If he survives the fall, the shock of hitting cold water will give him a burst of adrenaline that will quickly dissipate and render him incapable of completing the relatively short surface swim. He will drown.
I look over the side of the rocks and judge the ocean to be about twenty feet below. That’s significantly less than the average high dive. I kick off my shoes, pull my fleece jacket over my head, and step to the edge of the cliff, my toes instinctively curling against the cold surface.
I am only able to take one deep breath, filling my lungs with air, holding it, and slowly releasing it, when he loses his grip on the landing skid and falls feet first toward the sea. I raise my hands over my head and dive off the rocks, mentally bracing myself for what is to come. I plunge into the sea, feel the breath knocked from my chest, and start swimming before I have even surfaced. Most people drown in cold water because they panic and forget to breathe. The trick is to stay calm, take steady breaths, and keep moving.
I did a New Year’s Eve polar bear plunge off the coast of Virginia once. Yeah, this is nothing like that. The sea is calm, but much, much colder than I remember the waters off Virginia Beach. I keep my head down and concentrate on taking long, efficient strokes, even breaths, and before I know it, I reach him. He is calmly dog-paddling. He looks surprised to see me.
I position myself behind him and grab him in a lifeguard hold, the one I was trained to perform when I worked the California beaches on my summer breaks from college, but he resists.
“It’s okay.” I keep my arms around him in a backward hug, hands on his shoulders, and start swimming him toward the shore. “I was a lifeguard.”
“Are ya a fecking eegit?” His chest rumbling, his voice thick with an Irish brogue. “Do ya want to die?”
He breaks free from my grasp, puts me in an aggressive victim hold, and begins swimming us to shore before I’ve even had time to think of a response. When we reach the shallows, he scoops me up and carries me the rest of the way to shore.
He drops me on the sand and stands over me, his broad shoulders blocking out the sun.
“Who are you?” he demands.
I shield my eyes with my hand and look up at him and . . . OH MY FECKING GOD! It’s Colin “Divinely Gorgeous” Monaghan.
“C . . . Colin?”
Chapter Five
TRIAGE
“How do you know my name?”
“Are you kidding me? I would know you anywhere. You’re Colin Monaghan!”
He shoves his hand through his jet black hair and I am able to see a small, hairline scar near his right temple. Oh my God! He is not Colin Monaghan! He has the same dark hair, thick, expressive eyebrows, and melt-your-soul brown eyes as Colin, but he is taller, broader across the shoulders, and more muscular. I narrow my gaze. He’s also missing a mole! Colin has two moles on his left cheek, not one!
“I’m Colin Banks, not Colin Monaghan”—he squats down and fixes me with a disconcertingly direct gaze—“and you are the woman who just ruined a three-million-dollar scene.”
Someone shouts and I suddenly realize we are not alone. The beach is crawling with people wearing black Windbreakers and baseball caps. Some of them are holding equipment. Movie-making equipment.
“I’m s-s-sorry. I th-thought you w-w-were drowning.”
I see his lips move, but my teeth are chattering together so loudly I can’t hear what he is saying. I try to stand. A wave of dizziness washes over me and I fall back onto the ground in a shivering, seaweed-covered heap.
“What is your name?”
“Grayth Murthee.”
Is it me or am I slurring my words?
“Right then,” he says, grabbing a silver thermal blanket from a woman who suddenly appeared behind him and carefully wrapping it around me. “Grace, you are showing signs of hypothermia. We have an ambulance on standby at the top of the hill. I am going to pick you up and carry you to the paramedics.”
He reaches for me and I clumsily slap his hands away.
“Don’t be ridikileth . . . ridacaless,” I say, trying to stand again. “I wath a lifeguard. I’m fine.”
I fall back onto the ground and close my eyes. Hypothermia! I don’t have hypothermia. I’m just tired. I need a nap and then I will be fit as a . . .
The Other Colin slides one hand under my legs and the other behind my neck and lifts me into his arms.
“Ow!” I lift my head and half open my eyes. “You’re hurthing me.”
“I’m sorry, a a stór,” he says, his warm breath fanning over my cheeks. “Just a little longer and you will be somewhere warm.”
