Irish Kiss Page 16

  “A truce?”

  “Yeah. A do-over. Put the past in the past. Draw a line between then and now.” I didn’t want to waste any more time. I just got him back and I didn’t want to waste any more time.

  Slowly a smile dawned across his mouth. I used to live for his smiles. They used to light up my whole world.

  “I’d like that,” he said.

  I stuck out my hand. He took it. I was enveloped in the warmth of his calloused hands. Such strong hands. Strong, honest hands. Hands that I wanted to pull onto my body. All over my body.

  I tugged my hand back, my palm radiating heat all up my arm and to my cheeks. “We should go. My da might be worrying where I am.”

  Diarmuid started up the truck and turned it around. This time the air was peppered with questions about the years we’d been apart.

  “So, how is Ava?” I almost choked on her name.

  Diarmuid shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  I frowned. “She’s your wife. How do you not know?”

  Diarmuid inhaled, then exhaled before he spoke. “She and I separated not long after she lost the baby.”

  Oh. Shit.

  “I’m…sorry.” Not that they had separated, but that she had caused him pain.

  “You were right, selkie. I should have listened to you back then.”

  I was?

  “Right about what?”

  His eyes locked onto mine. “I never loved her.”

  I turned my face to the window and squeezed my eyes shut as my heart cramped in my chest. It had killed me when he chose Ava over me. It ripped pieces off me—still ripped pieces off me—to think that he might have loved her. For years I had dreamed of hearing him say those words to me. Dreamed about it. And here he was saying exactly that. I must be dreaming.

  “And so…” I began, when I thought I had recovered enough to keep my voice steady, “you have a new girlfriend or something?”

  “No.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Some catch I’d make. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old ex-juvi cursed with a dead family and a failed marriage already under my belt.”

  God, it hurt to think he thought of himself that way. But it made sense now, why he tried so hard with Ava, why he thought marrying her when she was pregnant was the “right thing” to do. Diarmuid Brennan did not love himself.

  I slid my hand over his that was sitting on the gear stick. “I think you’re a catch.”

  You’re the catch.

  He smiled at me and my stomach did a flip. “Thanks, selkie. That means a lot to me.”

  I slid my hand off his before I said anything even more stupid.

  He pulled up outside of my house again. Still no lights on inside. No da. I let out a silent sigh and hopped out of the truck.

  “I’m coming to pick you up next Friday,” Diarmuid said before I could shut the door. “You don’t need to be getting on any motorbikes.”

  I rolled my eyes, but there was a smile threatening to break through. “Whatever, Brennan,” I said, but my voice was soft, teasing.

  He let out a snort. “Get out of here. Stay out of trouble.”

  “Trouble finds me.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t I know it,” he mumbled.

  I shut the door between us. He pulled away from the curb. I stood there on my sidewalk, watching the truck until it disappeared, a piece of my soul feeling like it was leaving with him.

  I had been so in love with Diarmuid when I was younger. I never got over him. Because he was mine.

  You have my skin.

  And you have mine.

  34

  ____________

  Saoirse

  Then—Dublin, Ireland

  It was my last day assigned to Diarmuid. He wanted to celebrate my not reoffending in the year. I said yes, of course, and visions of us out at our favourite pizza place spun in my head. Maybe he’d even take me to a movie afterwards.

  When he told me that Ava was cooking dinner at their house, I felt a stab go through me.

  Ava.

  His girlfriend.

  I’d still not met Ava. I’d never cared to. Diarmuid had never asked me to meet her before now. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  When Diarmuid and I were together she didn’t exist. He never spoke about her. His eyes were only on me.

  I was happy enough for Diarmuid and I to drift around each other, the axis of our own world.

  When I met her, would she then become real? Or would she re-emerge into the waters like a myth.

  That evening I dressed in an emerald-green and black polka-dot dress that used to be my ma’s. Moina took up the hem and pulled in the waist for me so that it fit my blossoming body. I had boobs now, mere tender buds. Not nearly as big as Ava’s. My hips were widening too, my thighs losing the concave scallop of youth.

