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  My thoughts are interrupted when Brian and Patrick are called to the stage. I clap and cheer dutifully as they scramble to their feet, but I’m drowned out by Faith’s two-finger mouth whistle that turns several heads on our direction.

  “Oh, would you just look at him, Willa? He is such a ride.”

  “A souped-up Cadillac,” I confirm, laughing into my beer. “Have you two set the wedding date yet?”

  “Not yet.” Her eyes twinkle at me, telling me she’s in on the joke, but enjoying the idea nonetheless. “But I fancy a summer wedding. Somewhere exotic, like. You’ll come, won’t you?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Patrick and Brian begin their song, this act already vastly different from their daily one on Grafton Street. Mainly, because no one is pickpocketing the audience. That I can see, anyway. Patrick plays a complicated, yet familiar, riff on the guitar, then Brian copies it even faster. It sounds like the opening of “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns and Roses. Patrick challenges Brian with another riff and with a confident smirk, Brian plays it back with twice the flair. They’re dueling with guitars, and the audience is completely eating it up, choosing sides and cheering for their favorite brother. When their time is almost up, Patrick plays the notes to “Crazy in Love” with a head nod in my direction, causing Faith and I to dissolve into laughter.

  They don’t win, but they do take third place, which comes with a fifty-dollar prize. They act as if they just won the Super Bowl.

  Brian returns from the stage and throws an arm around Faith. “Come on. This fortune is already burning a hole in my pocket.”

  “There’s beer to be bought, ladies. Join us?”

  I’m actually shocked to see that evening is already beginning to fall. We’ve been sitting and watching the performances for hours and I’m kind of anxious to get Faith back to the inn. She told me she’d been given the day off, but I can easily see her neglecting to tell me she’s due back for the night shift in the pub. With the tension between her and Shane, she’d probably relish the chance to blow it off, leaving her brother high and dry. Yesterday, I probably wouldn’t have given a shit one way or the other, but I can’t help but feel I owe him one after this morning.

  “Faith, I think we should head back.”

  Her face falls. “Just one drink?”

  I’ve only been in Dublin for two weeks, but I’ve learned enough to know that “just one drink,” roughly translates to stumbling in shit-faced at two in the morning. Hating to be the one to kill the mood, I begin to hedge, but Brian interrupts me.

  “Why don’t we all head back to the Claymore Inn?” He nudges Faith’s chin. “I heard a rumor they serve the best cod and chips in town.”

  Okay, I seriously need to get around to trying the damn fish, but then Brian’s suggestion registers. I can only imagine Shane’s reaction when Brian and his little sister walk in, glued together at the hip. He’ll blow a gasket. Based on Faith’s expression, I know she’s thinking along the same lines, but my relief is replaced with dread when I see the mischief cross her face. Clearly, she’s warming to the idea of pissing off her brother.

  I barely stifle a groan. “I don’t—”

  “Let’s go.” She avoids my eyes. “I know the owner, so I might even be able to negotiate us a good table.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The four of us walk into the Claymore Inn and stop dead in our tracks just inside the door. I can barely see into the pub, it’s so packed full of customers. Every last one of them appears to be drunk and sunburned, shouting along with the music blaring through the speakers. My gaze shoots to Faith, but she’s completely frozen, apart from her wringing hands in front of her. A young woman bumps into me muttering a preemptive, hiccupping apology, and I notice she’s wearing the same wristband we’re sporting, that got us into the Championship. It dawns on me then that all these people must have migrated from the park a short distance away, packing the pub on what should have been a quiet night.

  Just then, the crowd parts slightly and I glimpse Shane behind the bar. He’s completely on his own fulfilling orders and utterly swamped. Not only that, he’s seen us walk in and he’s livid. At the end of the bar, Kitty stands wide-eyed, her look of helplessness identical to her daughter’s. Beside me, Faith starts to mutter, “shit, shit, shit,” under her breath.

  “I don’t think you’ll be getting us that table, Faith,” Brian half shouts.