“Okay,” I say, resting my head against his shoulder. “But my name is Grayth, not Aster.”
He laughs.
I don’t know what I said that was so funny and I am too damned tired to try to figure it out. My eyelids are heavier than bricks, my teeth won’t stop chattering, and my skin hurts. I close my eyes and slip into that half-awake, half-asleep stage. I am vaguely aware of movement, the rumble of an engine, and many people speaking in gibberish all at once. I can only make out a few words.
“. . . went arseways.”
“. . . mad as a box of frogs . . .”
“. . . call sheet . . . four banger . . .”
“. . . it’s biscuits to a bear . . .”
When I wake up, I am on a gurney in a partitioned emergency room, an IV needle jammed into my arm, a heavy blue pool float lying on my chest and legs. A nurse is checking my vitals.
“How ya feeling, luv?”
“Tired.” I blink several times. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Not long.”
“What is this?” I say, trying to lift the pool raft off my chest.
“It’s a hyper-hypothermia blanket, so it is.” She lifts a tube hanging off the corner of the blanket. “Warm water is pumped through this tube and circulated around the blanket ta help restore your core temperature.”
“I’m not hypothermic.”
She chuckles softly. “Doctor O’Neil disagrees. He diagnosed you with moderate hypothermia and anemia, he did.”
“Anemia?”
“Your hemoglobin levels were a wee bit below normal, they were.” She pats my arm. “Nothing ta worry about. A vitamin B injection and iron tabs and ye’ll be just grand.”
Her heavily accented voice rises and falls as if she is singing her words instead of speaking them. She also drops the h from words with th, so nothing sounds like “nuh-ting” and this sounds like “tiss.”
She takes my temperature, records it on a whiteboard affixed to the wall, and removes my IV.
“Now, would you fancy a wee cup of tea and digestives while your discharge paperwork is made ready?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Ah, ’tis nothing.”
She disappears through a set of curtains and returns seconds later carrying a tray with a Styrofoam cup of tea and a small package of biscuits.
“Ring the buzzer if you need anything.”
She steps through the curtains and closes them behind her. I gulp the tea down in a couple of swallows and am polishing off the last graham cracker–tasting biscuit when the Other Colin strides through the curtains.
For a nanosecond, I again think it is Colin “Heavenly Body” Monaghan and I catch my breath. My skin feels tingly all over, but I don’t think it is from hypothermia.
“What are you doing here?”
Nice, Grace. How not to win friends and influence Irishmen.
“Is that a stereotypical American greeting? Because in Ireland we usually say ‘hiya.’”
“I’m sorry,” I say, blushing. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
He crosses his muscular arms over his chest and frowns so deeply that his Colin Monaghan-like brows practically knit together. “Are ya kidding me? ’Tis not every day a man is rescued from a murky, watery grave by a beautiful woman. Maybe you’re not a woman at all. Maybe you’re a selkie who shed her sealskin to bewitch me.”
<
br /> I snort. “I am a woman.”
He grins and his eyes sparkle with a mischievous light. His gaze moves from my face to my breasts, nearly visible beneath the threadbare hospital gown. “Yes, you are.”
My cheeks flush with a familiar heat. It is an unfortunate side effect of being exposed to a bad boy. My late-developing Cadar (Cad Radar) is pinging like mad. Whoop. Whoop. Cad. Cad. The Other Colin has all of the outward attributes of a bad boy—the chiseled physique, roguish grin, breathtaking good looks, curious little scar with a story to tell, leather jacket. Why wouldn’t I be attracted to him?
“I am sorry I ruined your three-million-dollar shot.”
What in the hell? Are you crazy? Never apologize to a bad boy. It’s like inviting him into the puppeteer’s booth and handing him the strings. What would Vivia say? “Seize your power, girlfriend.”
“Go on with ya, then.” He shrugs out of his leather jacket and tosses it on a nearby chair, then sits on the edge of my bed and fixes me with his million-watt gaze. “Ya don’t need to say you’re sorry, Grace. I should be apologizing to ya.”
Wait a minute. Hold up. Bad boys don’t apologize. Ever. Either he is very, very good at working the strings or I have misjudged his flirty behavior and tribal tattoo. Yes, that is a Celtic tribal tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve of his tight-fitting tee.
