My Secret Irish Baby: A Second-Chance, Secret Baby Contemporary Romance (Irish Kiss Book 7)

by Sienna Blake

  "Your name isn't on my ass, is it?" I asked her.

  She shook her head.

  "No, but you did want it," she said, grinning up at me with those wild hazel eyes. "And after getting refused at the tattoo parlour for being 'dangerously intoxicated', we bought a large pizza with everything on it and snuck into St Stephens Green, which is where you said you remembered this Irish festival your dad took you to once in Glenda-something and that we should go."

  The girl jabbed her finger into my chest.

  "Hence, your idea."

  Just then we emerged from the forest path to a wide grassy clearing near a huge lake, surrounded on all sides by low green mountains. In the clearing were tents and booths and dance floors and tables and benches and dozens of people still setting up for the festival.

  "So should I go get us some beer?" the girl asked. "And I saw a woman selling kilts over there—"

  I snorted. "Beer? Kilts? No, I'm going home."

  I turned to head back down the trail for the parking lot where I could maybe get enough cell service to call a cab, but the girl rushed to block my path.

  "You can't go."

  I placed both hands on her narrow shoulders and moved her aside.

  "Look, last night was obviously memorable in the very, very unable-to-remember-it kind of way, but I have to get to work."

  "But you said you wanted to come to this," the girl insisted, stubbornly blocking my way again.

  I stepped around her with a sigh. "I was clearly not in my right mind."

  "You said you felt more alive last night than ever before in your life," she said, darting back in front of me.

  I brushed her aside. "Yeah, that's called tequila."

  "You said you wanted me to make sure you didn't chicken out like this."

  She tried to push me back with her delicate hands on my chest. I picked her up as easily as plucking a dandelion and placed her down behind me.

  "It's not chickening out," I told her. "It's called being a responsible adult with a career, a very successful career, I might add."

  The girl stubbornly stomped her foot. "You said you might say something like that."

  I laughed. "Oh yeah?"

  The girl nodded.

  "Yeah," she said. "You said you might try to leave and say silly nonsense like that, and you told me what I should do to get you to stay."

  I rolled my eyes and turned around to face the path toward the parking lot again. I took long, steady, certain (if not a little hungover) steps.

  "Trust me," I called back toward her, "there is absolutely nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing that you could do to get me to stay up here with—"

  The girl's fingers on my arm suddenly wrenched me back around, and before I could finish my sentence, her hands were on my face and her lips were on my lips.

  Her kiss startled me like the fierce burn of the Poitín down my throat, but as she pulled me closer a warmth surged through my veins unlike from any kind of alcohol I'd ever tasted. Her hair smelled like summer rain, her lips like wild strawberries, her skin like salty beaches, long, empty beaches where the waves crash violently and relentlessly.

  She pressed her chest to mine as her fingers found their way to the nape of my neck, carding through my hair. She kissed me deeper, fiercer, like kindling caught fire in a dry field, ready to burn down every last inch.

  But just as I could feel the flames licking the swell of her lips, she pulled away, leaving me gasping and moving toward her like a sunflower toward the sun.

  "I didn't want to have to do that," she said, grinning mischievously and biting her raspberry lips. "But you forced me to."

  She was a sorceress. She learned some ancient, wild magic amongst the yuca and the saguaro and desert flowers, beneath domes of brilliant blue skies and a trillion stars, around the calls of hawks and screaming of sandstorms. Her kiss left me parched, yearning for another precious drop of water.

  Damn her.

  "So you'll stay?" she asked, folding her arms over her chest, still in her black vest and white button-down.

  I hesitated.

  "One drink," I finally said, holding up a single finger both to convince her and to convince myself. "One."

  She just stared at me, silent.

  "And absolutely no dancing." This was non-negotiable.

  The girl just grinned before she turned back around toward the festival. I watched the subtle sway of her hips, the casual, easy stride of her long, lanky legs, the swish of her braid, the colour of the first rays of morning sun.

  Goddammit, goddammit. Goddammit.

