He lifts his arm for me to slide closer. “Ye all right?”
Better than all right, and yet utterly destroyed at the same time.
I nod, placing my cheek on his chest. “You?” Warmth wraps around me as tight as the arms that anchor me to him.
“Ye’re incredible, ye know that?” His knuckles graze my shoulder, and he murmurs, “So beautiful.”
Hope flutters in my chest. And with it, the warning bells reminding me that this is nothing, just a fling. I’d made a promise to never let another man wreck me, to never be like my mother. But laying here in his arms, I understand why it’s called falling in love. I can feel my heart tumbling, out of control, into an abyss with no one to catch me. And no one to blame except myself when I finally land on solid ground.
Chapter 21
Owen
I twist my fingers with hers, and kiss each of her knuckles. “Ye feel good here.”
She murmurs an agreement, but she’s gone quiet again, and I have no idea what she’s thinking.
My thumb traces the tattoo on her wrist, a symbol she’d marked herself with to remind her of Ireland, of her family, of me.
Hell, how am I going to let this girl go?
Raw emotions build inside me. The need to know her, every broken part she’ll allow me to see, is intense.
“Ye never told me where ye went after yer mom left.”
She tenses in my arms, then starts to roll away. “Why do you keep pressing this?”
I lean on my forearm, and watch all the walls she’d let down build back up, brick by brick. She grabs my t-shirt and pulls it over her head, then sits down on the edge of the bed, brushing her fingers through the dark tangle of hair.
“I want to know more about ye.”
She huffs a frustrated breath towards the ceiling.
I sit up, and pull her against me, so that her back is resting against my chest, then thread my fingers with hers. “Ye’re a part of my world now. Once the media finds out, people will start to dig. If there are skeletons yer hiding-”
“If it’s the band you’re worried about, your reputation-”
“I’m worried about yer reputation. Yer name being dragged through the gossip columns.”
“I haven’t killed anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she mutters.
“Good to know,” I chuckle, burying my face in her hair and inhaling her intoxicating scent.
“Why are you so convinced I’m hiding anything?”
“Am I wrong?”
She doesn’t answer, just gives a small shake of her head.
“Tell me about Frank.”
She tries to sit up, but I wrap my arms around her, holding her to me. “Frank was an asshole.”
Darkness skates across her features and dread curls in my stomach, warning me that I won’t like what I find if I keep digging.
“But yer mom left ye with him?”
A sad sigh slips from her and she nods.
The admission strikes me deep. I know about loss. About losing a mother to her own fucked-up desires. My mom left Cillian and I when we were still kids, started a new family, like the one she had wasn’t good enough.
But she’d left us with my father. And even though he was a drunk, he loved us. And at least Cillian and I had each other, had our friends.
Bree had no one.
“Did he hurt ye?” I ask, my chest feeling like it’s being squeezed, because it’s the question that’s been spinning through my head all day. The way she keeps favoring her one hand. The distrust I see in her eyes; not just for me, but everyone.
“Owen, please-”
“Answer me, Bree.” I place a palm on her cheek and force her to look at me.
She rubs her hand again, the one that seized up when she was playing the piano, and I know I already have my answer.
“He was more of a control freak.” She shrugs, her eyes going distant. “But when my mom left, he…”
“He what?” The weight of whatever she’s been carrying around with her feels like it’s crushing my ribs. I know I should stop prodding. I feel the turmoil warring inside her. But I need to know her secrets. Not just because I want to know, but so that I can protect her.
Her voice is cold, detached, when she continues. “He took a bat to my piano.” She lifts up her hand. “And I got in his way.”
Anger splinters through me. And a sense of guilt. I know there’s nothing I could have done to protect her, but I wish I could have.
“He’s the one that broke yer hand?”
Another small nod.
Pain twists me in two, and a violence rose up inside me, wanting to hurt the man who’d hurt her.
“Was he charged?”
“He didn’t mean to-”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She lets out a sigh. “No. It doesn’t.”
“Did yer mom know?”
She shrugs. “If she did, she didn’t care.”
“And ye stayed with him?”
“I was fifteen. Had nowhere else to go.”
Fuck.
“But when I left…”
A heavy silence stretches between us, and I know she’s struggling with whether or not to trust me with whatever secret she’s been holding on to.
I take her hand, and brush my lips across her knuckles. “Tell me.”
“I was angry,” she says softly. “I wanted to make a point. Hurt him, like he hurt me.”
“What did ye do?”
She shakes her head, her eyes filling with memories, the storm beneath them collecting speed. “He had this car. A blue ‘57 Chevy. It was the only thing he really loved. Mom and I weren’t allowed near it.” Her lips tug up slightly. “So, I took it.”
“Ye took it?”
“Got two states away before I realized he’d called the police on me,” The confession breaks in her throat. “So, I dumped it, but not before I made sure he’d never drive it again.”
I drag my hand through my hair and let out a breath, wondering what else she’s not telling me, but grateful for this small break in her armor.
“And this Frank guy, is he still a problem?”
