Tempting Irish

by C. M. Seabrook

  “Mum, why is the tree covered in garbage?” A little girl with bright red hair and freckles dotting her nose asks, frowning up at the twisted and gnarled branches.

  “It’s a fairy tree,” the woman says, crouching down beside her daughter.

  “Where fairies live?”

  “No. More like a portal. A place that connects their world with ours. Some people believe that if you leave a gift, that the fairies will take it to the other side.”

  “I want to leave something.” The belief in magic shines in the child’s eyes as her mother takes something from her purse and allows the little girl to place it on the tree.

  There was a time when I believed in all this.

  Magic.

  Fairies.

  White Knights.

  Ireland is filled with tales and legends. It’s one of the things that makes it so special.

  I lost that part of me when I left. The part that believed in more than what my eyes could see, or my hands could touch. And I wonder if, once you’ve lost it, once the veil has been removed and you see the harsh reality of life, you can ever get that childlike faith back.

  The sun, which has been hiding most of the day behind a cloud, peeks through, warming my cheeks and making the landscape look like a thousand shades of green. I walk the countryside, taking in the different standing stones, and reading the short descriptions in my pamphlet.

  It’s not until clouds darken the sky with impending rain that I realize how much time has gone by and how few people are left.

  An unsettling feeling sinks like a stone in my stomach as I tread back across the fields towards the parking lot.

  I’ve always been one to get caught up in my head, to forget about time. While many kids I knew had trouble focusing on a task, I tended to hyper-focus, so much that I lost track of the world around me. Especially when I was playing the piano.

  Being able to block out the world seemed like a blessing when Frank and my mom were fighting, when he’d come home in one of his moods, and when nothing she did was good enough. I’d sit in the basement and play the old, out-of-tune piano until my fingers ached, and my heart bled out on the keys.

  Until the night she didn’t come home.

  “Where is she?” His angry words sliced through the music I’d been playing.

  But I didn’t stop. Not out of defiance, but because once I was in the trance, nothing, not even Frank, could pull me from it.

  “I said, where the hell is she?” I didn’t see the bat, until it smashed down on the keys, narrowly missing my hand.

  Most people would have jumped back, ran, done anything to protect themselves. But my first instinct was to protect that damn piano. It was the only thing I had. The only thing that could transport me across the ocean. Make me feel like I was home.

  “I don’t know,” I’d cried out, splaying myself across the keys as his bat smashed down on the top, sending tiny splinters of wood flying. “Please, don’t.”

  “She’s gone. Her clothes. The money. She took it all.”

  I’d looked at him, horrified, because she wouldn’t leave me. Not here. Not with him. I knew that she’d begun to hate him as much as I did. But she would never go without me.

  “I don’t know.” My voice was a pitiful cry, but it didn’t stop him from taking his anger out on the piano.

  The bat smashed down, over and over again, breaking the ivory, cracking the wood. I screamed, and my heart shattering with every blow.

  Frank shrieked, his eyes wild, unseeing as he took all his frustration out on the piano.

  I should have stepped away.

  He didn’t mean to hit me.

  The bat slammed down on the top of my hand, and I felt the bones crack as easy as the wood and ivory had. I crumpled, bile burning a path up my throat.

  I didn’t cry.

  The pain was so severe it blinded me. Numbed me. Broke me.

  A shiver races down my spine at the unbidden memory.

  I haven’t allowed myself to think about that night in a long time. And I’m not sure why I let the darkness creep in now, other than the trembling and throbbing in my right hand. But that never really goes away.

  I shake away the dark thoughts and make my way back down the path, praying that the damn bus is still there, but knowing, with my luck, it’s gone.

  A hysterical laugh flutters up in my throat when I see the empty parking lot.

  “Perfect,” I mumble. “Absolutely perfect.”

  The café is still open, and I go inside to figure out what I’m going to do, because as amazing as the Hill of Tara is, it’s in the middle of freaking nowhere.

  “Is it possible to get a cab to drive me back to Dublin?” I ask the young woman at the souvenir desk.

  “That’s an hour away,” she says, her expression deadpan.

  “I know, but the tour bus left without me-”

  “Ah, ye’re the American they were looking for. Ye need to stay with yer group.”

  “I realize that,” I say, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “But that doesn’t help me now.”

  She shrugs. “It’ll cost ye about a hundred euros, maybe more.”

  Shit. I can afford it. But barely.

  I chew on my bottom lip. I could call Emer, see if Aiden can pick me up. But I hate asking anything of anyone. And I’d really like to not have to explain how I missed the stupid bus.

  Swallow your pride for once in your life, my head—or rather, my wallet—begs.

  Emer answers on the first ring. “How’s yer tour? Are ye regretting not going shopping with us?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  I swear, I hear her frown on the other end. “What happened?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and wince before admitting, “The bus left without me.”

  There’s a short silence, then she chuckles. “Ye haven’t changed. Ye always were one for getting into trouble.”

  “You have no idea,” I mutter. “I wouldn’t ask, but-”

  “Tell me where ye are, and I’ll send Aiden to get ye.”