  I wanted to run away from her, far, far away. I wanted to run to her, sweep her up into my arms and hear her laughter travel across the dazzling lake. I wanted to forget all about her. I wanted to tattoo her name onto my ass. I wanted to close my eyes and not remember the colour of her eyes, not feel the heat of those flames burning within them. I wanted to know every inch of her, learn everything about—

  I frowned.

  "Wait," I cupped my hands over my mouth to call after her, "what's your name again?"

  Abbi

  After another shot of Poitín, “absolutely no dancing” turned into “just a quick spin”. His hands hesitated on my waist, not yet willing to do what I wanted him to do: grab me, hold me, pull me tight. The band played and our “just a quick spin” was filled with awkwardly avoided eye contact, nervous throat clearing, and at the end of the song Michael darted off the dance floor as if it were on fire.

  But two beers later and “just a quick spin” became “another dance wouldn't be terrible, I guess”. The sunlight dazzled off the lake and the music soared to the bright blue sky and Michael's hand slipped to the small of my back. I tripped over his toes and laughed. He smiled before realising this travesty and quickly drawing his lips back into a straight line.

  "That was silly," he said as he stomped petulantly off the dance floor toward the kegs of beer. "Dancing is a complete waste of time."

  Well, we just had to have a drink with our lunch feast of traditional lamb stew, potato pancakes, and black pudding, so much black pudding. And what better for dessert than another shot of Poitín?

  I grinned across the long beer hall-style tables at Michael. His tie was loosened and top three buttons of his wrinkled white shirt were unbuttoned; he was not so slyly glancing over my shoulder at the crowded dance floor.

  "You want to dance, don't you?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "Absolutely not."

  I quickly ducked my head under the table—just as I suspected. "Your toe is tapping."

  Michael glowered at me, threw back the last of his shot, and stood, pointing a stern finger at me. "Follow me and don't say a word."

  I bit my lip to hide a smile. He reached a hand back for me and our fingers interlaced, his skin hot against mine. The feet of the crowd stomped to the frantic, wild music of the banjos and guitars, the rhythm coursing through my body as Michael held my chest close to his, his proximity mixing with the buzz of the alcohol.

  "That was the last one," he told me, releasing me from his arms when the song ended.

  But he didn't leave the dance floor.

  "That was the last one," he repeated as the band struck up the next upbeat, infectious tune.

  I stood there, watching the struggle on his face. I felt like I was treading water, squinting up at the sun at Michael, who was still hesitating at the rocky edge. I'd already taken the plunge. All I needed was for him to do the same.

  Michael glanced down at me and sighed. "This is the last one."

  He swept me into his arms and there was no longer any distance between us. Our bodies, hot from the sun, hot from the movement, hot from something within us, pressed against one another and moved as one. My hair spilled from my braid, falling across my pink cheeks. I smiled up at him, only to stop when I saw the look on his face.

  He'd gone deeper. I'd waited for him below and he'd jumped, but he hadn't stopped at the surface. He'd plunged deeper, deeper,
deeper down into the unknown twilight depths.

  It was he who was now waiting for me, waiting for me to follow, daring me to follow.

  The wind swept my hair across my face. I tucked my hair behind my ear as I looked up at his dark-green eyes. He didn’t look away. I liked the surface. I liked where I could see the shore. I liked the shallows where my toes could skim the sandy bottom.

  Because if I went to the depths, I wasn't sure I could find my way back when I was once again alone. And I knew that. It was my one certainty in life: I would be alone. He would leave.

  I laughed awkwardly and scratched at the back of my neck. "I think we need more alcohol."

  This seemed to break Michael from the trance of the music and the sunlight and the alcohol. We went and drank and drank again, because the truth was out and it could only be forgotten with alcohol: this was more than just a casual, wild adventure, a collision of two strangers.

  And, fuck, did we try our best to escape that truth, outrun it like bandits on black horses being chased across the never-ending desert. We tried to drown it with Poitín, beat it back with Guinness, speed away from it on the wings of Jameson and ginger ale, pound it down into the ground with Bulmers cider.

