Broken Enagement

by Gage Grayson

  His face looks pale and, although he won’t admit it, I can tell it hurts him to do so.

  He lets out a sharp breath.

  “Lead the way,” he says, gesturing towards the car. We step forward, our bodies moving in a singular forward motion. It isn’t long before we’re standing in front of the SUV.

  I struggle to get the door. Pulling it open with one hand, I shift slightly to give him some room. I was just about to help him get into the car when I feel something on my ass.

  I look at him, and the bastard looks right back at me, his devilish face feigning innocence.

  “Get in the car,” I scowl.

  “Anything for you, sweetheart,” Killian says, giving my ass one last pinch before sliding into the seat.

  I slam the door.

  I’m furious. Everything about Killian pisses me off. From his baby blue eyes to that smug little expression that he wears.

  But even despite all of this, there’s something about him that has always excited me.

  He’s a dangerous concoction of everything I shouldn’t want but do. I find myself reveling in his touch long after he’s let me go. I’m flushed, the heat emanating from my body.

  Of all the places I could have run into that SOB, it had to be here. Just when I thought I’d gotten away, he had to cross my path.

  I collect myself. There’s no use fuming about it. It won’t be long before I get him out of my hair.

  I pull two water bottles from the back of the car and then stride to the driver’s side.

  Slipping into the vehicle, I close the door.

  I look at Killian. He’s leaning back in the seat with his feet casually cocked up on my dashboard like he’s at home.

  “Here,” I say, whipping the water bottle at him. It hits him in the jaw, taking him by surprise. I smile surreptitiously.

  “Jackpot,” I mutter.

  Killian rubs his cheek. “Where’d you learn to throw like that?” he says, evidently impressed.

  “Baseball, little league,” I answer.

  “You played baseball?” he asks.

  “Yeah, for six years.”

  “That’s how you pass the time in America, isn’t it? With America’s fucking past-time, wearing your red socks and your white socks and stealing balls and beaning bags.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. What, do you prefer cricket or something?

  “Oh, please,” he scoffs. “Are all the British Isles the same to you?”

  I cross my arms.

  “Are all American sports the same to you?”

  “Baseball and American football. I'm not sure which one is more idiotic.” Killian says, shaking his head.

  “You know if you actually played either of these sports, you might actually enjoy it.”

  “Hurling and Gaelic Football, the only two sports worthy of an Irishman. But thanks for the offer. If I ever decide to slide my balls into home base, it’s going to be five foot one, preferably with red hair,” he says, giving me a wink.

  He takes a sip from the water bottle.

  “Look, it’s been a long day. Why don’t you tell me where you live, and I’ll drop you off,” I reply, my patience wearing thin.

  “North Richmond Drive,” he offers.

  The name of the street sounds vaguely familiar. I ponder it for a moment, and then I let it go.

  I put the key in the ignition, the engine revs slightly, and I can feel the floor vibrate beneath my feet.

  “Seatbelt,” I say.

  “Aye, lass,” Killian says.

  We pull into the dirt road, speeding toward our destination and, hopefully, end of this weird little unexpected epilogue to my time with Killian Walsh.

  5

  Killian

  Rebecca’s gas guzzler rocks and rumbles along the bumpy, unpaved Irish road. It jostles my arm something fierce—which I would complain about, if it wasn’t doing the same thing to her breasts beneath her shirt.

  “Stop staring at my tits,” Rebecca glowers.

  Her knuckles whiten as she tightens her grip on the steering wheel.

  “Eyes on the road, lass,” I chide her. “Wouldn’t want to peel any more wandering Irishmen off your front bumper, after all.”

  Still, I’m a gentleman. At least, when I want to be.

  Instead, I watch the way her headlights illuminate the road ahead. I know every road of this county better than I know the bottom of a pint of Guinness…but I know this one even better than most.

  “So where, um…where do you live?”

