Be What Love Is

by Malouff, Ellie

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  Acknowledgments

  Wow. We made it. I really hope you enjoyed your escape to an English countryside estate. Readers, I am forever grateful to you!

  Unlike Between The Waves, which was written and executed quickly, this novel began years ago. 2012 to be exact. It was born out of a song I was listening to one evening and has been on quite a journey since then.

  Some lovely people helped me get this book off the ground. First and foremost, Ivonne DeLuca. You listened to me ages ago work through my plot and strengthen my characters. You were my first beta reader ever, and I'd like to thank you so much for sticking with me. This book took years, and your patience was endless. Nicole Tone, thanks for your advice on strengthening Cara’s character. Sara Megibow, thank you for your helpful critique and persuading me to write this novel in alternating points of view.

  To my pals in Ellie’s Romance Ensemble, my Facebook group for readers. Your enthusiasm means so much! As do your gifs. And my ARC Team. Thank you for doing what you do! Thanks to the Romance Writers of America, especially my local chapter.

  Thanks to my mom, Sheila, and my sister, Marissa. Our little trip to England in 2009 and Bath, in particular, was unforgettable. Inspiration was everywhere, and it totally inspired this novel. I'd also like to say that I wouldn't have been exposed to antiques and estates if it wasn't for my mom. She dragged me to way too many estate sales as a kid, and she even operated as an Estate Seller. I couldn't have built this world without that experience. Sorry I was such a pain in the ass about it.

  I couldn't do any of this without the love of my family. My dad, Charles. My brother, Andrew. And of course my beloved husband Mike and kids, Erica and Isabelle.

  Can I thank my cats? You know I will. Persephone and Penny who were with me at the beginning of this adventure, but have since departed. It's finally published, girls. Callie, Athena, and Maia, you don't know how to read, and you don't understand what I'm doing with the metal thing I keep on my lap most nights. Thanks for not deleting all my work.

  Finally, I'd like to say something about my grandparents. Trevor's role started as a plot device when I was figuring out how to bring my characters together, but as I wrote more and more and gave shape to Trevor's life and the memory that Cara had of him, it really stirred up feelings about my own grandparents. They came from the Greatest Generation, and as I grow older, I also grow more in awe of their lives. From their struggles to their perseverance, they have inspired me. My own relationship with my grandfather, Melvin, and his unconditional love for me is threaded throughout this novel. My grandmothers, Neva and Elizabeth, were tough as nails and avid readers. I wish so much that I could go back and talk to them in more detail about books. Neva read a novel a day, usually romance. All in paperback that she picked up from the Goodwill. Elizabeth loved mysteries and thrillers, as do I. Abe, my other grandfather, was the feisty one. His personality could inspire so many characters. If your grandparents are still around, sit down and talk to them more. I really wish I could do the same.

  About the Author

  Ellie Malouff has been dreaming up stories for as long as she can remember. As an avid reader, she loves getting lost in books and decided one day to give a little back to the literary world with her own contribution. When she’s not writing, you can find her parked on the couch in Colorado with her husband, kids, and cats. She loves traveling to Ireland whenever she gets the chance.

  Find Ellie online at www.elliemalouff.com.

  Also by Ellie Malouff

  Pull At My Heart (Coming Soon)

  Julie Rodriguez dreams of traveling the world, so she jumps on the opportunity to transfer to the Ireland office for her job. She takes a chance on renting a room above a pub, but she didn’t bargain on her roommate, Eoghan Murrough, being irresistible. Now she’s just one ride through the Irish countryside on the back of his motorcycle away from crossing the line. Keep reading for a sample of the first chapter.

  Between The Waves (Available Now)

  Life for former pro-surfer Jake Garrant moves pretty slow in the small town of Manalua, Hawaii until one day a mysterious black haired beauty in a Cubs cap asks for surfing lessons. He commits to six lessons and does his best to keep it professional, but he can’t help falling for a woman named Audrey Logan. As each lesson goes by, the heat between them grows and they give into their desires, until one day they’re forced to face the ultimate riptide.

  Pull At My Heart Sample

  Chapter 1 - Céad Míle Fáilte

  JULIE

  Aiden Fucking Kelly.

  I will my phone to do something. Anything. Anything at all that tells me that I’m not going to be stranded in Ireland.

  I review my texts to Aiden as if he slipped one in that I didn’t notice.

  Landed! Will text when I get through customs.

  Nothing.