“You? Apologize to me? What, for making sure I didn’t die of hypothermia?”
“I am sorry I called ya a fecking eegit and I am sorry I yelled at ya, Grace. I hope ya will forgive me.”
He smiles and dimples appear on either side of his mouth. Did I mention that Colin Monaghan doesn’t have dimples? Colin Banks might not be Colin Monaghan, but he’s crazy hot and his smile is making my palms sweat.
“Forgiven.”
“’Tanks a million,” he says, grinning again. “Now then, would ya like to go to dinner with me, Grace Murphy? So I can thank ya proper.”
“You don’t need to thank me. I mean, you didn’t need saving.”
“Ah, but ya didn’t know that when ya jumped off a cliff into the ocean, now did ya?”
I shake my head.
“That was very brave.”
“You don’t need to take me to dinner.”
“Dinner and a pint.”
I smile. “It’s not necessary.”
“It’s an Irish tradition.”
I frown. “Is that so?”
“Ah sure,” he says, his face suddenly serious. “If someone saves your life, you must buy them a pint. You can’t ignore customs.”
“Hmm,” I say, smiling. “That seems to be the custom for a prodigious number of situations.”
He chuckles. “Is that a yes?”
“Yes, I will have dinner with you.”
“Grand.”
I am expecting him to leave now, but he doesn’t. He just sits on the edge of the gurney, his warm, strong leg pressing against my side, and stares into my eyes. My body flushes again and, to my complete mortification, my nipples harden beneath my thin hospital gown.
“So, you’re an actor?”
“No.”
“Then why were you in the water?”
“I am Colin Monaghan’s stunt double.”
Eff me! No wonder he looks so much like Colin Monaghan. Wait until I tell Vivia I rescued Colin Monaghan’s stuntman. Colin Monaghan’s crazy hot stuntman.
The curtains part and Ondine walks in.
The Other Colin stands and grabs his leather jacket. He greets Ondine with a smile and a “hiya,” before turning back to me.
“Tomorrow at seven?”
I nod my head.
“Where ya staying?”
His brown eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes, are so beautiful, so transfixing, all I can do is stare at him blankly.
“One Oysterbed Road,” Ondine says. “It is the first left after Parknasilla.”
He squeezes my hand and leaves.
“Feck me,” Ondine gasps. “I think I’m having a heart attack. Get one of those paddle things and give me a jolt, will ya?”
I laugh. “How did you know I was here?”
Ondine tilts her head and wrinkles her nose. “Are ya fecking kidding me? I work in a village pub in Ireland. Pubs are like the one-one-two operators of gossip.”
“One-one-two?”
“Sorry. Nine-one-one.” She smiles. “When I heard an American girl went mad as a box of frogs and jumped into the ocean to save Colin Monaghan’s stunt double, I asked myself, ‘Hmm, could they be talking about Grace?’ So, did ya see himself, then? Did ya see our Colin Monaghan?”
I shake my head.
“No worries,” she says. “I hear they’re filming a skydiving scene out Dingle way next week. Did ya pack a parachute in that suitcase?”
Chapter Six
A WINTER STORY
SEEING STARS IN SNEEM
Colin Monaghan’s arrival in Sneem has the quiet coastal town seeing stars. The actor, in town filming an untitled action-adventure film with Academy Award–winning director Konstantin Niakaros, has been spotted buying apples in the SuperValu, reading a newspaper in the Blue Bull, and eating chicken curry with his crew at O’Donnabháin’s, in nearby Kenmaretown. . . .
“Feck me!” I say in my best Irish accent, and toss the Irish Times onto Ondine’s kitchen table. “Everyone in Sneem has seen Colin Monaghan except me!”
I am waiting for the Other Colin to pick me up for our date, after spending the day driving the Ring of Kerry in search of Colin Monaghan. A gardener at the Parknasilla told me they would be filming at Ballinskelligs Abbey, a priory founded in the twelfth century by Augustinian monks, located thirty miles west of Sneem. I stopped at a gas station in Ballinskelligs. The attendant told me the crew had moved to Portmagee, a coastal town reached via the “old Skellig Ring,” a ridiculously narrow road hugging the rocky coast.
