This Life 1

by Cara Dee

  Finnegan’s mouth twitched, and he looked both miffed and amused. “Those three years are for you. A minimum. I’m a traditional man, so if it were up to me, we’d marry for life.”

  That made him even stranger than before. I couldn’t grasp what he was saying—or how he could say it. No, I wasn’t a romantic, but that didn’t mean I never wanted to find love. Somehow, he’d be okay with marrying me—spend the rest of his life with me…

  I shook my head quickly. Christ, what was I thinking? I was here to help the FBI, not indulge in fantasies about getting away from my miserable existence. Ugh, I was one pathetic pity partier. It ended now.

  “Let’s eat before it goes cold,” I said.

  Chapter 10

  Emilia Porter

  “That never happened! Now you’re just making shit up, kid.” Patrick mock-glared at Alec, who had an awesome poker face. I’d been prepared to believe his story about Patrick falling into the lake when going fishing.

  “What can I say, I love to make the ladies giggle,” Alec replied with a sly wink.

  I laughed and bit into a spicy piece of chicken, and Sarah requested another story from their childhood.

  “Preferably one that’s true.” Finnegan reached forward to add more ribs to his plate. “I’m pretty sure I’m gonna burn Ma’s scrapbook next time we’re in the city.”

  “I’ll light the match for you,” Patrick said.

  Nessa and Alec whispered back and forth, maybe deciding what story to go with, so Finnegan took the opportunity to steal the spotlight, all while shoveling baked potato soaked in butter and herbs into his mouth.

  “I have a recent memory that still makes me chuckle,” he said. “Pat, you’ll appreciate this.” He paused and pressed a fist to his mouth.

  “How about you eat slower?” I suggested.

  “But it’s so fucking good.” He stifled a belch and went on. “I was telling Emilia about Father O’Malley.” Oh shit, the story was about me? “I mentioned to her that he’s the kind of priest who will hear us out and then join us in drinking contests.”

  “I love that old fucker.” Patrick wore a fond smile. “Only reason I go to Mass.”

  Interesting. He wasn’t as religious as Finnegan?

  “So Emilia went, ‘I guess having so much faith makes you thirsty,’” Finnegan finished, cracking up.

  Patrick found that funny too, as did Alec and Nessa, and I didn’t really see it. It’d just been a witty retort, not some grand joke.

  “Your dates seem a hell of a lot more interesting than ours,” Sarah noted wryly.

  “Ouch, woman.” Patrick narrowed his eyes at her. “I have a great time seeing you.”

  Sarah stared at him for a beat, then slid her gaze my way. “Last date, he asked what cup size I wear.”

  I winced and licked barbecue sauce off my finger. “Classy. But it could’ve been worse. Finnegan stalks me to answer his own questions about me.”

  “Hey. It means I care,” Finnegan defended.

  “Remind me why you’re dating them?” Nessa asked.

  Sarah and I laughed.

  Alec came to the guys’ rescue by sharing another story from this elusive book of memories. Each one offered a glimpse into the O’Shea family, and they left me so conflicted. We were all in stitches as Alec told us about when Patrick and Finnegan took classes in music and how they tried to one-up each other by pranking their instructors. I learned Finnegan played something called the tin whistle, which was basically an Irish flute, and rather than being made of wood, it was metal. Important stuff to know, according to Alec and Finnegan.

  Finnegan had filled his teacher’s whistle with tobacco once and left a lighter with a bow around it as a gift.

  “Good God,” I spluttered.

  “He smelled like a fucking chimney,” Finnegan argued.

  “And you thought more tobacco would help?” I stared at him incredulously.

  “I’m more surprised they have those classes here,” Sarah chuckled.

  “They probably don’t.” Finnegan squinted in thought, then shrugged. “This was over a summer. We usually spend those in Ireland.”

  “We stayed at the boss’s house there last year,” Alec said. “You’ll love it, Tush.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. Would I ever even see another country? I didn’t have a passport.