“No.”
She’s lying. But I’ve already pushed enough tonight.
I pull her back down, shifting so that her head is resting on my chest. A surge of protectiveness crashes over me.
“Promise me you won’t tell the others any of this.” Anxiety strains her voice.
“Ye didn’t do anything wrong.” I kiss her forehead and pull her closer, swallowing past emotions that are lodged in my throat.
Those same emotions coil and spiral in my chest. Anger towards the man who hurt her. Affection for the woman lying in my arms. And something more. Truth is, I’ve been feeling it since the moment I’d first seen her.
More than just lust. More than just wanting to protect her because she’s the kid who used to follow me around with big, doe-like eyes, looking at me like I hung the fucking stars.
I know what it is, the emotion beating inside me like a manic drummer. But hell, if I want to put a name on it.
I love my family. My friends. They’ve been my life for as long as I can remember. But this. Bree. It’s something else entirely. Something I never thought I’d feel, or even have the ability to experience.
I’ve been so guarded. The walls of my own heart fortified to anyone but my close circle.
One kiss, and it all came crashing down.
Like a tornado, she’d blown into my life and managed to turn my perfectly ordered world upside down.
Lying here, I know that even if I want to, I can’t go back to the way I was. Cold. Distant. Numb. Bree makes feel. I knew bringing her here would mean more than it should. I just didn’t know how much more.
The thought of her leaving, of never seeing her again, is rejected by every damn cell in my body. And the need to protect her trumps every other emotion.
When I hear her soft, even breaths, letting me know she’s finally asleep
, I crawl out of bed, and grab my cellphone, scrubbing my hand over my face as I walk to the kitchen.
“Jesus, Gallagher, do you know what time it is?” Kevin Stone, Wild Irish’s manager, grumbles on the other end.
“I need ye to look into something for me.”
I hear the shuffling of sheets, and a woman’s voice in the background, before he answers. “What?”
“I’m going to give ye a name, and I want ye to see what ye can find. Everything. Dig as deep as ye can. Whatever the media can find out, I want to know first.”
“Who is it?”
I rub the back of my neck, hoping I’m doing the right thing. “Beatrice Walsh.”
Chapter 22
Bree
“Good morning.” Owen’s voice rasps in my ear, his hard body pressed against my back, sending a tremor straight to my core.
My limbs are sluggish when I roll over in bed and see him leaning on an elbow, grinning down at me. Morning light filters through the floor to ceiling windows that look out on the rolling hills and dark lough below.
The sun’s rays slant across his features, making the gray of his eyes seem to swirl like silver lava.
Intense.
Mesmerizing.
Mine.
I groan inwardly at the thought, knowing how far from the truth it is.
“What are you doing?” I mumble, closing my eyes against the smirk he gives me.
“Watching ye sleep.”
I cover my face with the sheet. “That’s weird. And I need a shower. Or, to at least brush my teeth.”
He chuckles, pulling the blanket down.
“Ye’re beautiful.” He shifts, and rolls on top of me, spreading my thighs with his knee and pressing his heavy erection against my stomach. “What do ye want to do today?”
A murmur of pleasure vibrates in my throat, and I run my fingers through his hair. “Happy to stay right here.”
He nuzzles my neck, inhaling deeply. “Sounds like a good plan. I do have a few people I need to meet with later today. Ye can come with me, if ye want.”
“I wouldn’t mind some time to walk around. See my old house.”
He winces. “They tore it down a few years ago. Black mold.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure why I’m surprised. The place was barely a shack. I spent more time at Agnus’ house than my own. But it just reminds me of how much things have changed.
I run my fingers across the tattoos on his arm, some of the words written in Gaelic along his bicep. “What does this mean?”
He glances down at the ink, and his lips pull up. “Under the shelter of each other, people survive.”
I let the words sink in, but they’re so foreign to me, the whole concept of family and friends you can count on.
“How long are we staying here?” I ask, never wanting to leave, knowing going back to Dublin means facing reality.
I can’t stay here.
“We need to be back in Dublin by Saturday for the wedding.” He kisses me once, then rolls out of bed, walking across the room without even a hint of modesty, then looks over his shoulder with a grin. “Ye coming?”
“Where?”
He smirks from the bathroom doorway. “Ye said ye needed a shower. And I’m looking forward to getting ye wet…” He winks. “Again.”
I chuckle, despite the ache that’s formed in my chest.
Just sex, I remind myself as I follow him in, stepping underneath the stream of warm water.
But separating my heart from the pleasure isn’t just difficult. It’s damn near impossible.
A breeze rustles through the trees around me as I walk down the path towards the old oak down by the lough. After spending the entire morning ravaging my body in the shower, the bed, and even the kitchen, Owen finally left a couple hours ago to take care of his errands.
I’m happy for the few minutes alone.
Time to process everything that’s happened.
I pull myself up to the first heavy branch of the oak, straddling it before getting my balance, and continuing to climb up further, to my branch. No one ever dared climb this high when we were younger, so I claimed it.
Marked my name on trunk.