  Without waiting to hear if she replies, I begin to skirt my way through the crowd. I don’t know what I plan on doing once I make it past the staggering bodies. I only know someone needs to help. I’m surprised when I hear Faith pipe up from behind me, voice laced with more steel than I’ve come to expect from her.

  “I’m going to jump on waiting tables, yeah?” She nudges the small of my back with her hand. “God only knows where Orla has gotten off to. Think you can manage to help Shane behind the bar till she turns up?”

  I know nothing about bartending apart from what Ginger has reluctantly shared with me, so as not to encourage me to pursue the same profession. “Yeah, yeah. I got it,” I call over my shoulder as she disappears though the crowd in the direction of the kitchen. When I reach the end of the bar, I take a deep breath and walk behind it, already knowing Shane is going to reject my help. Too bad. He’s getting it. I’m actually grateful for the chance to repay him for this morning, for two reasons. One, I don’t like unpaid debts. They burrow under my skin like a splinter. Two, if anything ever happens between us, I don’t want him mistaking it for gratitude.

  Kitty actually looks relieved to see me. “Oh thank God. That American is here.”

  My answering smile disappears when Shane spots me.

  “No.” That’s all he says.

  Determined not to budge, I square my shoulders and look around. How hard can this be? I even feel a kick of excitement in my belly when someone assumes I’m an employee and shouts out an order for three pints of Guinness. Shane shakes his head at me in warning, but I ignore him. As I grab glasses off the shelf, I notice that Shane is only pouring them halfway full of the thick, black liquid and letting it settle before filling it the rest of the way. Feeling his blue eyes drilling into me, I stand next to him at the beer taps and start pouring.

  “Let me guess, you’re mad?”

  “What tipped you off?” He makes an impatient noise and reaches up to help me angle the glass I’m holding differently. Electrified pinpricks race down my arm when our hands brush. “I don’t need your help.”

  “Beg to differ.” I set the first pint down and look up at him, sensing he wants to question me about Patrick and Brian. The curiosity is there in his eyes, but I refuse to give into the urge to explain. I keep having to remind myself I don’t owe him any explanations. Not about where I’ve been or with whom. His eyes narrow, telling me that resolve is written clearly on my face.

  “We’ll see about that.” Briefly, his gaze drops to my exposed midriff, warming my skin as it lingers. “Pints are five Euro, bottles are four. I’m going to keep the register partially open so you can make change. Think you can manage that?”

  I flutter my eyelashes. “Gosh, I don’t know, can I?” Unbelievable. Two minutes behind a bar and I’ve already turned into my überflirtatious sister. If she knew I was behind a bar with my stomach showing, the way she used to do for money, she’d raise unholy hell. Forcing a serious expression onto my face, I nod. “I mean, yeah, I can manage.”

  “Good.” He watches me a moment before turning to take another order.

  In the beginning, Shane has to point out where certain bottled beers are located or switch places with me when customers order something more complicated than beer. But we quickly fall into a rhythm. It’s a totally new experience…and I like it. Being able to remain detached while still feeling involved in several different conversations at once. Some funny, some sad. Some of the discussions are even about Shane, whispers about his achievements on the circuit. Speculation about whether or not he’ll go
back.

  I find myself avoiding those conversations.

  I’m dying to race upstairs and grab my camera, but I’m sure Shane would just love me photographing his customers when I’m supposed to be helping. I put the urge aside and focus on serving drinks. The music grows steadily louder, forcing me to strain to hear each order.

  I’m leaning across the bar doing just that, when I feel Shane brush behind me. His hand squeezes my hip a little before moving on. I have to ask the customer to repeat himself. Twice. We make eye contact as I’m pouring Guinness, and I feel it everywhere. It’s like he’s trying to communicate something with his unsmiling stare, and although I can’t put a name to the message, my body seems to understand. It wants Shane. I can freely admit that at this point.

