Catching Irish: a Summerhaven novella (The Summerhaven Trio Book 4) Page 3

  “It’s like you don’t even want to chat. You only want…”

  “What?” she asked, looking at him over her shoulder. “Sex? What’s wrong with that? I can’t have needs like you? I can’t feed the need without getting—what was it, again?—‘clingy as shit’?”

  She continued up the stairs, grateful to find a mirror at the top. Wearing her hair in a bob had some definite pluses, like the fact that she could run her hands through the thin, silvery-gold strands and voilà! Her coif was like new.

  Behind her, Fin’s face appeared, and she looked their reflections for a moment: at the tempting pout of his lips, at the mixture of satiety, warmth, and confusion in his green eyes. It was his eyes that had first captivated her last night in the candlelit barn—the way they’d held hers with such earnestness, like he’d never seen anything as remotely wondrous as Tate. It had coaxed real emotion from her, and she’d given him a rare and genuine smile in thanks for the compliment of his admiration.

  “You ever been in love?” he asked her reflection.

  Her nostrils flared. “Don’t believe in it.”

  “What?” he asked, his lips tilting up like she was kidding. “How can you not believe in it?”

  “Because it doesn’t exist,” she said, running her hand through her hair again before sidestepping away from the mirror. “Love is a myth.”

  “Jaysus, you’re cagey.”

  “I’m…cagey?” she asked him, looking around for a door that wouldn’t force her to parade past the wedding party, who were greeting guests at the front of the church. She spied a double door down the corridor that appeared to lead directly out to the parking lot. Bingo.

  “Never met a girl who didn’t believe in love,” said Fin, following at her heels.

  “Now you have,” she said, pushing open the doors and stepping outside.

  “Why is that?” he asked. “Why don’t you believe in it?”

  Tate huffed in annoyance. “What’s with the third degree?”

  “We’ve fucked twice. I feel like we should get to know each other.”

  “Ha! What for?”

  He chortled behind her, and she turned to face him, raising her eyebrows like she expected an answer.

  “You’re somethin’,” he said.

  “Everyone’s something.”

  “Somethin’ different,” he clarified. His lips twitched, and he offered her a teasing smile. “Give me a ride back to camp?”

  “What kind?”

  “Car’ll do.”

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “Can’t I smile?” he asked. “Or do you not believe in smiles either?”

  She lowered her chin and put her hands on her hips. “You can smile. And you can have a ride back, but let’s just be super clear about one thing, okay? We’re having a fling this weekend, Finian. It’s fucking. We’re not friends. We’re not anything.”

  He stared at her, as though processing her words.

  “To be clear, we may fuck again, or we might not. Either way, it doesn’t mean anything. Don’t read into it. Don’t get attached,” she said, leveling him with her eyes. “Understand?”

  He took a deep breath, his jaw clenched, his eyebrows still furrowed, his index finger sliding slowly across his lips in thought.

  “I have a question,” he said.

  “For God’s sake! What?”

  “Can we go back to the part about fuckin’ again?”

  Suddenly—without any warning and for the second time since she’d met him—she felt real emotion course through her veins, warming her body, catching her off-guard. Surprise. Amusement. Happiness. And she did something she rarely did with a man she was fucking: she laughed. Or more accurately, she snorted. The sound chortled through her nose, thoroughly surprising her and leading to a gale of unexpected giggles.

  When she looked up at him, she saw he was laughing too. Not as hard as her. Not as much. But the smile on his face reached his eyes…and made them sparkle.

  “We’ll discuss it in the car,” she said, leading the way.

  ***

  Halfway back to the camp, Tate had reached for Fin’s cock and started stroking it through his pants. When he’d been about to come, he’d pushed her hands away and demanded that she pull over. As soon as she’d cut the engine, he’d released the beast, dragged her onto his lap, and speared her quickly.

