The Irresistible Irishman - M.J. Fields Page 0,4

smell of the bar, trying to stay grounded in the real world so that I don’t throw this woman over my shoulder and run upstairs to Raff’s spare room, right above the bar. It’s been far too long since I indulged in anything that felt so forbidden. And I decide that’s what she feels like. The air about her is intoxicating. She might not be my type, but the draw is there. Still, I need her permission.

I wait for her to lift her eyes to mine, the invitation lingering as she goes the safe way.

“Tell me more about your Saint Patrick’s Day in Dublin. Is it different from how we celebrate here?” Her body is angled toward me now, just how I like it. When I have a woman, I want to have all of her attention.

“Well.” I shuffle forward on the barstool, getting closer. “Celebrations start a week earlier. The ‘lore goes that St Patrick's Day marks the death of Ireland’s fifth-century saint, who introduced Christianity to the Irish and banished all the snakes from the land.”

She shudders. “I hate snakes. Can we get Saint Patrick to come back and banish the rest?”

I laugh. “The beer is great. The pubs. The food. The people. Every street is decorated for the holiday in lights. It’s a good place to celebrate.”

“I bet you miss it?”

“Sure. But life is full of chapters. Just because I’m not there now, and don’t plan to be in the near future, doesn’t mean I won’t flip the pages back and reread later on.”

She nods. “That’s true. God willing, life is long, and there are many chances to revisit the fond places and memories.” She tears a piece of cocktail napkin from the one resting below her beer, her eyes dropping briefly, her lashes fluttering. “They can light up even the darkest days, and like that,” she snaps her fingers, snapping her eyes back to mine, “things eventually begin to look up. Or at least they should.”

It’s then I get a hint what the underlying part of the mystery of this woman is—lingering sadness.

I slide to the edge of my stool, so our legs are only centimeters apart. For a reason I can’t understand, I want to wrap my arms around her and tell her whatever she’s going through will pass. Instead, I ask, “Were you born and raised here?”

“It feels like it at times, but no.” She shakes her head. “I grew up in a small town on Long Island, about forty-five minutes from New York City…and.” She stops herself from revealing more.

I quirk my brow.

Her eyes flit from side to side as if she’s in search of a lie.

Interesting.

“Well, then I left for Colorado.” She clears her throat. “Boulder for college.”

“Uh huh.” I take a sip of my drink, knowing this part is true.

“After graduation, I got a job at a small hotel in Aspen, so I moved there for that.”

“Which one? I’m familiar.”

“It’s a really small hotel. Boutique.” She shifts on her stool as if the conversation is over.

“But I presume you spent some time in Holiday Springs? Faith mentioned you lived above her book shop before the move.” I’m pulling teeth right at this point to get her to speak. Maybe I should let it go, but for whatever reason, getting her undressed and underneath me is coming in second to prodding her for more. And with all her hesitation, I find myself wanting to know her truths. But with another fast lick of her lower lip, I also want to know what makes her burn inside.

She runs her fingers through her silky hair, inadvertently tousling it. “I just needed a change for some time. Holiday Springs really is a wonderful town.”

We both pause, what seems like a lie of omission fresh on her lips. I’ll get to the bottom of it. Eventually.

If necessary.

But for right now, I will carry on with small talk, exchanging tidbits of personal information, and taking the time she obviously needs to feel comfortable enough for the plan I’m formulating with each passing second. For her. For us.

I want those fucking moans.

“Change can be a beautiful thing, Sarah.” Her gaze lands on my lips before she lifts her eyes to mine, seeming to soak in every syllable. “It requires bravery, which requires inner strength.” I lean forward and capture the same wave of blonde hair that’s been falling in front of her eye this entire time we’ve been conversing. I rub it between my thumb and forefinger.

Silky.

We lock