallow.
Finally, my voice obeys me again. “And you?”
“Never better,” she whispers.
I watch as her mouth comes closer. Her lips are parted, and I can see the tip of her tongue poke through between those pearly white teeth.
She comes crushing down on me, and instantly, our tongues are locked in a dance of passion. As we kiss, I let my hand travel up her back and unclasp her bra. With easy access, I move around to her front and push up under the flimsy material to find her tight nipples.
A moan escapes her lips, a moan smothered by our kiss.
Time suddenly stands still.
There’s nothing else but Rebecca’s body, her lips and this kiss.
I wish this moment would last forever.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shooting star, and I make a wish.
I wish for my own happily ever after and for this kiss to go on.
Chapter 27
Rebecca
His lips.
God his lips feel amazing. I can’t deny it.
He’s a damn good kisser. Not too soft and not too aggressive. My face doesn’t feel like it’s being coated in saliva either.
Unlike with some fucking assholes.