  “Ah,” I chuckle, pointing back and to the left. “In a cottage back in the other direction. Maybe half a kilo—kilometer, that is.”

  She slams on the brakes so hard, my poor injured arm and I go crashing into the dashboard.

  “Ooch!” I look over at Rebecca, wounded. “Are you taking the mickey?! I’m injured over here!”

  “I could ask you the same,” she says back to me in that sassy little tone that lets me know I’ve been caught. “Did you say cottage? Because I’m renting one around here, and there’s not supposed to be anything else around but one or two more…no…great!”

  Rebecca screeches the massive vehicle around angrily, the wheels swiveling off the road and then back onto it.

  “Janey May, woman! Do you think this is the Kentucky Fried Derby or some other stateside event? Here in the European Economic Area, we respect human lives.”

  Rebecca’s brought her hired monster back to a halt, and her eyes narrow fiercely as she stares.

  “First of all, it’s the Kentucky Derby. And that’s horses, not vehicles! Second of all…”

  Rebecca shakes her head. She knows how thoroughly I’m taking the piss, but she can’t let herself acknowledge that—no, sir.

  Even ignoring me wouldn’t be enough. She has to address my ridiculousness.

  Until she realizes she can’t—like at this moment.

  There is no second of all. So, Rebecca starts piloting the SUV down the road again, going painfully slow all of a sudden.

  Heck, maybe she did think I was being serious.

  But I can see she’s not thinking about that anymore. I can tell her eyes are focused on the cottages, now visible up ahead.

  She may regret taking this particular holiday rental.

  That is what her cottage is, too. I would know, because I am practically next door to it.

  I couldn’t help it. I grin at her like the bastard I am.

  “Looks like we’re neighbors then, doesn’t it?”

  “Just what I need,” she replies sarcastically.

  “You don’t believe in the concept of neighborly kinship, then? Is that not a concept they teach in schools in the States? Is that not something that’s valued in your society?”

  “That’s not a concept that exists anywhere. Not until you just made it up.”

  Rebecca’s glaring through her windshield, not willing to indulge my bit, the comedy bit, for even a wee little moment.

  “You’ve got me there, Becks-becks. But, if you’d ever like to stop by and relive some old times…”

  Rebecca slams the brakes abruptly again, this time for even less of a good reason. Her mouth is agape, and she’s looking at me like I’d lost my mind, which, in a way, I suppose I have.

  “Killian,” she says sweetly, giving me the most angelic face.

  “Yes, sweetie?”

  “You’re a fucking moron!”

  I give her a self-satisfied smirk. Even now with the red color rising in her cheeks, I find her deliciously appetizing. Rebecca is one of those women you never forget, from her long red hair to the sharp glance she gives me.

  I regard her thoughtfully. Tall, slender body, with just enough curves in all the right places.

  Everything about Rebecca is inviting. I don’t mean to be a prick, but it seems that every time I’m around her, I can barely keep my thoughts straight.

  It’s like my mouth has no filter, and I’ll say the first thought that pops into my head.

&nb
sp; Now, I’m usually a perfect fucking gentleman. Even after a few drinks—fuck, especially after a few drinks—you could hit me with a fucking sports utility vehicle as I’m ambling innocently along the side of the road, and I wouldn’t even fault you.

  But I’m turning into a wee right snotty little radge this evening. I suppose for the sake of my made-up concept of neighborly kinship, I’ll try to give it a rest.

  We drive in silence for a moment. The moon is high in the sky.

  Moonlight and starlight alike seem magnetically attracted to Rebecca’s hair. The dim lights of nighttime here in the heart of the countryside all seem to be playing on her ravishing fucking features.

  She’s so focused on the road, it’s as if I don’t exist. Somehow, it’s as if between the open road and the windshield, Rebecca is in a world of her own, one that I can only glance at from afar but will never be a part of.

  She’s always been beautiful, but at this moment, she’s absolutely radiant. I want to touch her, to reach out and slide my fingers against her soft cheeks.

