Chapter 1
AN IRISH ROCKSTAR FOR CHRISTMAS
Vivian
Places I hate being most in the world? The airport five days before Christmas.
Especially when my flight is delayed an indeterminate amount of time.
It’s the icing on the shitty couple of months' cake I’ve been eating like it’s my steady diet.
All around me children are screaming and fussing.
Parents and couples are arguing. People are on their phones, bitching about their delayed or canceled flights.
Everyone is on the last shred of their patience.
If it weren’t for the constant stream of cheesy Christmas music and tacky airport decorations, you’d have no clue it was the holiday season as there isn’t a drop of cheer in the air.
Doing my best to ignore it all, I take a sip of my wine and continue reading the ARC or advanced reader copy of my best friend’s book.
This might in fact be her best work yet.
She writes action-packed dark ‘why choose’ romances—my total romance vice—whereas I write steamy rom-coms with an emphasis on athletes—her total vice.
That’s how we bonded so quickly when we met at a book signing we both attended in DC two years ago.
A friendship I’ve been more and more grateful for over the past two months when I’ve been forced to sleep in her guest room.
Currently, she’s in the Bahamas for the holidays with her boyfriend and I can’t help but be a bit jealous of that.
I’d rather be sipping margaritas in the sun and having hot, sweaty sex than heading to snowy New England.
That has me slipping out my notebook, flipping to my current page of occupation, and jotting down the words I’ve written a time or twenty in here. Goal: Be more of a Samantha and less of a Charlotte.
But even as I write the words, recounting the last Sex and the City rerun episode I watched where Carrie tells her crew she’s moving to Paris to be with her artist boyfriend who we all know isn’t the man she’s meant to end up with, I know I’ll always be stuck in the crux of Charlotte, never brave enough to venture into the land of Samantha.
A princess’s curse or a lack of a Persephone moment, I’m not sure.
I may love reading all the filth in the world, but I have yet to act out the fantasy of my mind. I’m too cautious. A frown curls the corners of my lips down as I stare at the inked words and then mentally bludgeon myself yet again for staying in my last relationship as long as I did.
Whatever.
I slip my notebook back into my oversized purse.
I’m over it. Over him. I think I was before I even found the app on his phone.
I’m not even weepy or sad, just annoyed.
And… lost. Not from him, but life has me a bit…
disjointed. Misplaced. My standard compartmentalization isn’t doing its job and I haven’t come up with a resolution that doesn’t leave me with some lingering form of reconsideration and doubt.
Whatever!
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
At the sound of the raspy baritone with an Irish brogue, my head springs up and I lock on the bluest eyes known to man.
Artic blue, the color of glaciers and wind but with the warmth of summer smoldering beneath the surface.
I blink. Once. Twice. A flush creeps up my cheeks as I take more of him in.
Unruly sandy-blond hair buzzed close to his scalp on the sides and long on top to the point where a piece flops playfully against his forehead.
Full soft lips, straight nose, and thick, long dark eyelashes that every woman on the planet is jealous of.
He has a slight scar going through his right eyebrow and I can’t help but wonder how he got it or if it would feel smooth or jagged beneath my finger.
He’s wearing a black thermal shirt and dark jeans, but it’s his tall stature, along with the way the shirt clings to his built but not bulky muscles that turn my flush into a full-on blush. Because wow. That’s the word floating like a pretty pink soap bubble through my brain.
He clears his throat, popping that bubble, and I come back to the airport and the noise and misery of it all. Hiding my embarrassment for openly ogling him, I do a quick search around the overly crowded bar I’m sitting in.
“There are no open seats,” he supplies for me.
“That’s a lie,” I tell him, pointing across the bar area to the unoccupied two-person table off in the corner. “There’s one over there.”
He follows my gaze just as two people scurry over to it, snagging the table.
“Not anymore,” he counters, turning back to me with a barely concealed smirk.
“Ye see, yer my last hope. Too many delayed flights mean too many people needing a drink to stop them from going postal. Come on. Give me a shot,” he continues when I don’t automatically relinquish the chair to him.
“I won’t bother ye too much.” He smiles, his hand now on the back of the empty seat directly across from me at my small, high-top two-person table.
“Too much?” I question.
Those sinful blue eyes—crisper than a hundred-dollar bill in a stripper’s G-string—stare into mine with a mischievous sincerity that feels like the ultimate contradiction but somehow works on him.