  Moina helped me put a touch of mascara on my lashes to darken them. It brought out the green in my eyes. I would have to learn how to do this. Finally, a touch of gloss on my lips.

  When I walked down to meet Diarmuid, my shitty commission housing building had transformed in my mind into a grand ballroom staircase. Diarmuid’s truck was a carriage and he was my prince.

  He stood as regal as ever, even in grey dress slacks and a black shirt, waiting for me in the glow of the bleeding sunlight.

  His eyes widened when he saw me. In them I saw stars and light, and for the first time, I saw myself as beautiful. Something to be cherished.

  “Wow.” He walked towards me and we met part way on the path. “Saoirse, you look amazing.”

  I brushed down my dress, my cheeks blooming with heat. “Thank you.”

  He made no movement. He just stood there looking at me. I could almost detect a hint of pride in his eyes.

  He held out his hand. “My lady.”

  My flush heightened. I outstretched my hand and placed it in his. He escorted me to the truck, lifting me into the passenger seat at usual. All the while, I dared to lean into his touch.

  Everything was perfect.

  Until he mentioned her name.

  “So, er…Ava’s excited to meet you.” He wound the car deftly through the streets.

  Ava. His girlfriend.

  My chest stung like I’d fallen into nettle. I pushed aside the brambles, for what fairy tale heroine didn’t have to fight an evil queen or push through a forest of thorns.

  “I’m excited to meet her. Finally. After all this time I almost thought she mightn’t be real,” I said, proud that only a hint of sarcasm slid out between my words.

  He let out a short laugh, the curt laugh of someone unsure how to react.

  His phone beeped, saving us from this awkward moment. He snatched the phone up at the next set of red lights and frowned at it as he read the message. The lines deepened between his brows, and for a second he looked murderous. That look melted as he sagged into his seat, resignation replacing it.

  He pulled up on the side of the road and I knew it was bad.

  Shit.

  Ava was going to make him cancel dinner. She was going to make him take me home instead. I could already feel tears welling up inside me.

  “So…” he rubbed the back of his neck, something he did when he was pissed, “Ava,” he practically spat out her name, “isn’t going to be home in time to cook dinner like she promised. Do you want pizza instead? We can pick it up from Mizzoni’s.”

  Yes. I felt a thrill go through me. It would just be Diarmuid and me, the way it was meant to be.

  “Why don’t we cook?” I suggested, visions of a romantic candlelight dinner flashing in my head.

  He made a face.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I don’t really know how to cook.” He gave me a sheepish look.

  I blinked at Diarmuid. “What? But you’re like thirty—”

  “Twenty-five!”

  “Whatever,” I waved my hand to shut him up. “You’re old enough to know how to cook.”

  He shrugged. “I guess I never learned. I always had s
omeone to cook for me. Or relied on takeout.”

  I let out an exaggerated sigh. “I will teach you, then.”

  Diarmuid looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’ve seen how useless my ma is, Diarmuid. Do you think I’d not have starved to death if I didn’t know how to cook?”

  “Well, alright then. But I’m buying groceries.”

  I grinned. “Deal.”

  We drove to the nearest Tesco grocery shop. I picked up ingredients for Dublin Coddle: potatoes, onions, sausages, bacon, pearl barley, bay leaf, chicken stock. Diarmuid walked beside me, placing the items I handed to him into the trolley.

  I also picked up a frozen apple pie to heat up in the oven while we were eating, and vanilla ice cream.

  “I think that’s all we need.”

  “Hey, Saoirse,” Diarmuid whispered to me like a conspirator.

  “Yeah?”

  He nudged his head towards the back of the trolley. “Hop on.”

  I grinned. He moved aside while I stepped one foot each on the tiny ledges over the back wheels. He moved his body in right behind mine, his strong arm wrapping around me to grab the handle. I’d never felt so warm, so protected. I never wanted him to unravel himself from around me.

