Irish Kiss Read online

  The door opened. There stood a man I guessed to be in his mid-sixties, white hair, a broad nose and deeper smile lines than frown lines. A glorious smile spread over his face, shaking his jowls slightly. This must be Brian.

  “Diarmuid, about bloody time.”

  Diarmuid and he clasped each other in a hug. I noticed how delicately Diarmuid patted him on his back, how he towered over Brian.

  “Now move out of the way so I can get a good look at her.”

  Diarmuid stepped aside.

  Brian gave me a once-over that had me straightening my spine. There was something about him that made me want his approval. To like me, even.

  He grinned. “She’ll do.”

  “I’m Saoirse, sir.” I stuck out my hand.

  Brian let out a snort. “That won’t do.”

  Before I knew what was happening he was pulling me into a hug. A warm, firm hug that smelled like powder and fresh laundry.

  It was lovely.

  “We’re friends now, Saoirse,” Brian said into my ear. “Friends hug hello.”

  Brian stepped back, patted me on the arm and disappeared into the house.

  “You folks wait in the living room while I get set up,” he called back to us.

  Diarmuid motioned for me to enter first.

  My heart did a flip. Until I remembered that I didn’t want him to act like a gentleman.

  I walked into Brian’s living room, cosy and warm with lots of wood, dark grey and green plaid. Through an archway I saw Brian moving around in the kitchen. I could smell roasting meat and garlic, making my stomach rumble.

  The front door clicked shut and Diarmuid’s presence appeared at my back. I sucked in a breath and practically ran for the mantle covered in photos on the opposite side of the room.

  I grabbed the closest photo and found myself staring at one of Brian and…oh my God, was that a younger Diarmuid standing next to him? I peered closer. He must have been seventeen, perhaps. He had shorter hair sticking up about his head like a flame. His jaw was softer as were his cheekbones. He was still towering over Brian, his shoulders wide but his body wasn’t as built as it was now.

  He had a scowl on his face. Some things hadn’t changed.

  The real-life Diarmuid’s presence warmed my side, his cologne filling my nose. Speak of the devil.

  I set down the photo, not wanting to seem like I was drooling, and stepped away from him, picking up another photo. Diarmuid followed me.

  I frowned. This photo was another one of Diarmuid; this time he was flanked by two other guys, both good-looking as hell. Holy wow. It was like a wall of hotness.

  “Is this you as well?” I asked.

  He peered over my shoulder and I felt his breath on my cheek. Half of me wanted to yell at him to go away. The other half wanted him to move closer.

  “I lived here with Brian for a few years after I turned eighteen. He took me in.” Diarmuid swallowed. “Was more of a father to me than my own ever was. More of a family to me until…”

  Until you.

  No, he couldn’t have been about to say that. Right?

  “That’s Danny.” Diarmuid pointed to the dark-haired, dark-eyed, broody-looking male on the right. “He moved to London chasing stardom soon after that photo was taken, though he’s back in Dublin now.”

  “Any relation to Dillan O’Donaghue?” I said on a whim. Dillan O’Donaghue was the lead singer in one of Ireland’s most famous rock bands.

  Diarmuid hesitated. “Dillan’s his father, actually.”

  Damn. Really?

  “That’d be cool to have a rock star dad.”

  Diarmuid shrugged. “Danny and his father don’t have much of a relationship. Not even when they were living in the same house…”

  Ah. Right. Daddy issues came a dime a dozen, it seemed.

  “Who’s the other guy?”

  “That’s Declan on the left.”

  I pulled the photo closer to me. “He looks familiar.”

  “He should. His last name’s Gallagher.”

  My mouth dropped open. “As in, Declan Gallagher the MMA fighter, Declan Gallagher?” I squeaked.

  “Yeah.” Diarmuid looked almost miffed. “You like to watch fights?”

  “No, but my da does. He used to watch the fights all the time when I was younger… He’d let me sit next to him.”

  “He let you watch MMA?” he sounded incredulous.