He simply shrugs at me as he takes the seat without waiting on my consent.
I don’t argue it though. I could listen to his voice and accent all night.
In fact, I might have to write an Irish character just so I can have it made into an audiobook, because damn.
“Aye. I might bother ye a wee bit. Beautiful redheads shouldn’t be sitting alone in airport pubs.”
“What makes you think I’m alone?” I retort with a tilt of my head.
That smirk again just as the waitress comes flying over, tripping over two other tables in pursuit of Irish Sex.
“What can I get you?” she rushes out. “Anything to eat. Or drink?”
“Jameson neat, please.”
“Double or single?”
“Double.” He eyes my red wine. “Make that two doubles, one for the beautiful lady, and keep ’em comin’. Could be a long night.” He faces me. “Anything to eat, darlin’?”
My panties are wet. It’s not even fair how cheap and easy that happened.
I think the waitress agrees with me. I shall name him Irish Sex, which sounds like it could be a drink.
I’d ask if they serve that here but given the impish look this guy is all about and how boldly he asked to sit with me, I’m guessing he’s a regular at offering up those specific services.
“N-no.” I have to swallow and clear my throat. “Just the drinks.”
“Same,” he tells the waitress. “Thank you.”
She sighs but it sounds like a moan, and I can’t even blame her for it. I get a “you lucky bitch” glance from her and then she’s gone to fetch us our drinks, I presume.
“What makes you think I wanted a whiskey? Or your company for that matter?”
He spins in his seat, shoving up the sleeves of his black shirt and revealing strong, colorfully inked forearms. He intertwines his fingers and sets his hands down on the table like he’s about to get down to business.
“Ye didn’t turn either down. But honestly, it was yer blush that had me sitting. Do ye wanna know a secret?”
“No.”
He grins, making some seriously boyishly sexy dimples pop. Somehow he’s amused by my less than warm acceptance of his presence.
“Liar,” he accuses.
“Only partially.”
He belts out a laugh now as I set my e-reader down and slide my half-full wineglass to the waitress when she returns seconds later with the two double whiskeys.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything else I can get you? Anything at all?”
“Nah. We’re grand,” he tells her, and she audibly simpers before skulking away. “Sláinte. It’s how you say cheers in Gaelic.”
“Sláinte.” I lift my class, taking a small sip as he drinks half of his down. “You speak Gaelic?”
“No. Not really. A few words here and there. It’s just what my mam always said. Are ye ready for yer secret?”
“Depends.” I shift on my stool as I play with the glass in my hands. I’m not a big drinker unless I’m at home with my family, who turns it into a sporting event, but it’s been several months.
“On?” he presses.
“I still haven’t gotten your name.”
A small, bemused chuckle. “Ye don’t know it?”
My head bops the other way, my eyebrows narrowing in. “Should I?”
I study him closer, but I’m coming up at a loss. Even as that diabolical smirk turns into a full-on smile, complete with pearly white teeth and twin dimples. He’s almost too gorgeous to be real. It’s nearly painful. A man who looks like him likely is someone.
“I assumed yer recognizing me was the reason for all yer blushing.”
I shake my head, debating between actor and musician. Could be an athlete, but I doubt it since I follow American sports reasonably close given my profession. Possibly be an international soccer player or something, but the waitress seemed to know who he was, so I’m crossing that off my list.
“Are you famous?”
“Suppose it depends on who ye ask and since you don’t know who I am, I’m going to say no. I’m Cian O’Connor.” He reaches his hand out for me to shake.
“Vivian Scott.”
I go to shake his hand but the moment our fingers graze and our palms press a sharp burst of static electricity shocks us.
Only it doesn’t hurt the way it typically would.
This feels warm and tingly like the whiskey in my belly.
He feels it too, his oh-so-blue eyes darkening ever so slightly, his grip slipping up to my pulse point, and I inadvertently shiver before I release him.
Sliding my hand under the table, I shake it out, trying to clear the tingling that now feels more like a thumping.
“Must be all the static in the air,” he muses, almost to himself as the words are low and a bit incredulous.
“Must be,” I agree, crossing my legs at the knee and straightening up in my seat. “Alright, Cian. What’s this secret you’re so anxious to share?” I take another sip of my whiskey, his eyes on my lips as I do.