  I start to feel a little breathless, and a lot anxious. It originates in my belly and spreads lower. In these jeans, I feel sexy, a rarity for me. Every time Shane and I pass each other behind the bar, we touch, and the eagerness sprouts wings. Sometimes it’s just the backs of our hands sliding together, but it escalates quickly to my bottom slipping against his lap, his fingertips brushing across my collarbone. None of the customers are sober enough to pay us any attention. I’m still aware of their presence because I’m serving them drinks, but when I’m talking to them, I’m thinking of Shane and where he’s standing in relation to me.

  Finally, the crowd begins to thin slightly, and Patrick is able to struggle his way between two customers. I return his jaunty smile, knowing that I’m flushed head to toe. I pray that if he notices, he’ll chalk it up to me exerting myself behind the bar. “Tell me, Willa. Is there anything you can’t do?” he shouts over the noise, sending me a wink.

  I nod at the guitar he’s holding against his chest like a precious child. “I can’t play guitar.”

  His eyebrows raise, voice dipping slightly. “You know, I’m an excellent teacher.”

  With a laugh, I start to respond, when I feel Shane move behind me. It feels like crackling energy racing over my skin. As if I’d been caught doing something wrong, I move back from Patrick…which puts my back hard against Shane’s chest. I wait for him to move and he doesn’t. Instead, he drags his fingers across my exposed stomach slowly. I don’t even have to turn around to know he’s staring at Patrick as he does it. It’s written all over Patrick’s face. This is Shane telling him to back off, that I’m somehow…his?

  I should turn around and scratch his eyeballs out. Put him back in his place right in front of everyone, then light him on fire. This jealous, possessive, bullshit shouldn’t be heating me up. It shouldn’t make me want to turn my head and request he take me somewhere private, where he can move his hand lower. Higher. Where he can put them everywhere. I’m so distracted by these thoughts, that I barely notice when Patrick salutes me and disappears back into the crowd.

  “We might have agreed there wouldn’t be any commitments between us.” His lips brush my ear. “But as long as we’re both in Dublin, there will be no sharing.”

  I fight another surge of intense heat and focus on my irritation. “Don’t talk about me like I’m a fucking ham sandwich. I decide—”

  “When you wrapped your legs around me and stuck your tongue in my mouth this morning, you decided.”

  “If I’d known it would turn you into a caveman, I wouldn’t have done it.”

  His chest vibrates against my back with a growl, but we’re interrupted when a flustered Orla trips her way behind the bar. When she sees us standing so close, her eyebrows raise with interest, but she doesn’t comment. “Sorry I’m late?” she says, her apology sounding more like a question.

  Swallowing the rest of the retort I’d worked up for Shane, I push away from him. With a mumbled greeting in Orla’s direction, I stomp out from behind the bar, intending to climb the stairs to my room. I need a way to relieve this pent-up sexual frustration. It’s been building for days, weeks, and I feel ready to explode. Shane barks a command for Orla to cover the bar and I sense him following me. His words from that night in the alley come back to me in a rush, making me feel fevered. Having to chase you only makes me want to pin you down.

  I want him to chase me. The realization hits me hard, knocking the breath out of my lungs. Before I can clear the bar, my hand is enfolded in Shane’s larger one and I’m being pulled through a set of double doors behind the bar where I’ve never been. I don’t even know why I make a halfhearted attempt to pull away, but I do. Maybe so I can tell myself later that I tried.

  Excitement is humming in my veins, something dark and demanding pooling at the tops of my thighs. Shane’s steps are purposeful, his back flexing beneath his shirt, as he leads me through another door. A stock room, I barely have time to acknowledge before he’s slamming the door closed and pressing me forward over what looks like a waist-high refrigerator. The bent over position he’s put me in is unexpected. I’d anticipated him pressing me up against the door to kiss me. The way he continues to keep me guessing, never doing what I expect, is a crazy turn-on. As if I need any more reasons to crave this guy. I resent him and want him at the same time.

  His hips press against my bottom and my forehead drops forward on a soft moan. “I know you won’t tell me you want me right now. Not with words. You’re too damn stubborn.” He leans over my body, so he’s flush against my back. His voice is rough against my ear. “So tell me with your body. Give me more of what I got behind the bar when you couldn’t stop swishing your ass all over me.”