  It won’t be long before we part ways and I know that if I don’t do something now, my chance will be lost forever.

  Get it together, Killian. Don’t fuck this up.

  I’m trying to give myself the boost of confidence I’m only pretending to feel.

  I know I’ve been an asshole, and I wouldn’t be shocked if she never wanted to speak to me again. I can see from the way her lips are pressed together that I am the last person she wanted to see.

  My throat feels dry, my palms sweaty. I run my fingers through my hair, attempting to collect myself.

  “What are you doing in Ireland anyway?” I ask.

  Rebecca taps her nails against the steering wheel.

  “I’m on vacation,” she says tightly.

  I look her over. She looks tired—as if she hasn’t slept in days. Although she’d done a great job of putting her makeup and hair together—Rebecca never looks out of sorts—there’s something in her voice that tells me there’s more to this story.

  “That doesn’t sound like the Rebecca I know,” I say.

  “You’re right. You don’t know me,” she replies.

  “Don’t be so sure,” I say.

  The car begins to slow. Rebecca pulls the vehicle to a complete stop. Her arms are crossed, and I can tell she’s got something up her sleeve.

  “Okay, try me,” she says.

  I cock one eyebrow. “Try you?” I reply smugly.

  “Since you know me so well, you won’t have any trouble telling me about my life,” she says.

  She turns her body towards me. I can see the roundness of her nipples, poking through her shirt. It’s clear she doesn’t wear a bra. Her hips, which are locked in by the seat belt, jut out in perfect formation.

  I lean back in the seat, my attempt at playing it cool.

  “Rebecca Doyle wouldn’t travel for a vacation. That’s not her style. She’s a diehard workaholic,” I say.

  “That was a long time ago,” she says.

  “I don’t think so. You’re a little older, but you’re still the same Rebecca. You didn’t come to Ireland to sightsee,” I say.

  She sighs. “You’re right. I had a book deal that just came through and coming here was just my way of finding some inspiration,” she says.

  I ponder her words. There’s something contained in her voice. I can tell that she’s holding something back.

  “That’s only part of the reason. There’s something you’re not telling me,” I say.

  “Such as?” she prods.

  “You came to Ireland as an escape. You’re running away from something,” I say.

  A shadow passes across her face, and I can tell that I’ve struck a nerve.

  I smile ruefully. “So, out with it. Who is he?”

  “That’s none of your business,” she snaps.

  “Come on. You know you’ve never been able to hide anything from me,” I say.

  “Oh, cut the crap, Killian,” she gripes.

  There’s a slight tremor to her voice, as if she’s trying not to break down. I can’t explain what comes over me, but I have a desire to hold her. To pull her into my arms.

  I reach out towards her, allowing my hands to rest on her shoulder.

  She turns to look at me.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” I say.

  “Killian, let’s just leave it alone.” She glances at the clock. “It’s getting late, why don’t I let you out here, and I’ll head home,” she says.

  I was so distracted, I hadn’t really noticed where she had stopped the car. I look toward the house and realize that it had never looked so empty.

  “I’ll see you around,” she says, offering her hand.

  I take it between my fingers, playing with her palm, the way a cat plays with a mouse.

  “Sleep with me,” I whisper.

  Rebecca shrugs. “Let’s catch up when I’m not sleep deprived.”

  “Tell me you don’t feel this. You know as well as I that we’ve never been able to stay away from each other. Stay the night with me,” I say, my lips nearly touching hers.

  She lingers there for a moment. I can see the struggle on her face as if she’s toying with the idea of allowing me to kiss her.

  “I’ve had a long flight, Killian. I’m sure we’ll see each other around.”

  “Rebecca, please...” My voice trails away.

  I hear the clicking sound of the car door as it unlocks.

  “Goodbye, Killian,” she says.

  With nothing else to say, I move out of the car.

  “My offer still stands,” I say.

  “Let’s catch up sometime, maybe…bye, Killian.”