“It was either I sit with you or the angry bloke muttering to himself over there.” He juts his chin over my shoulder, and I turn to look.
The man he’s referring to is sitting alone at a table like mine and yes, he’s fuming as he gripes, staring at his ticket like he wants to ball it up in his fist and throw it away.
I turn back to Cian. “He’s not alone. Half the airport is murderous at the moment. All of our flights are either canceled, overbooked, or delayed. Mine is the latter.”
“Aye. I was supposed to fly home to Boston, but high winds and icy rain canceled my flight. Best I can do is a flight to Hartford and drive home.”
My chest flutters. “That’s where I’m flying to.” I glance around when I feel that stupid blush start to creep back up my face. “If they don’t decide to cancel it, that is.”
“Both of us on the same flight? What a fortuitous coincidence. Maybe I’ll even get lucky and you’ll be sitting beside me.”
I flip back over to him accusingly. “You’re a bit of a flirt.”
“Only with women I’m desperate to impress. Is it working?”
“Not really. I don’t tend to be easily impressed by flirts.” Especially the cocky, gorgeous ones who are nothing but trouble. They’re my book kryptonite and my real-world fear. Then again, playing it safe with the supposed “good guy” never got me anywhere.
He taps his lip in mock contemplation. “Hmmm. What if I offer ye up a desired piece of information? Would that impress ye?”
“Possibly,” I retort with a playful grin he instantly matches.
Leaning in against the small table, he encroaches on my personal space, and I catch a hint of his cologne. It’s spicy and a bit dangerous. Like fire and leather. “Best I can tell we’ll take off in about an hour. That’s what the attendant at the desk told me.”
Finishing off my drink, I hand it to the waitress just as a new round is delivered. “And you think she told you the truth or was she just trying to get you to smile at her the way every woman in here is?”
He winks at me. “We’ll see, won’t we? I’m hoping it’s the truth. I’d rather not spend the night in the airport. Unless you agree to do the same with me.”
I cover my mouth with my hand, attempting to hide my smile. “That was awful.”
He laughs, running a hand through his hair in an almost self-conscious way. “Yer beauty is throwing me off. I’m normally much better at this. You make me nervous, believe it or not.” He says that last part almost as if it’s an afterthought. A truth, he’s remiss to admit.
I peer down at the new drink because even though that sounds like another line, the honesty in his eyes makes my pulse race.
“How about we play a game?”
“A game?” I parrot, eyebrows raised, intrigued.
“A truth for a truth. If we don’t answer the other’s question, we have to drink.”
“If you start asking me my favorite sexual positions or the kinds of kink I’m into, forget drinking, I’ll toss my drink in your face.”
His hands fly up though there is no hiding his smirk. “Noted. Nothing too sexual. Got it.”
I ignore the too in that statement. “I should eat something if I’m going to be drinking like this. I was holding out for dinner on the flight, but I think that’s ridiculous now. It’s already after eight.”
“Let me help ye with that.” He holds his hand up in the air, signaling our waitress, who once again comes flying over.
“Yes, Mr. O’Connor. Can I get you something?”
My eyebrows hit my hairline. I have to Google him. He’s obviously someone.
“What would ye like?” he asks without removing his eyes from mine.
“Grilled cheese and fries, please.”
“That sounds good, but now that ye ordered that, I have to get something different. Em, chicken fingers and sweet potato fries, please,” he tells the waitress, still smiling at me.
“Okay,” I say the moment she leaves. “You have to tell me. Who are you?”
He shakes his head, sipping at his drink. “No way, darlin’. Ye don’t know and I like that about you. Makes you genuine. Yer the first girl I’ve been able to chat up without knowing if yer talking to me because you like me or ye like what I am.”
“Who said I like you?”
He laughs. “Educated guess. Ye haven’t gone back to yer book yet nor have ye asked me to leave.”
Touché. “How come you won’t order the same thing I ordered if you thought it sounded good?”
“Weird tick. I never order the same thing someone else orders and I never order the same thing twice in a restaurant.”
Huh. Interesting.
“Now my turn. Tell me what you do for work.”
“You won’t tell me yours,” I counter.
“But yer far more interesting than I am. Come on, Vivie Girl. We’ve got some time to kill. Play the game with me. I bet I can get ye to reveal all your secrets.”