I smile when I find the letters I’d cut deep into the bark.
BEATRICE.
My fingers trace the indented wood, tears pricking the backs of my eyes for the child I once was. The girl who was fearless. Who dreamed big. And believed in fairytales and happy ever afters.
I shift so that my back is against the trunk, glancing out across the dark green waters of the lough.
“He’s going to break your heart,” I mumble to myself.
But what if he doesn’t?
What if he wants more?
I close my eyes, wanting to believe that it’s possible. Because one thing is certain – I want to come home.
My cell rings in my back pocket.
An unknown number pops up. Normally, I wouldn’t answer it, especially considering the roaming costs here, but for some reason I do. And I regret it the second I hear the voice on the other end.
“Miss Walsh?”
Hang up.
“This is Ted Davidson. I’m an attorney with Carson and Kemp.”
My stomach drops, fear sitting heavy like a boulder in my gut.
“I’m calling in regard to Frank-”
I end the call, my fingers trembling, and close my eyes, placing my phone against my forehead and cursing.
It’s the same lawyer who sent me a letter a few months back. All these years, I managed to keep my number blocked, my address unknown. But he’s found me – Frank.
I have no idea what Frank’s motives are for calling a lawyer, but I know they can’t be good.
Is it even possible for him to charge me now, after all this time? If the police report he filed is still open, then probably. And what if they charge me as an adult? I was still a minor when I took the car, but that doesn’t always matter.
God. I’m screwed.
Owen’s right. I am trouble.
Am I really willing to bring that trouble here? To Emer and Agnus. To the band. To Owen.
“Jeezus, Bree.” Owen’s voice bellows below me. “What the hell are ye doing up there?”
Nerves already frayed, I startle, and my phone falls from my grasp.
Shit.
I reach for the nearest branch, but I miss it by a hair, and slip.
Bark bites into my skin as I flail my arms, trying to regain balance, which I finally do three branches below where I started.
Owen curses wildly, fear mixed with anger vibrating in his words.
I wince, more from the lecture I know I’m going to get than from the pain.
Fingers dig into my arms, steadying me. “I told ye-”
“You scared me.” I mutter accusingly, as I let him help me down the last branch.
“Ye’re bleeding.” His nostrils flare and he shakes his head.
“I’m fine.” I wince, glancing down at the scrapes on my arms and legs. “If you hadn’t crept up on me like that...”
“Ye shouldn’t have been up in the damn tree.”
“I’ve never fallen before. You startled me.”
His jaw twitches, his hands roaming across my skin as he takes in the damage. “So, it’s my fault?”
Yes. Because only when I’m around you do I lose my balance.
“No.”
He straightens and drags his fingers through his hair. “Come on. Let’s get those cleaned up.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Ye say that a lot, when ye clearly aren’t.” He picks up my phone and hands it to me, a reminder of why I was so frazzled in the first place.
He’d asked me if Frank was going to be trouble. Now, I know with certainty that he will be.
Let Owen help you, my brain demands. But my heart warns me not to get him involved. For his sake. For Emer and Agnus. I don’t want to bring them into this mess.
Don’t want them to know how much of
a mess I really am.
If I tell Owen, I know he’ll pull his whole white-knight bit. Because that’s what he does. Who he is. And I don’t need anyone fighting my battles for me.
Except that this time, I really do.
We walk to the house, his disapproving silence louder than if he were screaming at me.
“Sit,” he orders when we’re in the kitchen.
I don’t have the strength to argue, so I pull out a stool and wait for him to return with a washcloth and antiseptic spray.
Lips pulled tight, he cleans the small scrapes with a gentle patience I wouldn’t have thought him possible of.
He’d be a good father.
I groan as the thought pops into my head.
“Does that hurt?” His brows draw down severely, concern etched tight on his handsome features.
“No.” I place a hand on his cheek, soaking him in. The only thing that hurts is my heart when I think about leaving.
His palm rests on top of mine, then he takes my hand and brushes his lips across my inner wrist. “Promise me ye won’t climb that damn tree again. That ye won’t put yerself at risk.”
I can’t help the pull that curves my lips. “You’re worried about me.”
“Of course, I’m worried about ye.” He places his hands on the island behind me and leans close, his lips an inch from mine. “Never met anyone more prone to trouble.”
I grip his hips pulling him between my legs. “I like the trouble we got into last night.” I snake my hands under his shirt, pressing my palms against his flexed abs. “And the trouble we got into this morning.”
His eyes flash, the possessive concern from a moment ago replaced by primal hunger.
My heart thuds, my skin tingling as a callused hand cups the side of my cheek.
“I like ye here.”
“Like being here,” I murmur, wrapping my legs around his waist, and my arms around his neck, never wanting to let go.
He captures my mouth in a blinding assault. Demanding and desperate, and slightly out of control. A groan rumbles deep in his throat, and he’s lifting me, carrying me down the hall towards the bedroom, but we don’t get far, before my back is pressed against the wall, his fingers threading with mine and lifting my arms above my head.
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