  “Hang on, selkie,” he whispered in my ear, his beard tickling against my cheek making my belly flip.

  He pushed us along, dodging other shoppers and their baskets, making engine noises in my ear and making me giggle.

  I let out a squeal as he turned, then ran us down an aisle, garnering stern disapproving looks from the fellow shoppers. We skidded to a stop in front of a cashier, earning us a scowl from the lady behind the till.

  “Sorry,” Diarmuid mumbled, but the grin on his face said that he wasn’t at all.

  I hopped off the ledges, pressing my lips together to stop from laughing. Diarmuid loaded the food onto the conveyor belt, then packed the shopping bags and paid.

  “Bloody children,” the cashier muttered as we walked away, Diarmuid carrying the groceries. He and I took one look at each other and burst out into laughter.

  Back at Diarmuid’s place, he unpacked the groceries onto the kitchen bench while I searched the cupboards for the utensils I’d need: frying pan, casserole pot, cutting board, peeler and knife.

  Diarmuid won the rock, paper, scissors for music choice. He turned on Two Door Cinema Club, a contemporary Irish indie rock band, and we danced and sang along as he peeled and chopped the potatoes and onions, while I fried the bacon and sausages.

  I’d never cooked with anyone before. It made my chest flutter like a caged bird when I glanced over to him to find him smiling at me as he mimed the words to the songs.

  It was perfect.

  Diarmuid placed the final casserole in the oven and I set the timer for fifteen minutes. Diarmuid grabbed me, holding me up against his chest, my legs dangling, and we danced around the living room. Turning and giggling. I felt lightheaded. Dizzy. The best kind of dizzy. It felt so good to be tucked into him like his. I only wished I was taller so that we’d fit like this all the time.

  It felt like only minutes before the timer went off. Diarmuid lowered me to the ground, and I felt a sense of loss when I unwrapped my arms from around his neck. I set the table while he pulled the hot dish out.

  Diarmuid walked into the living room and stopped. I’d turned the main light off, leaving just a side lamp on and lit a bunch of candles I’d found in a drawer. I stood to the side with my hands clasped behind my back.

  “Saoirse, what’s this?” Diarmuid asked, walking slowly to the table and placing the pot down on a placemat.

  I shrugged, hoping the dim light hid the warming of my cheeks.

  “Figured I’d add some atmosphere,” I said as casually as I could. “If you don’t like it I can blow them out and—”

  “No, no,” he said, “leave it be.” He smiled. “Let’s eat.”

  We sat across from each other at the small two-person table. His legs were so long that his knees brushed mine under the table.

  “This is perfect, thank you. Better than my pizza idea.” He reached out across the table and placed his hand over mine.

  He placed his hand over mine. As if we were a real couple on a real date. My breathing got all short and tight.

  He took his hand away all too quickly, grabbing his cutlery with his strong hands and cutting up his food. He did what I liked to do, cutting up all the elements of the dish to create a perfect bite.

  God, he looked so beautiful in the candlelight, the warm light glowing off his handsome face. His lovely lips pursing as he blew on the food on his fork.

  His eyes caught mine. “You’re not eating.”

  Right. Idiot. Stop staring. Start eating.

  I cleared my throat and picked up my knife and fork, cutting up a portion of sausage and potato.

  I almost stopped breathing as he placed his food in his mouth, waiting for the verdict. The Dublin Cobble I’d made with his help came from a recipe that my gran had saved and kept in a scrapbook of recipes. I don’t really remember her clearly, I just have warm feelings every time I handle her cookbook. This recipe I knew by heart because it was one of my favourites.

  Diarmuid let out a groan and sank back into his chair. “Saoirse, Jesus, this is so delicious.”

  A rush went through me and I couldn’t help my smile. He cut up his next piece and continued to eat with gusto. My heart warmed. There was something so satisfying about watching him eat something I’d cooked.

  I shook my head and let out an exaggerated sigh. “How have you survived without me, Diarmuid Brennan?”