  I get out and close the door behind me. I watch the car pull away, towards the rental cottage, taking my heart along with it.

  Again.

  Maybe that’s just how life works. Maybe once every few years, there’s a fresh heartbreak, and I never know when it’s going to come.

  Or how.

  Or if it’ll be proceeded by an actual broken fucking bone first.

  6

  Rebecca

  Tea with milk and two sugars.

  A fresh wool sweater—thick, cable-knit and emerald green.

  A pair of wool socks thick enough to stave off the morning chill, and a paintbrush tucked jauntily behind one ear.

  I fall into my old routine just like that.

  It’s comfortable, calming. It makes me feel at ease. The strange thing is that it makes the differences between my old life and this new one stand out even more.

  I’m drinking Irish breakfast tea instead of my usual Earl Gray. Instead of the plush carpet of the place that used to be my home, I’m treading ancient oaken floorboards.

  There’s an Irish sunrise pouring over Irish fields of green as I sit down at the cottage’s worn, wooden desk and look out the window. And when I breathe in the fresh Irish morning air, it doesn’t catch in my lungs like the smog of the city used to.

  The biggest difference, though, is that when I take my first sip of tea for the day, I’m not holding that breath. There’s no trigger-hair temper to tiptoe around, no angry asshole husband to try and appease. There’s no one in this cottage but me this morning.

  So instead, I breathe the breath out nice and slow, as the warm, sweet tea floods in over my tongue. Then I raise my eyes to the window and startle so hard I nearly spit the tea out against the pane.

  “Oh, put a fucking shirt on!” I groan after swallowing the tea hard.

  Because there, just across the stone fence that separates my yard from his, is Killian fucking Walsh doing yardwork in nothing but his boots and blue jeans.

  He has no shirt on.

  It leaves his toned muscles completely on display. Upon closer inspection, I see a black strap slung over one sculpted shoulder. It crosses over his chest to a sling that cradles his injured arm.

  As I stand there, unable to draw my eyes away from the picture outsid
e my window, I watch Killian work. He’s figured out a solution to having an injured arm—he’s using the side of his body and the uninjured arm to trim his hedges.

  It takes one determined man to get things done no matter his state of condition.

  And I have to admit…I definitely don’t mind watching him work.

  My jaw nearly hits the floor as I gaze at his muscles contracting and rippling in the morning sun. But after a few more seconds of being stuck in captivation, I begin to feel bad. Here I am, ogling him when I could be out there helping him.

  After all, it’s my fault that he’s in that sling in the first place.

  It looks uncomfortable, the way he has to twist his body to cut the hedges. I have two capable arms to his one, and Lord knows I’m not doing anything with them while starring at him. If I’m not going to work myself, the least I can do is give Killian a hand instead.

  Determined to lend a hand, I walk to the desk, and the paintbrush behind my ear is pulled down, clinking against the wood as it is laid on the desk.

  Slipping on black fur-lined boots that slip on easily over the wool socks I still wear, I swing the cottage’s heavy oak front door open and walk outside into the crisp Irish air.

  Killian doesn’t look up as I slowly approach him. He just keeps clipping away at stray branches on the hedge.

  I cough slightly to get his attention but get no reaction.

  What the fuck? Is he actually ignoring me?

  God, he’s irritating sometimes.

  Even though he’s obviously giving me the cold, injured shoulder, I remind myself that I came out here for a damn reason.

  The least he could do is look up to acknowledge me.

  “I, uh, saw you through the window and was wondering if you wanted some help with that. It can’t be that easy with your arm in the sling.”

  He leaves me talking to his downturned head as he concentrates on the task at hand.

  “I knew you were watching me, love. Like what you see?” Killian rumbles. His deep voice and Irish accent roll through my ears, creating a tingle inside my body.

  He may be cocky and annoying at times, but what woman in their right mind wouldn’t be affected by a sexy, shirtless man with an equally sexy accent?