  Thankfully, Nessa ran interference and put us back on track. Where Alec and Finnegan had a special connection, Patrick and Nessa shared a similar bond, and they loved to tease each other. She told us about when Patrick learned how to play guitar; he’d rubbed itching powder on the strings of his classmates’ instruments.

  “You’re on thin ice, squirt.” Patrick wagged his fork at her.

  She batted her lashes.

  “Oh! What about the piano incident?” Alec guffawed. “Aunt Grace still gets mad.”

  Finnegan groaned a laugh and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “What did he do?” Sarah chuckled.

  Alec filled us in. “She paid some expensive guy to teach Finn to play, and the boss superglued his own fingers to the keys—”

  “And the teacher’s,” Finnegan added. “I wasn’t supposed to get stuck, though.”

  I snortlaughed, not the prettiest sound, but that was too funny. Jesus, I couldn’t imagine growing up in their house. I’d be on pins and needles the whole time. They’d obviously been hellions.

  “Your poor mother.” I nudged Finnegan’s arm with my shoulder. In response, he gave me a smacking, barbecue-glazed kiss on the cheek, and I squeaked and pushed him away. “Gross!” I reached for the stack of napkins.

  Sarah raised a brow at me but didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. I knew she was wondering if Finnegan and I were closer than I let on, and I didn’t know how I’d answer that.

  “I’m so full.” I blew out a breath and set my plate on one of the empty tables. Something sharp was digging into my hip as I got settled again, and I looked between Finnegan and me. “Something’s poking at me.”

  “That’s what she said,” Nessa sang, and Alec whistled and waggled his eyebrows.

  “You two are bad news,” I told them, snickering. Finnegan solved the mystery, revealing his keys and a fob thing. It looked like the gadget Patrick had used to open the front gates. “Do any of these open your patio door? I need to use the bathroom.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He stuffed a half a buttered roll into his mouth and handed me the keys. “Vhish one.”

  “Chew, swallow, talk,” I supplied helpfully.

  He grinned, his cheeks all puffed out.

  Fuck, he was cute sometimes. I couldn’t get past it.

  “You know, my bathroom is closer, hon,” Patrick offered.

  “Nah, it’s okay. It’s snooping time,” I joked.

  “Let her stalk me. It’s flattering.” Finnegan helped me off the couch, and then I headed toward his house.

  Finnegan’s living room was spacious, though that’s not why it felt empty. A sectional divided the space from the kitchen, and aside from that big couch, a table, and an entertainment center, there was nothing else. Maybe he was still decorating since he’d only recently moved in.

  Everything smelled brand-new.

  The moonlight and a small lamp in the kitchen guided me across the living room, past the stairs, and out into the hallway. There was a guest bath there, and I had to smile at the soap on the counter. There was no way Finnegan had chosen the things that went into his house. I could, however, picture his mother packing him these little star-shaped soap bars. They even matched the dark green towels and the rug on the floor.

  After finishing up, I washed my hands and inspected my face in the mirror. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was happier. There was a glow to me, something I thought was reserved for pregnant women.

  Was I happier?

  I certainly yearned more.

  I left the half bath and glanced around me, intrigued by everything that revolved around Finnegan O’Shea
.

  I paused, catching sight of the stairs and all the photos that hung there. Too curious for my own good, I flipped a light switch and ascended the first few steps to look at the pictures. Four frames appeared to be missing. The nails were there. I guessed he was still unpacking.

  Family was important to Finnegan, that much was becoming clear. And a lot seemed to go down in churches. There were pictures from at least seven christenings and three weddings. Nurse Walsh was in a couple of them, with a man I guessed was her husband.

  I recognized Shannon O’Shea too, Finnegan’s dad. Which would make the woman standing next to him Grace, the brothers’ mother.

  Shannon was older than Grace, and it was easy to see where Finnegan and Patrick got their looks. Shannon was equally tall, broad-shouldered, and solid.

  Part of me felt like I was intruding. Every face had a smile or was in the middle of laughing, except for a few photos of Shannon and Grace. She looked at him with complete adoration, and he was very protective of her judging by how he held her. They were clearly in love, and it made me queasy. Did she know what her husband and sons did? Did she accept it? Was she involved too?