  As was perhaps to be expected, this was not exactly the best plan of attack. If we really wanted to avoid this truth, we should have agreed right then and there on the dance floor to leave. Michael should have called a cab. I should have set off down the winding mountain road with a thumb pointed out. Michael should have gone to work, me to the next city. He should have forgotten my name and I should have relegated him in my mind to a free meal and a fun time.

  So maybe a part of us wanted to run straight at the truth, collide with it, crash into it. Maybe a part of us wanted to feel something real and solid and true, even if it meant the snapping of bones and breaking of hearts. Maybe a part of us thought the impossible: that we'd make it out the other side in one piece.

  So for whatever reason we drank. And the more we drank the tighter we held each other, the harder it was to pull our eyes away from one another's, the easier it was to lose time in the music and the mountain air and the wind in the trees.

  Dusk descended as if in the blink of an eye, as if in a single turn on the dance floor. Brilliant shades of pink and purple and orange danced across the surface of the lake as the festival lights blurred and swayed in my vision. Sometime during the afternoon Michael had bought us a new set of clothes: for me, a dreamy white lace-up top and green embroidered skirt, and for him, a kilt and nothing but a black tie for a shirt. We stumbled drunkenly together off the dance floor, sides hurting from laughing so hard.

  We were in line for the beer keg when a noise came from the little purse around Michael's waist. He fumbled around with the zipper. I grinned as I watched him close one eye, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration till he managed to find the phone within the depths of his man-purse, otherwise known as a sporran.

  "What does that say?" he asked me over the noise from the band, holding out his cell phone screen upside down to me.

  I craned my neck and frowned.

  "Eoin."

  "Eoin?" Michael shouted. "My brother?!"

  "I don't know who your brother is," I shouted back, laughing at the silly excitement on Michael's face.

  "You'll have to meet him!"

  Before I realised the implications of what I was saying, I shouted back, "Okay!"

  Michael somehow managed to push the green answer button on the first try as I still tried to process so easily agreeing to meet his family.

  "Eoin, you fucker!" Michael said, his smile infectious. "Eoin! Brother! I love you so much!"

  I guided Michael forward as the line toward the bar moved up. He slung his arm around my shoulders and kissed the top of my head. It made me happy; plain and simple, it made me happy.

  "Okay? Okay?!" Michael was saying on the phone. "I'm better than okay. I'm in love."

  My head jerked up.

  "You love me?" I asked, my drunken eyes somehow managing to be wide in surprise.

  I was expecting Michael to shake his head, backtrack, reassure me that he was just drunk and he got swept up in the moment. I was not expecting Michael to look me in the eyes, grin like a madman, and double down.

  "Goddamn straight I love you!"

  I laughed because he said it with so much happiness. I wanted to feel that kind of happiness, too. So I said it right goddamn back.

  "I love you, too!"

  Michael lifted me to his chest, my toes barely skimming the muddy earth, and he kissed me. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him back. We kissed till we heard a voice shouting from Michael's phone.

  "Eoin!" Michael said, putting the phone again to his ear. "Eoin, have I told you that I love you?"

  I slipped out of Michael's arms and dragged him along by his tie behind me to where the line now was. I was drunk and happy and I felt free. Love was something I'd trained myself to hold onto, to hide, to conceal from others. But Michael made me want to give it freely, abundantly, generously. He made me want to give it with each kiss, with each burst of laughter, with each wrinkle at the corner of my eyes from each wide smile. He made me want to give all of it, leaving nothing left for myself: no safety net, no insurance, nothing to fall back on but his arms and his silly, silly love for me.

  When I moved up to the bar, I decided we needed something stronger than beer.

  "Mike, we need to do more shots!" I called back to him.

  Michael put the phone to his mouth and shouted, "Got to run, little brother. I love you!"

  As he hung, up I turned to the bartender and said, "Two love shots, please."

  The bartender barked in laughter. "Love shots! You mean marriage?"

  "Yes," Michael said without missing a beat.

