by Este Holland
“This way, sirs.”
The host’s musical Irish accent made me smile. He led us through the restaurant, and I couldn’t help the nerves in my stomach. It was extravagant with the brown stone walls and white tablecloths. Truman let me slide onto a gray upholstered love seat first. He sat beside me and Marcel stood in a corner, disappearing into the background.
“How does he do that?” I whispered to Truman. “He’s got more muscles than both of us combined.”
“It’s what he does,” Truman murmured against my temple and kissed it.
We were out of the way of the main restaurant, tucked into a corner, and our server took Truman’s orders in a hurry.
“I told them we can’t linger.”
“But we can see the museum, right? That’s why you picked this place.”
“We can. We have a three-hour drive ahead of us, or more depending on traffic, so we should stretch our legs.” He gestured to the server when he brought wine and whispered in his ear. I got a little zing of annoyance when the younger man bit his lip and flushed, but I pushed it away. “I asked him to let the museum know I need a private tour.”
I sipped the wine to be polite but stuck with water.
“Do you not drink? I noticed it at my house too.”
I had to remember how observant he was. “Not really.”
“I’m sorry. I should’ve asked. What would you like?”
“Water’s fine.” I smiled until his frown disappeared. “What are we eating?”
“Duck. Is that okay?”
I chuckled. “You’re used to being in charge.”
“I am.” He nodded in emphasis. “If I overstep too much, you can smack me.”
“Hmm. Smacking Truman James? Careful what you offer.”
His lips curled and the heated look in his eyes made my temperature rise, among other things.
I cleared my throat. “So, a three-hour drive in Ireland? I’m guessing that will take us to the west coast?”
Pleased at my guess, he smiled. “Yes.”
“The wild sea on Ireland’s cliffs?” I gasped. “Are we staying in a castle?”
He gave an exaggerated pout. “No.”
“That’s okay. I’ll love it.”
He gave me a fond look. “You don’t know where it is.”
“So? I’ll still love it. I’ve never been to Ireland. I’ve never been anywhere on this side of the world.”
“Where all have you been?”
“I’ve been to Cancun; that’s why I got my passport, and up and down the West Coast. You know, Seattle to San Diego. What about you?”
Truman gave a rueful grin. “I’d need Riley’s notes. But I know I’ve been to every continent except Antarctica.”
“Where’s your favorite?”
“Here. My family is from County Mayo. And then, I’d say Australia, the Sunshine Coast.”
“Is that why you bought a house on the beach?”
He hummed in agreement as he sipped his wine. “I love the water.”
The food came and we ate in silence as I tried not to inhale the gourmet masterpiece.
“Is this what I think it is?” I asked when I’d finished the main.
“Depends. Do you think it’s blood pudding?”
I grinned. “Yes. What does it taste like?”
“You’ll have to try it and find out.”
Truman forked a large round patty that looked like a sausage and held it out to me.
“Not so big!” I laughed.
“Come on. Be brave. Open wide and relax your throat.”
“Oh my God, you didn’t just say that.” I glanced around, but no one was listening. I took a deep breath and took the whole thing.
He chuckled and took his own smaller bite. I choked a little but managed to finish it.
“You’re adorable.”
“You keep saying that, but I think you’re mistaken.”
“You didn’t just see your cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.”
I groaned and drank the rest of my water.
“How did it taste?”
“Like spicy metal.”
Truman smiled and pushed the remains away. He paid the check quickly, and a woman appeared to lead us up a rear staircase.
We wandered around the museum and I marveled over the history. Yeats, Shaw, Beckett, Joyce—there were portraits everywhere and books and letters in glass cases. It was incredible to see these famous writers’ handwriting. The ceilings and columns were ornate, and I had fun looking at the memorabilia. I couldn’t tell if Truman liked it, but every time I looked over, he smiled at me.
