Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
But that was a ridiculous notion, so I pushed it aside. Yeah, I’m interested in Fiona, but this would really only be a summer fling, right?
Kathleen wiped her hands on a towel and pushed up out of her chair. The scraping sound had us all turning our heads. “One of my waitresses is out sick tonight. I need to go cover her shift.” She then moved around the table and bent over to kiss Rory.
He shook his head, holding on to her hand. “Ye work too hard.”
She waved him off. “It doesn’t happen often I have to cover the evenings. Yer just going to miss me warming yer bed.”
Rory barked out a laugh and turned to Fiona and me. “Ye two should go along.”
I was stunned by the invitation, not necessarily for myself. But Fiona is seventeen—soon to be eighteen. She lives under the roof of a man who is very controlling and by all accounts has her already married off.
Fiona hesitated, but the prospect of spending more time with her had me nudging her foot under the table. “C’mon, Fi. Live a little.”
She stared at me a very long moment, so long in fact that Rory coughed to break the silence. Her eyes glinted with something that caused my body to tighten and my heart soared when she said, “Aye… let’s go hang out with Kathleen tonight.”
“Do you need to let your parents know?” I asked, unsure of how these things worked in Irish culture.
“I’ve got to walk up to the manor house to talk to Seamus about something. I’ll let him know Fi is going to the pub with Kathleen to lend a hand.”
Which was absolutely not the truth, but close enough, I suppose.
Again, Rory putting opportunity in Fiona’s path… lying to her dad so she could be free to some extent.
♦
Kathleen’s pub, The Fox and Thistle, was everything I imagined it would be. Low ceilings with exposed wooden beams, dim lighting that made everything look golden, and a fire roaring in the hearth. The air was thick with the scent of ale, whiskey, cigarette smoke and something savory cooking in the back.
Musicians played in the corner, Fiona pointing out the fiddle, bodhrán and tin whistle. It was fast and lively, the kind of music that made you want to stomp your feet. Locals packed in with an obvious mix of tourists—laughing, clinking glasses, sharing stories.
Kathleen handed Fiona and me a pint each and gave her a knowing wink. We stood at the polished wooden bar, crammed close together.
Fiona grinned, taking a sip, and I swore I had never seen her look more at ease. She was at home here in a way I hadn’t seen her anywhere else.
“You’re allowed to drink even though you’re not eighteen?” I asked.
She lifted a shoulder. “Most pubs aren’t overly stringent on the age requirement and Kathleen knows I’m responsible.”
“Well, damn,” I teased, swallowing a long pull of Beamish Stout. “There goes my nefarious plan to take advantage of you when you get drunk.”
Fiona smirked. “No, ye wouldn’t do that. I know enough about ye to know that.”
She wasn’t wrong. I’d protect her—any woman, really—who got too drunk and couldn’t act with reason because of it. But if she were to get a little tipsy and wanted to kiss me again, I wouldn’t say no.
We found a table near the fire, and I watched as she greeted nearly everyone who walked by. She wasn’t just Seamus Conlan’s daughter here—she was Fiona. The girl with the wild red hair and the pretty smile who charmed everyone. She was the girl I was starting to think I could spend all damn night just watching.
All damn day too.
A wrinkled man stooped with age approached our table.
He stuck his gnarled hand out to me. “Nolan O’Shea,” he said in a thick accent I could barely understand. “Gonna take the wee lass out for a spin.”
The man looked like he could barely walk but Fiona went with him without hesitation, laughing at something he said. He may have been ancient by Fiona’s standards, but he could still cut a rug. People clapped and stomped, cheering them both on.
I watched, riveted, as she moved, her feet quick, her smile wide. She laughed, twirled, and her hair came loose from its tie, flying around her shoulders.
I swallowed hard.
Jesus.
She was breathtaking.
Then she turned, spotted me, and grinned wickedly.
And I knew.
I knew what she was going to do before she did it.
She marched over, grabbed my hand, and pulled me onto the floor.
“Fi,” I protested, resisting. “I don’t dance.”
She laughed. “Ye do now.”
The whole damn pub cheered as she placed my hands where they needed to be on her waist and started calling out steps. I stumbled at first, but she was patient, guiding me, laughing when I stepped wrong, squeezing my hands when I got it right.