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)
I couldn’t remember ever feeling like this before.
Not just the thrill of touching a girl I wanted, but the weight of something more—something that settled in my chest in a way I didn’t know how to describe.
I’d been with plenty of girls, kissed plenty of lips, whispered plenty of sweet nothings I never really meant just to get in her panties. But this? This was different. Fiona was so very different, and I was beyond enchanted with this fireball who was shunning an antiquated duty and grabbing hold of her future for herself.
“Come on,” Fiona said, tugging me toward a row of stalls, her red hair shining under the festival lights. “Ye haven’t lived until ye’ve had a proper Irish pastry.”
I grinned, letting her lead me toward a stand with golden-brown, flaky concoctions stacked high behind a glass case. A plump woman in an apron greeted us, her hands dusted with flour.
“Two apple tartlets,” Fiona ordered, and I reached into my pocket for the mix of coins that I still didn’t quite understand.
I handed over the money and the woman counted out what she needed, handing me three back with an impish smile. She offered Fiona and me the tartlets wrapped in wax paper. “Enjoy.”
I took a bite, the buttery, warm crust melting in my mouth. The apples were soft and spiced. It was damn good, but I think it might have had to do more with the perfection of the moment than the actual recipe.
“You’re right,” I said around a mouthful. “I haven’t lived.”
Fiona laughed, brushing a flake of pastry from the corner of my mouth with her thumb, lingering a second too long. The tiny touch sent a sharp jolt through me, the kind I felt every time she got close.
“Come on,” she said, clasping my hand as I took another bite of the tartlet. “Still so much to see.”
And so she led me through the winding paths of the festival, stopping at stalls that sold tin whistles and little wooden carvings of Celtic symbols. She told me how Fethard was once a walled medieval town, its ancient stone defenses still standing as a testament to its past. Her storytelling was so good I could imagine the knights that once rode through the streets, where traders and craftsmen filled the market square and felt the weight of history in the narrow lanes and centuries-old buildings. Blackburn Farms had its own history dating back to the Civil War, but that was merely over a hundred years ago. Fethard was almost eight hundred years old and at times, I had a hard time wrapping my brain around that number.
I hung on every damn word that came out of her mouth. Fiona was so alive when she talked about her country and this little town where she was from. So passionate, so full of love for the land beneath her feet, and I wasn’t sure I ever felt about Kentucky the way she felt about Ireland.
I didn’t realize how long we’d been walking until a familiar voice called out.
“Well, don’t ye two look cozy?”
We turned to find Rory and Kathleen standing a few feet away. Kathleen beamed a welcoming smile, but Rory’s expression was brutally blank. And that’s when I realized—Fiona and I were still holding hands, fingers interwoven like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Fiona started to tug her hand free from mine but I tightened my grip and stood my ground.
Rory’s looked at us in question. “What happened to Brian?”
Fiona’s voice was unflinching, her fingers squeezing mine in a bold display of confidence. “I broke it off.” She shrugged. “Not that there was really much to break. Let’s just say I made it clear to him that I wasn’t interested.”
A moment of silence stretched between us before Rory sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yer da’s gonna be furious.”
“I know,” she admitted softly. “But it’s my choice.”
Kathleen smiled, linking her arm with Rory’s. “Well, good on ye, love. Follow yer heart.”
Rory exhaled heavily, his features softening in a way I hadn’t seen before. “Aye. The right path is to always follow yer heart. But listen to me, Fiona.” He leveled her with a steady gaze, his voice quieter, meant just for her. “If things get bad—if Seamus pushes too hard or makes ye feel like ye don’t have a place—ye do. With us. Kathleen and I will always have a home for ye.”
Fiona’s breath hitched, and her grip on my hand tightened. “Uncle Rory…”
“No arguments,” he said firmly. “I should have told ye that long before, but I’m tellin’ ye now. Ye’re not alone in this.”
Kathleen nodded, reaching over to touch Fiona’s arm. “Ye always have a choice, love. And ye always have us.”
For a long moment, Fiona didn’t speak, her eyes glistening in the glow of the festival lanterns, and my heart squeezed something fierce for the love I was seeing in this family. It touched me deeply because Fiona didn’t have that from her own father.