  “Thank you.”

  After I end the call, I sit down at one of the small tables to wait.

  “Sorry, but we’re closing to the public,” the girl from the counter says apologetically. “We have a special event in here later, and-”

  “It’s okay. I have a ride coming.” Although, as I leave the shop and look up at the dark clouds forming above me, I realize that it’ll take Aiden a good hour to get here.

  It’ll be just my luck if it starts to rain.

  I mutter a curse as the first drop hits the tip of my nose.

  Wrapping my arms around my chest, I lean against the stone wall that separates me from a dozen cows, munching lazily on the grass, and they let out a series of dissatisfied moos as the rain starts to fall harder.

  I’m soaked and frozen when the car Shane was driving the other night pulls into the parking lot. I start to run towards it, then stop when I see who’s driving.

  Owen.

  The passenger side window rolls down, and he frowns at me. “Are ye just going to stand there and freeze, or are ye going to get in the car?”

  Freezing sounds like the better option when I catch the scowl that tugs at his lips.

  Chapter 17

  Owen

  “Get in the car, Bree,” I growl out when she doesn’t move, standing there, rooted to the ground like a fucking statue.

  Dark, wet hair hangs around her pale face, her lips tinged slightly blue from the cold. But, still, she gives me a look of stubborn defiance, like she’s actually contemplating walking rather than letting me drive her.

  Finally, her chest heaves in resignation and she starts towards the car.

  “Emer said Aiden was picking me up,” she mumbles when she shuts the door, dripping all over the leather seats.

  “Well, ye got me instead,” I say, pulling out onto the road.

  I can practically feel her eyes roll beside me.

  Despite the
blaring heat, she continues to shiver. I glance over at her and regret it immediately. Her wet clothes cling to her curves, her nipples straining against the almost translucent pink cotton of her shirt.

  “Here.” Keeping one hand on the wheel, I pull my hoodie over my head and hand it to her. “Put it on.”

  “Thank you,” she mutters, then rests her head on the seat, glancing out the side window.

  “Ye’re angry at me.”

  “No.” She pulls her knees up to her chest, making her look vulnerable, despite the wall she’s so easily barricaded herself with. “I just don’t want a lecture.”

  “And ye think I’m going to give ye one.”

  “You keep saying I’m trouble, and I guess I proved it.”

  “Ye are trouble. But that’s not the kind I meant.”

  She frowns at me. “Did they not give you the memo that you’re kind of a rock god? Isn’t trouble supposed to be your middle name?”

  I chuckle.

  “Shane gets in enough trouble for all of us.” I can’t help the grin that plays at my lips. “So, ye think I’m a rock god?”

  She shakes her head, but I see the smile that strains at her mouth. “You definitely got the cocky part down.”

  Silence stretches between us, and I flip on the radio to counter it. One of Wild Irish’s songs is just ending.

  “Does that ever get old? Hearing yourself on the radio?” she asks.

  “No. It’s still surreal. All of it.”

  “You’ve got the life you always wanted.”

  “Yeah.” Except that it feels empty. Pointless.

  “Are you upset that the tour’s over?”

  “Change is always hard. But I’ve been talking with Shane about starting our own recording studio in Dublin.”

  “What about Wild Irish?”

  “We’ll still record when we can. But I don’t think Aiden and Cillian will want to tour again. At least, not for a while.”

  “Are you allowed to do that? Not tour?”

  I smirk at her. “We’re Wild Irish. We can do whatever we want.”

  That makes her smile, and roll her eyes. “I’m happy for you.” She glances back out the window. “For all of you. You knew what you wanted, and you went after it.”

  “What about ye?”

  “What about me?”

  “What are yer dreams?”

  “You mean, what do I want to be when I grow up?” She gives me a half smile, but I can tell she’s trying to play off her underlying sadness with humor.

  “Yeah,” I say, not letting her off the hook.

  She shrugs. “Dreams change.”

  “That’s all I get?”

  “Fine.” She chews on her bottom lip, before admitting, “I wanted to create music…”

  “Why don’t ye?”

  “Life.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It is if you saw mine.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do.” Frustration simmers inside of me, because I want to know more. Want to know everything.

  I pull the car over and put it in park.

  “What are you doing?”

  “This.” I cup the back of her head and pull her lips towards mine.

  I kiss her hard, with all the pent-up frustration and need I’ve been feeling the last couple of days.

  She pulls back, her blue eyes searching mine, filled with the same confusion I’m feeling.

  I thread my fingers through her damp hair, and drag my thumb across the outline of her jaw. “I can’t make any promises-”

  “I didn’t ask you to.” There’s a hint of defiance in her voice and her palms come up to my chest to push me away, but I don’t let her. She shakes her head at me. “Maybe I don’t want this.”

  I run my thumb across her bottom lip, causing her body to tremble beneath my touch, and I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my mouth. “We both know ye do.”

  Her eyes close. “So, what? We sleep together a couple of times. Friends with benefits-”

  “Do people still use that term?” I ask, amused. “And we’re not exactly friends.”