  “That was your game. You started it.” I cringe when I hear the halting quality to my immature words.

  “Aye. I did start it.” His mouth moves over my neck. “And I’m dying to finish it.”

  Jesus, was that a whimper that just came out of me? I reach down deep, making one last attempt to stay sane. “I thought you didn’t want me in the bar for the first time.”

  “I meant it, too.” He gives a quick thrust of his hips jarring me against the fridge. “I won’t fuck you tonight, no matter how badly we both need it.”

  His harsh language triggers a long, torturous squeeze in my lower body. I’ve never been spoken to like that in a sexual context. I’m far from offended. It’s gritty and honest…and I want more of it. A lot more. I’m kidding myself by thinking I could ever walk away from Shane and this need he’s creating, so I give in and push my bottom up against him, savoring his groan. “What are you waiting for? Permission?”

  “Yes,” he groans, clutching my hips.

  A breath rattles in my throat, and I jump without looking. “You have it.”

  Calloused hands eagerly slip under my shirt. My bra is pushed aside before I have time to register which direction his touch is moving. Shane cups my naked breasts and squeezes with just enough force to make my vision blur under the onslaught of sensation.

  “Sexy girl,” he grates, molding them rhythmically. “Maddening girl.”

  “You love it.” I don’t know this person anymore who sounds so sexually confident. This girl who not only responds to such challenging words, but responds in kind. Should it be thrilling me this much? I have no answers, only a desire to take it further. Let Shane take it further. My back arches as if I have no control over my own body’s movements anymore. Maybe I don’t.

  “Careful, Willa.” He circles my nipples with his thumbs. “I’m starting to like your smart mouth a little too much.”

  I can hear my harsh breaths echoing in the small room, but I’m beyond caring. “And if I’m not careful?”

  Shane’s raspy inhales of air joins mine. One big hand slides up my throat to cup my jaw. “I’ll find a better use for that mouth. Is that what you want to hear?”

  A choked sob is my only answer. My position feels more provocative with each passing minute. I’m pinned down by him, just as he’s told me he wanted. His chest is anchoring me down, his erection pressing snugly against my bottom. I’ve never been taken like this, and I suddenly want it more than anything. I manage to slide my legs farther apart and move my hips in a s
low circle.

  Shane’s thigh muscles bunch, his low curse burning in my ears. “What are you trying to tell me, babe? You want something between your legs?”

  “Yes.”

  Shane releases my jaw, drawing his hand roughly down my body and ending at the snap of my jeans. “I’ve been going mad, thinking of you walking around like this all day. What happened to the bloody hoodie?”

  “Laundry day.”

  Snap. “I didn’t see you leave with any laundry.” He draws down my zipper. “Does that mean I should expect you to be dressed like this again tomorrow?”

  “I’ll dress however I—” My words end on a moan when a single finger traces along my center, then pushes into me. Hard. My thighs squeeze together around his hand, holding him there. I don’t think there’s a way for the pressure to feel any more unbelievable, until he begins drawing his finger in and out. “Oh my God.”

  “Ah, babe, how long have you been like this?” He doesn’t have to explain his question. I know what he’s asking. I can feel how ready he found me. When I squirm a little in embarrassment, he kisses my neck with a hot, open mouth until I stop. “That night in the alley, I wanted to touch you here so bad. You wouldn’t let me.” He adds a second thick finger and my knees dip down, having gone weak. “You’re letting me touch you now, aren’t you, girl?”

  “Yes.” The word falls out of my mouth so quickly, I’m a little alarmed. He’s touching my body, but this control he has over my heightened senses scares me. Frantically, I try and detach my mind from my body, try and experience what Shane is doing to me without losing myself to him. But I can’t. I can’t. His fingers slip from inside me and begin to circle the concentration of all the pent-up stress I have, thanks to him and his words. The way he’s been staring at me. I’m desperate to take some control back. I’ve given him too much.