  “That one’s from their anniversary.” Finnegan’s voice caused my heart to jump, and I stood stock-still as he joined me, hands in his pockets. “I think it was their twenty-third.”

  Twenty-three years with a mobster. Plus the years that’d passed since then.

  “Was, um, their marriage also arranged beforehand?” I asked hesitantly.

  He nodded, gaze on the photo of Shannon spinning Grace on a dance floor surrounded by friends and family. “I missed this one.” He quirked a hollow smile and added, “I was in prison.”

  “Of course you were.” I took another step, toward a set of pictures of Finnegan and Patrick when they were younger. “How did your parents meet?”

  “They’ve always known each other. Our families go way back.”

  Oh… Maybe that meant Grace was involved. The Sons of Munster consisted of the O’Sheas and the Murrays, and there’d been a time when the families were close. According to Wikipedia, anyway.

  “Does that mean your mom was a Murray?” I wondered.

  Finnegan gave me a sideways look and a smirk. “Have you been googling me, princess?”

  “Shut up.” I pushed halfheartedly at his arm.

  He laughed quietly. “Aye, she was a Murray. Pop snatched her up when she was sixteen.”

  “Cradle robber.”

  “Ha! I’ll have you know he was a perfect gentleman until they were given permission to marry a year later.”

  Married at seventeen. Patrick was born a year later, Finnegan told me.

  There was another photo that drew me in. Finnegan young, no older than six or seven, and he was sitting next to an older man who was teaching him how to hold one of those tin whistles. There was a Christmas tree in the corner.

  “Who’s that?” I wondered.

  “My grandfather.” He studied the picture with a soft grin. “It was because of him I started playing the whistle. He used to say every generation needed a whistler.”

  His grandfather…would that be the former boss? Ronan something.

  A picture of Finnegan and Grace was a safer topic. Christmas again, years later. He looked to be at least fifteen or sixteen.

  “Your mother looks happy.” Could one find happiness in a family like theirs?

  “She’s gonna love you and Sarah,” he murmured. “She always wanted daughters.”

  I haven’t said yes.

  My throat closed up, preventing me from saying it out loud. Instead, I wondered what it’d be like to have a mom.

  “Did they not want more children, or…?” I cleared my throat, my voice coming out raspy.

  “I think they did.” He looked pensive. “There were complications when she had me.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  He lifted a shoulder, then leaned it against the wall to face me better. “Did you enjoy dinner?”

  “More than I should.” I smiled and cranked up the playful scorn.

  He smiled back. “There’s still cake and more drinks.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded and reached out, twisting a lock of my hair between his fingers. “Nessa made you a princess crown with a truckload of glitter. She may have crafted it in Patrick’s closet so the glitter would magically rub off on his clothes.”

  My stomach clenched, and I looked down between us. I hadn’t known the girl more than a couple hours. “She’s funny. Alec too. I like them.”

  “I got you the cake. Do you like me too?”

  I laughed silently and peered up at him. We were almost the same height with my standing a step higher. In heels.

  “Oh, come on.” He flashed one of his predatory grins and gently bumped his forehead to mine. “I’ve made you a little happy, haven’t I?”

  I bit my lip. “A little.” I pinched two fingers to demonstrate.

  “I’ll take it.” His eyes glinted with something devious. “Now, don’t bite my head off. You’re about to kiss me on the cheek because I’ve earned it, and it won’t piss you off. Deal?”

  “For chrissakes, Finnegan.” I didn’t know if I was complaining or finding him endearing. Perhaps a combination of both.

  A girl had to pick her battles though, and this wasn’t one of them. I surrendered with a shake of my head and an eye-roll in amusement. Sure, he could get a kiss on the cheek. My hands came to his upper abdomen, and I closed my eyes and leaned in.

  What the—that wasn’t his cheek. My eyes flew open. Then I froze. Our lips touched softly, and I noticed how his stomach tensed.

  Rat bastard!