  I popped my bite into my mouth. Oh yeah, it was good.

  I looked up from my dish to find him staring at me. “I don’t know, Saoirse.”

  His voice was so full of gravity, so intense and serious were his green eyes that it sucked the air out of my lungs.

  Now I understood what it meant when someone took your breath away.

  After dinner, I helped him clear the table. He filled up the sink so he could wash up.

  There was some Cobble left over, which I spooned into a plastic container and popped in his fridge.

  “You can take this to work tomorrow and have it for lunch,” I said, a small thrill going through me at the thought that he’d be eating this tomorrow and thinking of me.

  I grabbed a tea towel and stepped up to him, drying the dishes after he handed them to me. He left the radio on and we sang as we worked.

  It started off as an innocent hip bump. Then turned into a hip bump war which he was winning, of course, because he was so much bigger than me.

  Then he blew a piece of white soapy bubbles my way. I giggled and waved it out of my face.

  “You’re such a child, Diarmuid.”

  “Am not.”

  He blew a larger piece. And another. I swatted him with my tea towel.

  He plopped a large bit of foam on my head. I let out a scream and flicked out my towel at him as he flicked water at me. He grabbed me with his wet hands and curled me against him, rubbing foam and water into my hair. I giggled and kicked out, dropping the tea towel in the process. “Let go of me.”

  “Never,” he growled in my ear. That single word lodged in my chest and began to throb as if it had its own heartbeat.

  “What the hell is going on?” a stern female voice rang through the kitchen.

  Diarmuid let go of me and straightened. I whirled around to find a woman standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a disapproving scowl on her face.

  Ava.

  Diarmuid’s girlfriend.

  I got my first look at my competition.

  She was taller than me, about Diarmuid’s age, I guessed. Dressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a thin jumper that clung to her boobs. Dammit, she did have great boobs. Her long dark hair was straight and hung over her shoulders.

  “Ava, you’re home,” Diarmuid said.

  He hesitated for a second before w
alking to her and leaning in for a quick kiss. It felt like he’d stabbed my chest with a hot blade.

  I fisted my hands at my side as Diarmuid stepped aside.

  “Ava, this is Saoirse, the young lady I’ve been telling you about. Saoirse, Ava.”

  I noticed he didn’t introduce her as his girlfriend.

  Ava gave me a thin smile. “She’s a pretty little girl.”

  She, as if I wasn’t standing right fucking here.

  I hated Ava.

  I hated her so much.

  “I’m not a girl,” I said, my hands tightening so that I could feel crescents of pain in my palms from my fingernails.

  Ava ignored me, her eyes casting around the kitchen, which was now splashed with water. She shot him a sulky look. “Look at this mess. What’s gotten into you?”

  “We’ll clean it up,” Diarmuid said, his voice sounding tired.

  “Yeah, you will.” Her eyes flicked back to me. She spun on her heel and strode out of the kitchen. Moments later I heard the slam of what I assumed to be her bedroom door.

  Diarmuid turned to me, a scowl on his face. “Wait here.”

  He disappeared after her.

  I stood in the kitchen with my ears pricked, listening to the raised voices coming out of the bedroom. I tried not to listen, but I couldn’t help it.

  “…making a mess… in our house… the way you were…”

  And I heard his voice. “…one of my kids… didn’t even bother to come home for…”

  I felt bad that he was getting yelled at because of me, but my heart warmed to know that he was sticking up for me.

  Ava was a bitch. She didn’t deserve him. Why couldn’t he see that?

  I heard the opening of a door. I grabbed the tea towel and pretended I’d been drying here all this time, just minding my own business.

  Diarmuid came out, rubbing the back of his neck, and gave me a mournful look.

  “She’s been under some stress lately,” he said, but even he didn’t sound so sure. “She’s not usually so…” he trailed off.

  Bitchy? I finished for him in my head.

  “So…curt,” he said.

  That was one way of describing her.