After we were done, we rested in the car, my head on Truman’s shoulder as Marcel drove us west. An hour into the drive it began to rain, and the lush countryside took my heart by the strings and gave a good tug. The purple-gray skies and the emerald hills were gorgeous. I had no trouble seeing why Truman loved it.
Chapter 13
Truman’s Hideaway
Truman
Adam dozed on my shoulder, and I joined him. I hadn’t slept well on the flight. Too bumpy. Plus, lunch made me full and drowsy. I was fascinated with the way Adam took in everything around him. He’d loved the museum and restaurant. The tour had been boring as fuck to me, but I respected the history. This was for Adam.
I’d been fighting off an erection for what felt like an eternity. He’d been very…cuddly ever since I picked him up at his stepbrother’s place. I’d never been one for touchy-feely crap, but with Adam, I found that I liked it. I loved it, actually. Not that I enjoyed the situation I’d put him in, but something deep inside of me recognized that I wanted to be needed. And not for my fame or money. He’d been moved to tears when I’d said he was my priority, and I’d meant it. Never had I wanted someone who was mine alone.
The familiar green landscape put my mind at ease as we drove along the country roads. We could’ve flown closer, but I wanted Adam to see Ireland. We stopped once to use the toilet and get some drinks. The rain slowed, but a heavy mist hung in the air. I gave Adam my jacket when he shivered. He breathed in and smiled at the rolling hills and cloudy sky.
“The air’s so fresh here. Is that a sheep?” he asked with a gasp. He pointed to the side of the building, and sure enough, a young man in a wool coat and carrying a long stick stood there with the animal.
“It is.”
“It’s bigger than I thought it would be.”
Adam radiated happiness when the man gestured him over. He threw his drink at me and I caught it with a laugh. Adam smiled shyly at the young man and pet the sheep. He laughed when it headbutted him for more, and he patted Marcel’s arm when he tried to intervene.
Marcel was a longtime bodyguard for me when I traveled anywhere in Europe and the surrounding countries. He didn’t like to be too far from his family in London, but he’d come here with me often and even had a few friends in Westport. I was going to set him up in a nearby cottage, so Adam and I had some privacy.
We’d be safe enough alone on my island.
I hoped Adam liked it. It wasn’t anything exotic or resortlike, but it had spectacular views and the peace he craved. Exhaustion made him slump, though he tried to hide it.
As we got close to Westport, I nudged Adam fully awake.
“Hey, we’re close.” I kissed his head, a habit I was quickly forming.
He blinked and sat up, almost pressing his nose to the glass. Charming, brightly colored buildings began to pop up as the town got closer, and a skinny church spire pierced the sky.
“That’s the Old Bridge and the Carrowbeg River,” I pointed out. The bridge was weathered and ancient with purple-and-pink flower baskets hanging from the sides over the murky water.
“It’s so beautiful.”
“We’re headed to Clew Bay.”
A few more turns and down a stretch, Marcel parked the car at the pier. He helped carry our bags as I made my way to where my boat bobbed in the water. Riley had called ahead to have it ready to go.
Adam stood on the dock, gazing out over the blue water dotted with green islands. There were dozens just in our eyesight, and many more beyond that. Not all of them were habitable, but mine was.
Adam turned in a bit of a daze, and called out over the breeze, “Where…?”
I grinned and called back, “Dorinish Island.” I pointed vaguely to the right. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
Adam walked over to me.
“Put our bags on the boat?” I asked.
He smiled and hopped in to help Marcel.
“This is your boat?”
I untied the dock lines. “Yes. I pay a local family to keep it for me.”
“It’s smaller than I expected.”
I lifted my head and narrowed my eyes at his cheeky grin. “Very funny.”
Marcel shook his head with a snort. “Be careful.” He stopped in front of me. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“No. You’ve got the small speedboat in case I call.”
“D’accord.”
Marcel watched as I stepped in.
“What kind of boat is this?” Adam asked.
“It’s a bay boat. It’s made to stay near the coastline.”