  I screwed my eyes shut and fisted his shirt, torn between anger and, and…want.

  The air suddenly grew heavy and electric, and I couldn’t for the life of me move out of the way. My senses were invaded by his rich scent, and I was overcome by this stupid fucking attraction. He applied the smallest amount of pressure, testing the waters, and his hand ghosted up my arm.

  No, no, no, no, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

  I caved when a violent shudder flowed through me. I couldn’t help it. He’d been screwing with my head for weeks, and I didn’t have any superpowers. I kissed him back tentatively, yet even the faintest action caused the wildest reaction inside me. Lust surged in my veins, and my pulse went through the roof.

  Finnegan shuddered too, and he carefully cupped the back of my neck. All I could think about was how amazing it felt, how warm and comforting it was to be in his arms, how rock solid his body was. I betrayed myself and slipped my hands up his chest, and I deepened the kiss.

  He sucked in a quick breath. Maybe he’d expected something else. Maybe he’d thought I would get mad. I didn’t care at the moment, and he stopped holding back so much. At the first taste of him, I locked my arms around his neck and pressed myself closer.

  He made my mind swim with every sensual kiss that grew hotter and hotter. My breathing accelerated, but instead of breaking away and trying to calm down, I became needier for him. He made a ravenous sound, almost like a growl, and it set me on fire. I whimpered and slid my tongue along his, and it still wasn’t enough.

  “Jesus fuck,” he whispered raggedly.

  “Don’t stop yet—”

  “I won’t.” He spun me and pressed me up against the wall, and that was so, so, so much better. His mouth returned to mine, and we made out like we’d done this for months.

  I moaned and shivered as his hands got greedier. They roamed my back, my neck, my arms, and down my sides.

  He hummed, stealing another drugging kiss, and teased his fingers along my bare thigh. The skin-on-skin contact sent ripples of desire through me. Tilting my head back, I exposed my neck for his trail of openmouthed kisses, and I wove my fingers into his hair to keep him close. His beard tickled and scratched in the most delicious ways.

  “I think you like me, princess.”

  I couldn’t like hi
m. Yet…here I was, clinging to him as if he were the last man on earth and my only way to survive. He proved it again and again. When he stroked my thigh, I hitched it over his hip. When he kissed my neck, I gave him more access. When he sucked lightly on the spot below my ear, I turned liquid.

  “Finnegan…” My voice came out thready and full of need.

  He groaned and went all in. He gave me a burning kiss and pushed harder against me. And I felt him…everywhere. I gasped, quickly spiraling out of control. He was hard as a rock and pressing where I shouldn’t want him, but that didn’t stop a rush of wetness from ruining my panties.

  “We should stop.” He broke the kiss and panted against my neck. “I don’t wanna stop.”

  I exhaled a breathless laugh, too seduced to make any decisions.

  I felt his smile on my skin as the moment slowly ended.

  So why did it feel like the beginning?

  There actually was cake. A big white one with chocolate decorations and my name on the top. It was my first birthday cake ever, and before anyone did anything stupid, like eat it, I had to take a picture of it with my flashy cell phone.

  Nessa really had made me a crown too. Of pink craft paper and multicolored glitter, and it was attached to a diadem. I wore that shit proudly and ignored all warnings going off in my head. It was my birthday. I clung to the moment exactly like I’d clung to Finnegan. The guilt could eat me up tomorrow.

  “Make a wish,” Finnegan murmured in my ear.

  I suppressed the umpteenth shiver and blew out the candles.

  I didn’t make a wish, for fear I’d wish for the wrong thing. Other than that, I belonged to the O’Sheas for the night.

  Patrick and Finnegan introduced Sarah and me to Bailey’s and whiskey drinks. After trying one of the latter, I abruptly switched to the former, and I stayed there. Cider and Bailey’s. My night was complete. And cake! And I was getting tipsy. Fuck.

  Alec became our DJ, and he tried relentlessly to get Finnegan and Patrick to break out the instruments so they could play some live music. Finnegan was the one who didn’t seem sold on the idea, so Alec stomped inside to change playlists.