  Rocking against him, she’d taken his load again, mewling against his neck as she came, and this time Fin hadn’t needed to ask. She’d come. He’d felt the gathering, the quivering, and the tight clench of her pussy around his cock before she cried out. Only then had he given himself over to his own orgasm, holding her tightly and whispering filthy things in her ear.

  When they’d arrived at Summerhaven, she’d parked at the far side of the camp parking lot, and they’d kissed and groped for a while before she had preceded him to the reception. He’d arrived soon after, straightening his shirt and running a hand through his hair.

  He couldn’t get enough of her.

  He knew she was leaving tomorrow.

  He knew she lived in Florida.

  He knew he would likely never see her again.

  But for the first time in his life, Finian was learning that there was a delicious sort of intensity in a love affair when your time was finite. The distance that would imminently separate them made every second precious, heightened the fleeting sense of every touch, and made every word powerful. In the strangest way, this girl who disavowed love and wanted so badly to belong to no one belonged to him for this millisecond in time, and he welcomed that sense of possession because it was only temporary. For now, and only for now, she was his, and he wanted to soak up every second with her.

  Seated at the same table, they sat side by side, fondling each other under the table near constantly and tacitly daring one another not to react openly or draw attention to what they were doing. It was a torturous but delectable game, a shared and dirty secret that kept him semierect throughout toasts and dinner.

  Twice they’d danced, though both times he’d needed to head outside afterward to cool down. She smelled like him. She smelled like his cum and some perfume that she was wearing, and fuck if it didn’t make it impossible not to want her again, though he’d already had her thrice in twenty-four hours.

  As the reception wound down, she visited across the room with her friend Hallie, and Finian found himself staring at her like a lovesick teenager, wondering if she’d invite him to stay overnight with her and desperately hoping that she would. Whereas he shared lodgings with his cousin Ian, Tate had her own cabin with a big, queen-sized bed. For all that they’d fucked, they hadn’t been naked with each other, and it was all Finian could think about—their bodies entwined, skin to skin, until dawn rent the skies.

  The sweet torment of will-she or won’t-she kept him on his toes, his cock leaping with hope when she paused in her conversation with Hallie to look over at him. But he had a distinct feeling that if he pushed her, she’d push him away. He didn’t know if he bought her whole “love is a myth” routine, but he was certain that she believed it. He also had a feeling that her theories on love were more about self-preservation than grounded conviction, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t playing a long game here, so he needed to step lightly. If he pressured her, she’d tell him to go fuck himself, and that’d be the end of the hottest and most spontaneous weekend of sex he’d ever had.

  So what’s the killer move? he wondered, watching her smile at her friend.

  Space.

  Distance.

  Feigned indifference.

  If he acted like he didn’t care whether they fucked or not, he had a feeling that she’d be ten times more likely to invite him over.

  “Well, that’s me,” said Finian to his Uncle Ted, who sat beside him at the table. “I’m knackered.”

  “Headed to bed, Finian?”

  “Yeah. Think so,” he said. “Are ya drivin’ back to Dartmouth tonight?”

  “Collee
n sleeps best at home,” said his uncle. “I guess we’ll see you at Christmas?”

  Finian nodded, though he felt a sharp twinge in his heart. Being away from his family at Christmastime this year was going to be hard. “I guess so.”

  “You know,” said his uncle, “you should see Boston before you head home. It’s a great city.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Sure. Visit the Druid. Colleen says it’s the best Guinness in America.”

  And since—aside from fucking Tate again—a pint of Guinness was presently at the top of Fin’s longings, he nodded. “You know? I think I’ll do just that. Ian said it’s quiet here next week. Maybe I’ll take a few days off.”

  “You should!” said Uncle Ted. “Make the most of your visit. Before you know it, you’ll be home, son.”

  The pain in his heart eased at this suggestion, and he felt gratitude toward his uncle.