In Portmagee, the waitress who served me fish and chips said she heard the crew was filming on Valentia Island.
I drove over the bridge spanning the inlet that separates Portmagee from Valentia Island and spent two hours bumping over every dirt track—from Bruff to Knight’s Town. At the northernmost point of the island, I paid a few euros to hike Geokaun Mountain and Fogher Cliffs. I looked out at the vast, churning sea from a promontory called Shepherd’s View and snapped a selfie in front of a whitewashed lighthouse.
What I didn’t do was find Colin fecking Monaghan.
“Bah,” Ondine says, waving her hand. “Anyone can say they visited the restaurant where Colin Monaghan ate chicken curry, but only one person can say they risked their life to save the man’s stunt double.”
“I would rather watch Colin Monaghan eat chicken curry.”
“So why don’t ya just ask your man to introduce ya to himself?”
“First, he’s not my man.” I pull a tube of tinted lip balm from my pocket and dab it on my lips. “Second, I don’t want him to think I am a crazed fan who traveled across the Atlantic just to meet Colin Monaghan.”
“But ya are a crazed fan who traveled across the Atlantic just so ya could meet Colin Monaghan.”
I put the lid back on my lip balm and slide the tube into my jacket pocket. “Yes, but I don’t want him to know that.”
“Because ya want to snog him?”
I remember the dark stubble shadowing the Other Colin’s jaw and upper lip and wonder what it would feel like to have it graze my face as he kissed me, and my breath catches in my throat.
My cheeks flush.
Outside, the sound of an engine and tires moving over gravel saves me from having to answer Ondine’s teasing question. I stand up and look at my reflection in the toaster, wiping a flake of mascara from my cheek and licking my lips.
“Do I look okay?”
I am wearing a pair of dark rinse skinny jeans, a slouchy turtleneck I bought from a woolen mill on our drive from Dublin to Sneem, black knee-high boots, and a black leather moto jacket Ondine let me borrow.
“Gorge,
” she says. “Just gorge. Tall, slender, with cheekbones a cover model would envy. Ya look like ya should be on the arm of a handsome Hollywood type.”
“Thanks.”
The doorbell rings and I jump. I didn’t realize it before this second, but my stomach is twisted up tighter than a Christmas bow.
“Relax, Cinderella,” Ondine says, squeezing my arm on her way to answer the door. “You’re gonna have a grand time at the ball. I promise. Just don’t stay out past midnight or take off anything more than your glass slippers.”
I snort.
When I walk into the living room, Ondine and Colin are making polite conversation. He’s wearing black jeans, low black boots, and the same leather jacket he wore when he visited me in the ER. His hair is hidden beneath a beanie and the air around him smells of fresh, cold air and woodsy cologne.
He stops talking when he sees me and whistles.
“Feck me,” he says, pressing his hand to his chest. “You’re awful gorgeous when you’re not covered in seaweed. I mean, ya were gorgeous then, but . . .”
My cheeks flush with heat, even though I know complimenting appearance is a standard bad boy pickup line. You look gorgeous when you’re not wearing that flight attendant uniform/barista apron/business suit/fill in the blank.
“Thanks,” I say. “You look awful gorgeous yourself.”
Feck me! Did I really just tell this confident bad boy that I find him attractive? I might as well just give him access to my bank accounts and lingerie drawer now. It will save him a lot of time and me a lot of heartache.
Ondine hides her mouth with her hand.
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a bundle wrapped in tissue and tied with string.
“Here,” he says, handing me the package. “I brought a gift for ya.”
“What?” I take the bundle. “You didn’t need to buy me a gift.”
“Ah, it’s nothing. Just a wee souvenir to remember your time in Ireland.”
His voice is deeper and sexier than I remembered and his accent is thicker than his Colin Monaghan–like brows. When he says Ireland it sounds like “Our-Lend.”
I untie the string, remove the tissue paper, and discover a neatly folded square of red cloth. I unfold it and laugh. It’s a T-shirt with a white cross in the center and the words “Sneem Lifeguard” printed around it.
Winter Wishes Page 27