  Waiting just outside the door, near the taxi stand.

  Nothing.

  Assuming you’re driving and not texting. Superhero!

  And of course, nothing.

  It’s been ten minutes since my last text. Where the hell is my boss?

  When I agreed to take this job, Aiden promised that the transition would be smooth. It certainly isn’t starting off that way. He has to be stuck in a meeting, or maybe he’s being held up by a bunch of sheep that won’t get out of the road. That happens here, right?

  After a few more minutes of nothing, I look up from my phone and stare out at the land surrounding the airport. It’s definitely green, they weren’t lying about that. Cork is just how I pictured it to be with rolling green hills and rugged edges. From the plane, it looked plush and a tad bit magical. When the wheels touched the ground, the flight attendant started rattling off her memorized spiel in English and again in what I could only assume was Gaelic. Excitement coursed through me, which was way better than the trepidation I’m feeling right now about being stood up.

  The bank of travelers I arrived with are gone, and there isn’t much activity in the way of departures either. There are a few taxis lined up, waiting and it looks like they may be waiting a while. All three drivers are standing outside their cars, two are older men, who look like they’ve long since retired from other jobs. They’re chatting animatedly with each other, and one of them is puffing a cigarette that’s dangling from his toothless mouth.

  But it’s not those guys that catch my eye. No, it’s the one at the front of the line. He’s not nearly as old, in fact, he’s probably only five or six years older than me. Maybe 30 or 31. He’s leaning against the car, his arms crossed at his chest and his legs crossed at his ankles, waiting for a fare.

  Since I need something to do to pass the time, I decide to check out the local goods, but try my hardest to not be a total creepster while I do it. Ever so subtly, I take account of his rich dark hair that’s wavy and a little long on top and on the sides. My eyes flicker over his striking facial features. Beneath a thin layer of dark stubble is a solid square jaw. His nose is a little on the larger side with what appears to be an intriguing bump on the bridge. I can’t help but wonder how it got there. He’s wearing an army green V-neck t-shirt, dark blue jeans, and boots. As sly as I can, I study the brown beaded bracelets that wrap around his wrist and notice he’s got a matching brown beaded necklace that’s mostly hidden under his shirt. I can see the definition of his broad chest and collar bones and my eyes sweep over his well-defined biceps and forearms.

  Damn.

  My eyes lazily glide back up to his face, and to my surprise, he’s staring straight at me and smiling. Shit. I’m so busted.

  My gaze snaps to the old men who are in the middle of a heated argument. Thank goodness my complexion won’t give away how much I’m blushing.

  When I carefully glance back at him, he’s still staring at me. This time I don’t look away because he motions to his car and lifts an eyebrow. He wants to give me a ride? Well, I guess that is what taxi drivers do.

&n
bsp; “No thanks, I have a ride.”

  He shrugs his shoulders and goes back to leaning on the car with his arms crossed. There’s still nothing going on with my phone, so I tap out a short text.

  Are you coming?

  As I wait for a reply, I glance back at the taxi driver to find him still looking at me. He smiles and once again motions to his car. I shake my head and look back at my phone. My family’s smiling faces in the background photo staring back at me, but nothing else.

  Aiden Fucking Kelly, my mind repeats over and over.

  A giant yawn breaks out of me. I’m so tired that I can’t even remember how long ago I left San Diego. I need a bed and I definitely need a shower. My hair, which is usually styled buoyant and shiny is totally flat and dull. And then there’s the fact that I smell like eau de airport.

  I take one last look at my phone, willing it to do something before I give in. Nothing happens of course, and so with a heavy sigh, I look back at the taxi driver. This time he doesn’t even motion to the car. Instead, he opens the car door for me and then opens the trunk.

  So presumptuous.

  My stubborn nature makes it hard to budge, but I figure I don’t have much of a choice. I slip my phone back into my laptop bag and wheel my giant suitcase over to where he waits for me. The Irishman has a look of satisfaction on his face. I do my best to hold in an annoyed huff.

  Without saying a word, he takes hold of my suitcase and puts it in the trunk with ease.

  “Thank you,” I murmur and he nods while shutting the trunk. I climb into the backseat, and he closes the door for me before getting into the driver’s seat.

  “I’m going to the Macalister Hotel.”

  He lifts his chin and starts the car. Butterflies take flight inside me as he pulls away from the airport. This is it, I’m really on my way to a new life in Ireland.