  After kissing his aunt on the cheek and wishing her a safe trip home, Finian made his way across the room, careful to lock eyes with Tate as he passed her but also quick to look away. If she wanted to see him later tonight, it was up to her to suggest it, though he’d be lying if he didn’t confess that he was hoping—with every fiber in his body—for an invitation.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Fin! Wait up!”

  Tate had seen him leave, wondering why—after staring at her across the room for the past hour—he didn’t even stop by to say good-bye. Not that it hurt her feelings. Not that she cared. She didn’t. No attachments, right? Right. But was she wrong to expect civility?

  A few yards up ahead of her on the path, he stopped walking and pivoted to face her, but he didn’t move or say anything. Fast-walking in heels, she was out of breath by the time she caught up with him.

  “Hey,” she said, stopping before him, her chest heaving from the exertion. His eyes flicked down for an ogle, then trailed back up to her face.

  “Hey.”

  “Are you…leaving?”

  “Thought I would.” He shrugged. “Long day.”

  “You’re going to bed?” she asked, blurting out the words.

  No, they hadn’t made a plan to get together after the reception, but after all of the under-the-table teasing, she’d assumed that they would be.

  Fin reached up and scratched his cheek. “My uncle said I should check out Boston. I was thinkin’ about headin’ over there tomorrow. Thought I’d get online and…you know, make a plan, see what’s what.”

  “I’m going to Boston tomorrow,” she said, vaguely aware that they’d started walking in the direction of her cottage.

  “Flyin’ home?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Evening flight. Two o’clock check-in.” She put her hand on his shoulder to brace herself, then lifted her feet, first one, then the other, and took off her shoes, holding them on her fingers by the sling-back strip of leather. “Ohhhh. That’s better.”

  He’d stopped walking when she touched his shoulder, but now he looked at her, a slight smile on his lips. “You good?”

  “You ask me that a lot,” she said.

  “Mmm,” he hummed noncommittally.

  What was up with him? He seemed…different, somehow. Not as eager. Not as needy. Maybe he’d finally caught on to the fact that he’d made her come in the car and didn’t feel the need to prove himself anymore? Then again, it occurred to her, if that was the case, and he was finished with their short and filthy arrangement, he could have just said good-night and good-bye at the top of the path. Instead, he was walking her home.

  What were they talking about? Oh, right. Boston.

  “So you’re going to Boston tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Thinkin’ about it,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  “Need a ride?” she blurted out.

  He stopped walking.

  Tate felt her cheeks flush, and she flinched, walking past him slowly and wondering where in the Sam Hill had that offer come from? It was almost like she wanted to spend more time with him…but why? What was the point? He lived here—not even here, in Ireland—and she lived in Florida! What the fuck was the point of getting to know him better? Not that she wanted to get to know him better. Did she?

  Fuck. Did she?

  Warning bells were going off in her head because getting to know someone better could lead to feelings, and feelings could lead to an attachment, and an attachment could lead to lo—

  No. No, no, no. Back up. No getting to know him better. No feelings. And definitely no attachments. Take it back. Take it back before he answers!

  She whipped around to face him, expecting his face to be eager, which would make retracting her offer so much easier.

  But he didn’t look eager at all. In fact, if he looked like anything, it was sort of casually thoughtful.

  “You know? That’d be grand as long as you’re headed that way anyway. You’d be savin’ me bus fare.”

  And—yet again—it happened.

  Like a colt with the right trainer, who somehow knew how to ease its behavior from skittish to calm, Fin had just managed to do that for Tate. And because no one had ever handled her so easily before, it disarmed her. It made her comfortable. She started walking again and kept the offer on the table.

  “Want gas money?” he asked, stepping into place beside her.

  “No. I want you to come to my cabin and fuck me again, and we’ll call it even. Deal?”

  He chuckled softly but didn’t reach for her hand or put his arm around her shoulders or otherwise get sentimental and clingy.

  “Yeah,” he said as they continued down the path. “Deal.”

  ***

  Finian had gotten his wish.