  “At least he keeps his promises,” I said, my defenses automatically rising.

  Diarmuid’s face fell and I knew I’d struck a nerve. “Saoirse—”

  I let out a huff. “I know, I know. We have a truce.”

  But Diarmuid wouldn’t let it go. He held my chin in his fingers, forcing me to face him. His eyes probed me, his voice was as soft as I’d ever heard it.

  “It hurts me to think that you’d believe the worst of me. I stayed away because I thought it was the best thing for you. You have to know that, I only wanted what was best for you.”

  “What if what was best for me was you?” I whispered.

  His eyes looked pained. “Saoirse—”

  “I was only fourteen then. But…” I chewed my bottom lip. “I’m not fourteen now.”

  His gaze dropped to my mouth. Instinctively I wet my lips with the tip of my tongue. I swear I heard him groan.

  His eyes lifted to mine. In them I saw wonder and awe. I saw me as he saw me. I saw myself as beautiful.

  He was the only man who’d ever made me feel beautiful. Worthy. Then and now.

  He leaned in, perhaps not because he wanted to—lord knows he’d been fighting against me from day one—but because he and I had too much power over each other. Like two atoms colliding.

  I leaned in, not because I purposefully leaned in, but because I was drawn to him, the way a sunflower reaches for her sun. I needed him to blossom. To grow. To shine.

  Until there was only breath between us.

  “Diarmuid!”

  We jumped apart. Brian was standing in the edge of the kitchen, his eyes flicking between me and the man by my side. “Set the table, lad.”

  Diarmuid recovered faster than I did. He straightened and strode to the kitchen, brushing past Brian. Leaving Brian’s eyes on me.

  Diarmuid and my lips hadn’t met, but mine were tingling. I swear Brian could see the want still clinging to my mouth like too bright red lipstick. His eyes narrowed and I forced what I hoped was an innocent smile. He looked like he wanted to say something. Instead he said nothing, disappearing back into the kitchen.

  I turned aside and rubbed my mouth, trying to make the aching go away. I studied each framed photo on the mantle. Most of them were of Brian and people I didn’t recognise. But there was one more of Diarmuid, with Danny and Declan in it too.

  “We were so young then,” I heard Diarmuid’s voice say by my side. I hadn’t even heard him reappear next to me. “We had all been Brian’s kids. We met at O’Malley’s boxing gym where Brian insisted on bringing us.”

  That’s why he was insisting I do the same.

  Diarmuid took the photo from me and looked at it, his eyes going misty. “We recognised something in each other. We found something in each other. Even though the three of us don’t live in the same city anymore, I could call them right now with a problem and they’d be there for me, no doubt. And I for them.”

  My stomach squeezed. Was that…jealousy that I felt?

  I pointed at the tower in the background. “Where is this? Is this in Ireland?”

  He shook his head. “No, that’s Tower Bridge in London. It was Danny’s eighteenth. He’s the youngest of the three of us by a whole three months. His father had pulled a dickhead move, as per bloody usual. He wanted to get out of Ireland for his birthday. He said it was so we could really go wild. But Dex and I knew it was to make a point to his dear old dad.”

  Go wild. I could imagine.

  Diarmuid was already so good-looking, but more boyish in this photo. Not like the brutish man standing besi
de me today. Standing too close beside me. So close his presence seemed to radiate heat to me.

  “And did you? Go wild, I mean.”

  He grinned. “What happens in London…”

  I let out a snort. “That good, huh?”

  Something clouded his eyes. “I almost didn’t make it back,” he said, setting the frame back on the mantle.

  What? A shiver of anxiousness went through me at his words. What did he mean by that?

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “Almost didn’t get on the plane.”

  I frowned. “You were late?”

  “Something like that.” He shuffled his feet, unable to meet my eyes.

  “You don’t want to tell me the real reason,” I said. “Why?”

  His eyes darted to mine, catching me in their dark net before he looked away again.

  “I can’t hide anything from you, can I, selkie?”

  I wish. There was plenty about him that I wished I could uncover.