  “No. I guess we’re not.” She pulls away from me, and I have no choice but to release her.

  Shit.

  “I didn’t mean it the way ye took it.”

  “Is there any other way to take it? We’re not friends. I get it. You don’t want a relationship. Get that, too.” She crosses her arms and looks straight ahead. “Just drive.”

  “What do ye want from me, Bree?”

  I can feel her inner turmoil, the tainted dark part of her that’s searching for freedom, even if she doesn’t realize it. I recognize it, because it’s the same deep need that rages inside of me.

  “Nothing. Just drive,” she mutters, throwing up all kinds of walls.

  “Not until ye tell me what ye want.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she mumbles, her bottom lip trembling on the words.

  “Bree-”

  “I said it doesn’t matter.” Anger infuses her words now. Her chin juts towards me, blue eyes warring against the tears that threaten to fall.

  “All right.” I start the ignition and pull back onto the road.

  I don’t push her. We’ll have time to talk later. I’ve made sure of it.

  “You just missed the turn,” she says a few minutes later.

  “I didn’t.”

  She crosses her arms. “It said Dublin, that way.”

  “We’re not going to Dublin.”

  “What?” Her brows draw down. “Where are we going?”

  “Home. I’m taking ye home.”

  Chapter 18

  Bree

  “Home?” I glare at Owen, my chest squeezing in confusion. “If you bought me a plane ticket back to the States-”

  “And they say I have trust issues.” His voice is like gravel, scraping across my skin, reminding me that even when I’m angry at him, I’m not immune to the dark, brooding sexuality he emits.

  “You do.” I cross my arms, readying myself for a fight. If he thinks I’m stubborn now, wait till I actually dig my heels in. Because I won’t have him, or anyone, telling me I have to leave.

  He smirks at me, glancing away from the road briefly, and says, “I’m taking ye to my house.”

  “Your house?” I frown at him.

  “I built a place down by the lough we used to swim at. Thought ye’d like to spend a few days where ye grew up.”

  Narrowing my eyes at him, I try to figure out his game, but all I can focus on is the way his black t-shirt clings to his chest, and grips his biceps that flex under my gaze. He drags his fingers through his dark hair, pushing the pieces off his forehead, eyeing me sideways, waiting for my reaction.

  “Did Emer put you up to this?”

  “No,” he says roughly, not expanding on his motives.

  “I can’t.” My hands go all shaky, fingers tingling, and all of a sudden, I feel like a jittery mess.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have my bags.”

  “They’re in the back.”

  My mouth drops open. “You brought my luggage?”

  He gives one hard nod.

  My heart races, my gaze skidding over his face, trying to find his intent. If it was just sex, he could have taken me back to the hotel. So, why his place?

  “You confuse me, you know that?”

  He chuckles. “Trust me, sweetheart. Ye’re not the only one who feels that way.”

  I slump back in the seat, wondering what the hell he’s planning. “Does Emer know?”

  He tenses slightly, but nods. “Since we have a couple hours to pass, why don’t we play a game?”

  “I hate games.”

  He chuckles. “Ye were always good at them, when ye were little.”

  “Because I cheated.”

  He lets out a deep, rumbling laugh. “I knew ye did. Used to drive Cillian insane.”

  “Which is why I did it.”

  He smirks at me. />
  “All right. What kind of game?” I ask, already knowing I’m not going to like it.

  “Ye ask me a question. If I answer honestly, I get to ask ye one.”

  Yeah, definitely not going to like this game.

  “Fine. But I go first.”

  He nods.

  “Are you still in love with Emer?” I don’t know why I ask, maybe as a way to put a shield between us. Maybe because it’s still my biggest fear.

  He coughs and looks over at me, his expression severe. “No.”

  I don’t know if I believe him.

  “But you were?”

  “That’s two questions.”

  “Were you?” I push.

  “Maybe.” His knuckles whiten around the steering wheel, and he sighs. “Not sure I’ve ever been in love the way ye’re meaning. Emer and the guys; they’re my family. It’s a different kind of love. Took me a while to realize that.”

  I’m still not convinced he’s telling the whole truth. I read the note he wrote her. The words that spilled from his heart.

  Silence stretches between us for a long moment, and I think he thankfully forgot about his game.

  Until he asks, “Are ye running from someone?”

  I go still, my fingers curling into tiny fists beside me. Why did he keep pressing?

  “No,” I mumble, with a tug of dread, knowing he won’t let it go.

  “The truth.”

  “That is the truth,” I lie.

  He grunts. “Then why’d ye come back to Ireland after all this time?”

  “Finally had enough money for a plane ticket.” Partial truth.

  “If ye’d asked any one of us, we would have bought ye one. At any time.”

  “It’s been ten years since I talked to anyone. I didn’t know if you’d even remember me. Which you didn’t.”

  He takes his eyes off the road for a brief second, his gaze narrowing on me. “In my defense, ye were twelve the last time I saw ye.”

  “I know.” I rub my palms on my jeans, which are finally starting to dry. “I wrote to you.”

  One eyebrow rises. “When?”

  “Almost every day for a year.”