  They were naked in her bed.

  But in a strange twist of events, she was the first girl ever who, postsex, didn’t try to cuddle into his side, lying on his arm until he lost feeling in it and making him sweat from their combined body heat. No. This girl flipped onto her back beside him, yawned several times, then closed her eyes and fell asleep. No reassurance needed. No tentative hopes that they’d stay in touch after tomorrow. No tears that their “magical weekend” was coming to an end.

  Nothing.

  Maybe she really didn’t believe in love, which was so odd, it was almost freakish. But he’d never met a girl less emotionally needy or more guarded.

  And yeah, okay, he kind of liked it. It was so weird and unusual, this level of casual. Some girls claimed to be this casual, but they were almost always lying.

  But on the other hand, for the first time that he could ever remember, he sort of wanted a little more. He sort of wanted to pull her back against his chest, wrap an arm around her waist, and fall asleep beside her.

  Madness, Fin. Utter lunacy.

  That’s just wantin’ what you can’t have, boyo.

  He rolled to his side, watching her sleep, tracing the lines of her face with his eyes. She was quite lovely, her features delicate and the column of her neck graceful. But it was hard—really hard—to get to know her. And while part of him was intrigued by the challenge, more of him could see that she was a wounded thing, like a bird with a broken wing or a cat with a thorn embedded deeply in its paw. Wounded animals, even if they desperately needed help and care, didn’t know how to seek it and often didn’t recognize it when offered. Instead, they were prone to biting, to fighting, to running away and finding a quiet place to die.

  He sighed, rolling onto his back and staring at the shadows on the ceiling as a quiet melancholy filled him. There was no catching this girl, he decided, as his heavy eyes slowly closed. There was no having her, so his only option was to simply enjoy her until they said good-bye.

  ***

  The next morning, Tate woke up alone, which should have been a good thing but strangely wasn’t.

  She’d been too tired to kick Fin out last night and ended up falling asleep beside him after two rounds of epic sex. But twice during the night when she woke up—once to pee and once because some late-night revelers had
walked past her cabin at dawn—she’d been oddly comforted by his presence. Oddly, because she couldn’t actually remember the last time she’d slept beside someone. It simply wasn’t something she did very often.

  The second time she woke, as the grayish light of early dawn flooded through the window, she’d rolled to her side and watched him sleep for a while; his face in repose was beautiful, his lips slightly parted, his long eyelashes thick and dark, his bare chest rising and falling in peaceful sleep. She’d watched him until her heart ached for no reason she could name, until her eyes had felt heavy, and she’d closed them only because she couldn’t keep them open anymore.

  And now he was gone.

  Sliding her hand from under her pillow with a sigh, she rested it on the pillow he’d used last night, settling her fingers in the indent made by his head. The cotton was cool, so he’d likely been gone for a while. Oh, well. At least you still have today, she thought, a bit of melancholy making her sigh again.

  Wait. What? She yanked back her hand like the fabric was on fire, staring at the pillow with dismay.

  At least you still have today?

  “Fuck, Tate,” she hissed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed to sit up and purposely putting her back to Fin’s side.

  Out the window, she could see wedding guests, casually dressed in jeans and sweaters, heading up the path to attend Rory and Brittany’s wedding breakfast, and she tried to breathe easily, though her pounding heart made it difficult.

  “You got attached. You fucking got attached,” she whispered, her tone gritty with self-disgust. “Not acceptable.”

  She showered and dressed quickly, self-preservation making her haul ass, eager to find Fin and tell him that she wasn’t able to give him a ride to Boston after all. They needed a clean break. Today. As soon as possible.

  Hurrying up the path, dressed in jeans, a black blouse, and a black leather jacket, she encountered him sitting on a wooden porch swing near the dining hall, browsing on his phone.

  He looked up at her.

  “Hi,” he said simply.

  “Good morning,” she answered formally.

  “Sleep well?”