  “Tell me,” I pleaded.

  “You’ll laugh.”

  I felt a giggle bubbling up already.

  “I promise I won’t.”

  He scrunched up his mouth to one side, his thinking face.

  “Come on, Diarmuid. You used to tell me everything.”

  He let out a breath. Then nodded. He pointed a finger at me. “But no laughing.”

  I crossed my fingers over my heart.

  “I’m scared of flying.”

  A weighted silence fell over us as I let this revelation come over me.

  He was scared of…flying?

  Diarmuid Brennan, tall and strong as an Irish giant. Scared. Of anything.

  It was almost unbelievable.

  “Are you serious?” I asked hesitantly.

  “Would I lie about something like this?”

  No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t even joke about it.

  Diarmuid…scared of flying. I looked over to him, realising he suddenly looked…different.

  When I was younger I’d placed Diarmuid far up on a pedestal. No one could live forever on a pedestal. It was only a matter of time before he fell from the heavens. And when he fell, the crash almost destroyed me.

  Part of growing up was placing aside fairy tales, curtains and myths born of mist.

  He might still have been an Irish giant in my heart, but for the first time, I saw Diarmuid Brennan as a man.

  A man who bled. Who made mistakes. With fears and flaws. A man who did his best, even when his best wasn’t enough.

  He became real.

  This…this was the moment I truly fell in love with him.

  “I’m scared of being forgotten,” I whispered. “Of falling into the cracks of life and disappearing.”

  He stepped closer to me and I felt his fingers twisting into mine, the warmth of his palm like a balm against my naked soul.

  “I won’t ever forget you,” he promised. “I never forgot you.”

  It wasn’t true. But I let him think that I believed him.

  If Brian suspected anything between Diarmuid and me, he certainly didn’t let on through dinner. The three of us sat around and talked and laughed, me, Brian and Diarmuid sitting across from me. My heart warmed as Brian affectionately teased Diarmuid and vice versa. And the food was delicious, Irish stew with steamed green beans and cheesy cauliflower.

  Diarmuid clasped Brian on the shoulder as he tried to get up off his seat.

  “Stay in your chair, old man. Saoirse and I shall do the dishes.” He winked at me.

  Brian swatted at his arm, Diarmuid jumping out of arm’s reach before he could get to him. “Cheeky boy. I’m not too old to give you a thrashing.”

  “Ahhh, you’d have to catch me first.”

  Diarmuid sprinted into the kitchen. I followed him, laughing with a pile of plates in my hands.

  He stood at the sink and washed up while I stood next to him drying the things he handed to me. In the background Brian turned on his stereo, and the familiar sound of The Dubliners floated out through the house.

  Diarmuid snorted, glancing into the living room where Brian had taken up residence in an armchair. “You two are meant for each other,” he said to me. “You both have the same shite taste in music.”

  I nudged him with my hip.

  That was all it took.

  His hip bumped me. I hip bumped back. Suddenly white foam was being flung at my head. I squealed and lashed out with my dish towel, trying to snap it on his ass.

  Three years apart reduced to nothing. Like those years never separated us.

  He grabbed me around the neck with his arm and dumped a large glob of bubbles on my hair. I let out a squeal.

  “Doesn’t look like much cleaning going on in here,” Brian’s gruff voice came from the doorway.

  Once again, Diarmuid and I jumped apart, like two school kids caught by the teacher.

  “Sorry, Brian,” I mumbled, picking up the dishcloth I’d dropped on the floor and getting back to my drying up, my cheeks still feeling the heat from being so close to Diarmuid.

  “Yeah, sorry, old man,” Diarmuid said, catching my eye and shooting me a conspiratorial look. “We’ll clean it up.”

  Brian grunted, but thankfully he left us to it.

  Later that evening, Diarmuid drove me home. Neither of us spoke during the drive home. It was a comfortable silence, the kind that wrapped over you with warmth and comfort.