“So, no deep-sea fishing.”
“That’s right,” I said with a smile.
“Do you fish at all?”
“Some. It’s not my favorite hobby.”
I started the engine and slowly made my way around the bay while Adam sat in the chair behind me. He was close enough to touch me and braced himself on my hips when the boat rocked. My hard-on returned with a vengeance.
I concentrated on steering, and soon my island came into view. I reversed in beside the south dock and jumped out to tie the dock lines. Adam lifted the luggage. I had more bags than he did, but between the two of us, we grabbed them all.
Adam’s eyes pinged around with avid interest. There were some trees and bushes I’d had planted to help with privacy. I’d tried not to take away from the natural beauty or the views. I led the way off the dock and to the brick path. It wasn’t far, and I preferred to walk instead of using the golf cart tucked away in the small storage shed.
When the house came into view, Adam stopped and stared.
“It’s not huge,” I said.
“It’s beautiful. You’ve made it perfect.”
I smiled in satisfaction. It was perfect, and it wasn’t huge, but it was mine. A self-sustained, low, ranch-style house with a flat roof, blended into the natural rise of the meager hillside. The island was only forty-five acres, and I hadn’t wanted to obstruct the views of the water and faraway hills with some bulky eyesore.
I opened the front door with my key and set the bags aside. Adam followed and did the same. He wandered off to stare out the windows, and I watched him. Two sides of the house were made entirely of glass, specially treated not to reflect sunlight, or let anyone see in, but we could see out all around the bay. It was a spectacular sight. The rain clouds had followed us, and the purple-gray skies dumped sheets of water, churning up the blue bay and turning it green.
“We made it just in time.”
I wrapped my arms around Adam from behind, and he relaxed in degrees until he was leaning against me.
“I see that.”
After a minute, Adam disentangled himself to explore. The potbelly stove in the living room wasn’t lit, but it wasn’t needed, yet. There was firewood stacked in the bin, though. On the wall hung an overblown black-and-white photo of John Lennon. Adam stared at it, then at me.
I smiled. “This is Dorinish Island, like I said. John Lennon used to own it. He wanted to build a little cottage here, but well…you know. Yoko sold it later.” I walked over to look at the large photo. “I bought it a few years ago.”
“Did you hang this here for him?”
I shrugged, self-conscious. “Sort of. I just thought it was his dream, so he should enjoy it if he happened to be anywhere around. Not that I think his ghost is here or anything,” I added.
Adam grinned, then bit his lower lip. “That’s sweet of you.”
I scoffed and walked off to the kitchen. “I’m not sweet.”
“Wow. Who did all this?” Adam asked seeing that the fridge and cabinets were fully stocked.
I pulled a red Dutch oven out of the fridge and peeked inside. “Helen McCamish. She and her husband are the caretakers. They’re relatives.”
“They got the boat ready and stocked the food?”
“Yep. And brought firewood and dusted. I haven’t been here in a while.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t had the time.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Potato soup and biscuits for dinner?”
“Sounds great.”
Adam
I didn’t know who this person was. Standing in jeans and bare feet in the bright kitchen in front of a spectacular view of blue water and green islands, his dark hair was windblown from the sail across the bay, and he kept smiling. It was such a contrast from the man who’d wined and dined me in his Malibu beach house with the fancy car and catering staff, I was tempted to ask if he had an identical twin. Maybe he’d foisted me off. Maybe it was a game they played once Truman was done with a guy.
I pursed my lips over the cup of tea Truman had made me.
He glanced over. “What?”
“Are you the real Truman James?”
He planted his hands and leaned over the granite counter, face within inches of mine. Sexy veins popped on the smooth inner skin of his forearms where he’d pushed his sleeves up, and his sculpted shoulders rounded forward under his sweater.
“No. I’m a spy sent to find out what you know about him.”
I studied his dark-blue eyes and noticed gray flecks in the irises for the first time. “Hmm, I hadn’t considered that. A body double. I was thinking good twin.”