  EOGHAN

  The ignition comes to life with an angry roar. It’s no surprise really, I turned the key much harder than I needed to, all because of her. She’s sitting in the back of my father’s taxi, staring down at her phone again with a definite sense of desperation. She’s so obviously new. So new to Ireland. So new to Cork. So new to me.

  And just like with anything new, there’s a little bit of panic.

  I gather my wits and quickly decipher the longest way to get her to the hotel. It’s a shite thing to do, but something inside me craves more time with her. I’ll fix the meter later.

  Through the rear-view mirror, I watch her whenever I can. She’s put the phone down now and is staring out the window with giant doe eyes and a smile that beams. Does she like what she sees? Pride radiates through me.

  When those same doe eyes meet mine in the mirror, I get stuck there. Much like her hair, they’re creamy brown velvet, like my favorite ale. It’s a feckin’ miracle I don’t get us into an accident.

  I’m still looking when her full lips purse together just a moment before a bright white smile spreads across her heart-shaped face. I grip the steering wheel tighter because I am done for. In my line of work, I come across loads of pretty girls, but this one just appeared from nowhere like a gift from God.

  She breaks eye contact first and looks back out the window. “It’s lovely here.”

  “Mmm,” I agree with a throaty grunt because, apparently, I’ve lost my natural born gift of gab.

  “It lives up to the stereotype,” she says with a little chuckle and looks back to the mirror. My eyes flicker between her and the car in front of me. Thankfully, I know these roads like the back of my hand.

  I know everything there is to know about her, without asking her a single thing. She’s American, obviously. Based on how she’s shivering in her jacket on what’s considered a balmy day for Cork, she’s from somewhere warm, like Florida or California. She hasn’t seen much of the world, but she wants to. She’s brave, and she’s confident, and that means she’s probably pretty successful at whatever she does. She has an eye for beauty. That much is clear from the camera bag she’s carrying. Most people would pack their camera away. Not her. She keeps it close.

  To see how right I am, I start with the most basic question. “American?”

  “That obvious?”

  Yes. From her shoes to her accent and everything in between. I don’t answer, but keep going. “West coast?”

  “Yeah, California. How’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess,” I answer. “What part?”

  “San Diego, near Mission Beach.”

  And just like that, the image of her in a little bikini pops into my mind and I have to adjust myself. Her curvy body and tan complexion would fill it out beautifully.

  I forget all the other questions I was going to ask her while a long beat passes between us. Finally, I croak out, “Céad mile fáilte.”

  A bewildered look flashes across the rear-view mirror. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “It means ‘a hundred thousand welcomes.’”

  “Oh, in Gaelic?”

  That makes me laugh a little.

  “Am I missing something?” she asks and crosses her arms. She’s a feisty one, that’s for sure.

  “We call it Irish here.”

  “Don’t you mean Gaelic?”

  Stubborn too.

  “We call it Irish,” I insist. I’ve got an urge to teach her more of it.

  “Well thank you. It’s my first time in Ireland.”

  She confirms what my heart already knew.

  “On holiday?” I ask because that’s what comes naturally next.

  “Actually, no. I’m moving here for work.”

  I’m so stunned, I nearly run into a parked car on one of Cork’s narrow side streets. Relief courses through me, eight different ways.

  Turns out she’s quite unexpected.

  With this new information, I no longer feel the need to take the long way to her hotel.

  “And you’re moving half-way across the world with just a couple of bags?”

  “No, not quite. I’m going to find a place first, and then the rest of my stuff will be shipped to me.”

  The phone in her hand chimes and she immediately pulls it up close to her face and breaks out in a huge smile. I shift gears with more force than necessary as she rapidly types a message back.

  She said she’s moved here for work, but I wonder if she’s got a boyfriend here. I wonder if it’s the langer that stood her up at the airport.

  Once she puts the phone down while looking very pleased, I ask, “Did you finally hear from your man who didn’t show up?”

  She gives me a confused look, one that’s almost defensive. “That was my boss,” she clarifies.

  Her boss? The look on her face might say otherwise. Either way, the boss had better have a good reason to leave the poor lass stranded in a new country.

  I keep my mouth shut about it and keep driving, but my dad’s poor car is taking a beating. My fingers are wrapped way too tight around the steering wheel because I need to hold onto something. Lord knows why, but from the moment I saw her standing all alone on that curb, I wanted to hold onto her, and if I can’t do that, this will have to do.

  Continue reading Pull At My Heart.