  I kicked off my shoes and pulled my knees up to my chest and just sat in the soothing calm of his presence, tapping my toe along to the soft quirky voice of Lisa Hannigan crooning out of the radio.

  “I thought you didn’t like this modern indie rock shite?” Diarmuid asked, a hint of teasing in his voice.

  I shrugged. “Maybe it grew on me,” I said, using his words.

  He pulled up outside my house and it was all dark.

  Diarmuid frowned. “Your da’s not home yet?” He glanced at the dashboard. It was almost eleven at night.

  I shrugged, hoping he didn’t see how much it stung that my da wasn’t really around. “He’s busy.”

  I climbed out of the truck, not really in the mood to talk about it.

  “Selkie,” Diarmuid called through the open door.

  I spun, expecting a lecture from him or something.

  Diarmuid flashed me a grin. “I’m glad you came tonight.”

  Even though we were metres away, I could feel the warmth of him and his fingers on my chin from earlier. I could have sworn that he’d been about to kiss me in that living room.

  But three years ago, I could have sworn the same. So what did I know. Except that I was good at deluding myself, twisting my want into warped reality.

  “Me too.”

  I spun on my heel, feeling some relief now that I had my back to him so that I could stop hiding the longing bubbling around in my chest. I strode up the path to the front door, my keys jangling in my bag as I grasped for them.

  I could feel his eyes on me, watching me. Even now I knew he wouldn’t drive away until I was safely inside. Just like he used to do.

  An ache went through me. It hurt that he watched over me because I couldn’t let him see how much it meant. It pained that he cared because he would never care enough. Not how I wanted him to care.

  I found my keys and reached for the door.

  It swung wide open. A dark figure barrelled out of the house, knocking me over. I fell aside, my keys lost from my grasp, crying out in pain as the palms of my hands scraped across gravel as I held them out to break my fall.

  “Saoirse!” Diarmuid’s panicked voice broke through the calm of the night.

  I winced as I sat up, brushing my hands gingerly to get rid of loose gravel.

  Diarmuid appeared at my side, cursing. His arms wound around me, pulling me up to my feet. He didn’t let go of me and I leaned into his warmth.

  “Are you ok?”

  “I’m fine. Just a scrape.”

  He pulled back and searched my body.
His eyes were almost pained with concern. “Where?”

  I lifted my palms to show him. He took my hands carefully in his, his thumb brushing at loose dirt. The lightest of touches, but it seared me deep in my soul. His bottom lip curled up and his eyes turned murderous.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “Did you see who it was?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t get a good look at him.”

  He turned to look at the house, dark and still. “I’m going in to check it out. Someone might still be in there.”

  My blood chilled. I hadn’t even thought of that. The perpetrator might not have been working alone.

  “Get in the truck, Saoirse, lock the doors.”

  The thought of sitting alone in that cold truck made me shiver. I wanted to feel safe. To feel safe was to be with Diarmuid.

  “I want to go in with you.”

  “No. It’s not safe. He might have a weapon or have grabbed a kitchen knife.”

  A shiver ran down my spine. “Then what about you? It’s not safe for you either.”

  “I know how to take care of myself.”

  I shook my head. “I’m coming in with—”

  “Goddammit, selkie,” he exploded, “don’t fucking argue with me, just this once.” He sagged and his palms came up to cup my face. I wanted to lean into his warmth, into the safety of his hands. “Sorry,” he muttered, “I just need you safe. I just need you safe, selkie.”

  I just need you safe.

  He cared. He cared about me. Just not the way I wanted him to care.

  I pulled away from him because it hurt too much to have him so close, to have him touching me, to have him looking at me like that and for it to mean less than what I ached for.

  “I’ll stay in the truck,” I whispered and walked on wobbly legs down the path. Diarmuid stood there watching me—why did he always have to watch me?—until I was locked safely inside the truck.

  This safety was a lie. I would never be safe unless he was here.

  I tucked my arms around my body and shivered, even as I had the heat blasting. My heart rate kicked up a notch when Diarmuid disappeared inside.