“Good? So, Truman is the evil twin?”
“Obviously.”
He threw his head back and laughed, then continued to knead his biscuit dough.
“Seriously, though, you can bake?”
“Not a lot. Biscuits are easy.” He lifted his wineglass between two doughy fingers and took a drink, the red liquid sloshing around.
Truman had started a vinyl record player going, and The Beatles crooned from hidden speakers. He’d said it was his tradition whenever he first arrived.
Truman scooped chunks of dough and dropped them onto a baking tray. Once it was full, he slid it in the oven alongside the ceramic pot of soup. He washed up, cleaned the counter, and gestured me out to the living room, picking up his wine on the way.
“This is you, relaxed.”
“This is me.”
Sitting beside me with one arm along the back of the sofa, he stared into his wineglass, a hint of vulnerability in the lines of his face. I tucked into the corner and drew my legs up. The leather furniture was buttery soft and perfect for sitting all day. The rain had chilled the house, so Truman had started a small fire in the pot-belly stove along with several fat beeswax candles. They were nothing like the ones he’d lit on his fancy table in Malibu.
“I’m guessing not many people see you like this.”
Truman shook his head. “The only other person besides Marcel and the McCamishes that’s been here is my friend Daniel.”
“What about your immediate family?”
His mouth curled on one side, but not in a smile. “Not them. They’d ruin it.”
“How?” I snuggled into the large hoodie and sweats I’d thrown on and the thick wool socks Truman had loaned me.
“My parents would hate it here. They’d complain about everything. And we’d have nothing to talk about. My sister, Nat, I’d handle, I guess, but she’s a sophomore in college. All she’d care about are the boys in the village. She’d be bored out of her mind in twenty minutes.”
Truman glanced out from under his lashes. “You’re not bored, are you? There’re no TV or game console
s, but you brought your laptop, right?”
I stilled at his uncertainty. Shifting, I moved over and leaned in to put my hand on his face, feeling the unshaved stubble against my palm. “I won’t get bored. This place is magical. Thank you for bringing me. I can see it’s not something you’d want many people to know about.”
“I couldn’t think of anywhere else that you’d be safe from the scrutiny.”
“It’s perfect.” I leaned in farther, and he met me halfway.
I kissed him, unsure of his reaction. He’d kissed me three times, but I hadn’t initiated yet. He pressed in, mouth tasting like wine, and I moaned. I didn’t mind the taste so much when it was on his tongue.
Truman stopped and stared at me with his forehead against mine. “Biscuits are going to burn.”
I grinned and let go of where I’d fisted his shirt. He stood and jogged to the kitchen. The smell made my stomach rumble. I brought his wineglass and helped carry bowls and plates to the walnut table. It sat against the wall of glass, and the view of the bruised sky as the sun disappeared served as the backdrop to our dinner.
The potatoes were tender and moist, and the onions contrasted with the creamy, cheesy goodness of the broth. I slathered butter on Truman’s biscuits and devoured three. He had a little smile on his face, as if he was pleased that I liked them.
Once finished, I washed the dishes and he dried; then we drifted into the living room. I was full but not tired since I’d slept in the car a bit.
“Tell me about Daniel.”
“Why?”
“Because if you’ve brought him here, then he’s important to you.”
He settled into the thick couch cushions. “He’s a freelance journalist. We met ten years ago when I was just starting out acting. He was writing a story about the dark side of Hollywood. He actually helped me by telling me some nasty things about a particular producer.”
“Wow. So, you became friends?”
“Yes. He was the only one I trusted.”
“I bet he’s not very popular with that crowd.”
“No, he’s not. There’re some people that still snub me because I stuck by him.” Truman stared out at the foggy bay. “He usually travels all over the world, but he’s staying at my house for a short vacation while we’re here.” Truman smiled. “He and Riley should be having fun right about now.”