  The bartender glanced over his shoulder. "Yup, it's about that time in the night when a few get drunk enough for a handfasting ceremony. You want to marry this man, little lady?"

  As I turned to Michael he dropped dramatically to one knee, taking my hands in his.

  "Abbi," he said, his voice passionate and sincere, "I don't know your last name, but I know your eyes are the death of me and I know you can drink a whole hell of a lot of Poitín and I know you're a wildfire and I know I love you." Michael squeezed my hand. "Will you marry me?"

  I laughed and nodded. "Yes."

  Michael swept me into his arms and spun me round as the bartender cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, "Folks, we're having ourselves a wedding!"

  Maybe I was happy because none of it was real.

  Or maybe I was happy because with Michael's arms around me holding me tight beneath the stars, I could almost, for just a moment, believe it was.

  Michael

  Her nails were clawing at my back, her teeth were nipping at my bottom lip, and her hips were rolling urgently against my throbbing erection and I hadn’t even opened the cabin door. I pressed her roughly against the faded green paint in the glow of the moonlight off the lake as my fingers fumbled with the key. Her mouth found a pulsing vein along my neck and I groaned, my eyes closing as she traced it with the wet heat of her tongue. It was a stroke of pure luck that the key slipped into the lock, and when I pulled down the door handle, I nearly toppled over her as she fell backwards.

  I caught her in my arms and we stumbled into the narrow hallway, arms swinging wildly for the light as neither of us wanted to pull our attention away from the other. I wasn't sure who found the switch for an old floral lampshade, because at that moment Abbi shoved me back against the brocade wallpaper and fell against me.

  Her lips again found mine as her hard nipples, straining against the thin, gauzy material of white low-cut blouse, brushed against my chest, eliciting a needy whimper that made my dick twitch.

  After the handfasting ceremony the priest/bartender had joked to the roaring laughter of the audience, “All that's left now is to consummate the marriage!” Abbi and I had glanced a
t each other for the briefest moment, had each reached instinctively for one last shot of Poitín, and had, at the exact same instant, said, “Where is the nearest hotel?” We'd barely been able to hold ourselves back long enough to pay for the room.

  I dropped the keys, not caring where they fell, and wrapped a hand around each of Abbi's thighs, fingers digging into her warm, tanned flesh and hoisting her quickly into my arms. Her shoulders collided with the opposite wall as I tried to find the bed, blinded by the heat of her kiss, her fingers at the nape of my neck, her ankles locked at the base of my back, her panties beneath her skirt against my groin.

  We bounced like horny-as-fuck pinballs down the hall till I eyed the bed past her wind-tangled, sun-kissed blonde locks. I grinned wickedly as I sucked at her exposed collarbone and then threw her down onto the bed, the rickety old springs protesting.

  Driven by an unstoppable need, we each stripped in an almost panicked rush, as if this thing between us was the flicker of a firefly and dawn was fast approaching. I tugged my shirt over my head as I watched Abbi wiggle her hips out of her skirt. She then fumbled hastily with the ties of her blouse as I undid my kilt, letting it fall to the floor as I groaned at the release of my rock-hard cock.

  I was going to fuck her, fuck her hard and fast and rough. I was going to pin her delicate wrists, so much like the hollow bones of a bird's wing, above her head and plough into her till I came. I was going to dominate her, have my way with her, show her my power over her.

  I was about to fall upon her like a falcon diving from dizzying heights onto an unsuspecting rabbit when I caught sight of her on the bed. Her delicate, thin blouse with its lace-up front was undone, lying open on each side of her but still hanging loosely on her narrow shoulders. The full, seductive swell of her breasts was tanned just like every other inch of her, and I imagined her lying naked beneath some sun, somewhere, just as she was now, lying naked beneath me.

  Her peaked nipples yearned upward like sunflowers toward even the faintest of dying gold rays. As her chest heaved with nervous, erratic breaths, goose bumps rose along her long, slender legs. Abbi's long hair was carded around her face, and each wavy strand seemed to me to be a river that flashed and dazzled magically in the sun.