get out of here, and while I’m not sure where, I have an idea, and I said yes.
Something tells me this resolution of mine is going to get me into nothing but trouble.
The odd part is even though I’m usually a bit socially awkward around guys, it’s not the case at all with Padraig. And I should be. I mean, he’s the most enigmatic, sexy, commanding man I’ve ever had the pleasure to be around. His accent makes me melt, especially how he says “you”—even his damn name is sexy (it’s pronounced “Pawd-rig”). I should be an awkward puddle of mush around him, knocking over drinks and saying stupid things.
But so far I’ve managed to hold it all together. Aside from the out of control blushing, of course—there’s no helping that.
I get to my feet, ready to follow this Irishman, this stranger with a name, and only then do I realize how damn tall and big he is. I’m not short by any means, around 5’7”, but Padraig has got to be at least 6’4”. It’s not even just his height though, it’s the space he takes up. I can tell he’s got muscles to die for and a frame that can take a beating, both probably a prerequisite for rugby, but he has a way about him that makes him seem larger than life.
Everyone in the room knows it, that’s why they’ve never stopped glancing over at him the whole time he was talking to me. I know I’m nothing to sneeze at, and that to some guys my excessive curves are more of an asset than a hindrance, but I still can’t help but feel I have to be way out of this guy’s league. He’s a rugby star here, he’s probably used to having hot models on his arm all hours of the day.
But he chose to talk to you, I remind myself before I get carried away. He didn’t go off with them, and even when they were throwing themselves at him, he chose you.
I take in a deep breath from my nose and steady myself, pushing those thoughts of being unworthy out of my head. It’s been a long battle with my self-esteem ever since “the accident” when I was six years old, and only recently did I start going to a few therapy sessions hoping to get a handle on my body dysmorphia, my trauma, and of course, my family. I’m working on it, I guess that’s the important part.
“Shall we?” he asks, his delicious accent and the warmth in his voice putting me at ease. With my jumbled thoughts and sensitive heart, that’s not always an easy thing to do.
“Sure,” I tell him as I follow him through the bar.
How funny it is that he even has warmth in his voice. When I was observing him from afar, I could have sworn he’d be cold as ice. That’s why I was so reluctant to approach him. And I guess he was cold, at first.
But even though there’s a wash of sadness that seems to pass over his dark eyes from time to time, whatever thing he was dealing with earlier seems to have been pushed aside. Maybe I’m distracting him from his problems as much as he seems to be distracting me from mine.
In fact, the last thing on my mind right now is my hot mess of a life. All I can think about is him.
I pull on my coat just as he opens the door, holding it open for me like a gentleman. I thank him, pretty sure I’m blushing again, and then step out into the night.
It’s icy cold yet fresh at the same time, busy, and a light snow is falling and peppering the streets, turning the slush into something solid. Pretty damn magical if you ask me.
“Where do ye want to go?” he asks me, shoving his hands in his pockets. I stare up at that gorgeous head of hair of his, watching the snowflakes get caught in his dark strands.
“Anywhere,” I tell him. “Somewhere quiet, preferably.”
He nods, and from the shadows on his face I can’t catch the expression in his eyes. I’m getting drunk and he’s sexy as hell, but I’m not sure if I’m brave enough or bold enough to go back to his place, if that’s what he’s thinking. I wish I were, but the idea of getting naked with a stranger, for him to see me as I really am, gives me anxiety.