Chapter 19
NINETEEN
CHARLES
Snow had been falling steadily since we returned from Lake Placid, and by the time we finished dinner, at least six inches had accumulated outside.
I watched through the kitchen window as fat flakes continued to drift down in the golden circle of light cast by the porch lamp, completely obscuring the tire tracks from our BMW.
“Looks like we’re officially snowed in,” I said, oddly comforted by the thought.
Eamon glanced up from where he was loading the dishwasher with our dinner plates. “Good. Means no one else will be coming up that mountain road tonight. Or tomorrow, most likely.”
The relief in his voice matched my own feelings.
For the first time since this whole nightmare began, I felt truly safe.
Carlo might be persistent, but he wasn’t stupid enough to attempt these winding mountain roads in a blizzard.
We were completely cut off from the world, protected by nature itself.
“I should probably bring in more firewood before it gets too deep,” Eamon said, already reaching for his jacket.
“I’ll help—”
“No need. You relax. I’ve got this.”
I settled in the living room with a glass of the wine I’d picked up in town—a nice red that had cost more than I usually spent but felt appropriate for our isolated evening.
Through the window, I could see Eamon moving efficiently between the woodshed and the cabin, his arms full of split logs.
Even in the swirling snow, he moved with purpose and confidence, like someone who’d done this exact task countless times before.
When he came back inside, stamping snow off his boots and shaking flakes from his dark hair, his cheeks were flushed with cold and exertion. He looked younger somehow, more carefree than I’d seen him since we’d met.
“That should keep us warm for days,” he said, hanging his jacket by the door. “Though I suspect this storm will blow over by tomorrow afternoon.”
“You sound pretty confident about that.”
He shrugged, accepting the glass of wine I offered him. “You learn to read weather patterns when you spend time in nature.”
Another piece of information that didn’t quite fit with his supposed background as a city detective. I filed it away with all the other small inconsistencies I’d been collecting, but I found I cared less about the contradictions than I probably should.
We settled on the couch together, closer than strictly necessary, watching the flames dance in the fireplace. The wine was making me bold, or maybe it was the intimacy of our situation—cut off from the world, safe in our own little bubble with nothing but the sound of wind and crackling logs.
“Can I ask you something?” I said, turning to face him more fully.
“Sure. Can’t guarantee I know the answer though.”
“Why are so many Irish songs sad?” The question had been on my mind since our conversation about his love of dancing, his mother teaching him in their kitchen.
“I mean, I know some of the history—the famine, emigration, all of that—but the music seems to carry such deep grief. Like it’s baked into the very soul of it. ”
Eamon was quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried a weight I’d never heard before.
“Because we learned that sorrow shared is sorrow halved. When everything else was taken from us—our land, our language, our people—music was how we kept our memories alive. How we honored what we’d lost.”
The way he said “we” made something tighten in my chest. Not “they learned” or “the Irish learned,” but “we learned.” Like he’d been there himself, lived through it personally.
“The songs aren’t just sad,” he continued, his accent growing thicker with emotion.
“They’re about survival. About carrying love across oceans when families were torn apart.
About remembering home when you could never return to it.
” He took a sip of wine, his eyes distant.
“We called them coffin ships, the boats that took people away. Because so many who left never made it to the other side, and those who did… Well, they might as well have been dead to the families they left behind.”
I watched his profile in the firelight, noting the pain that flickered across his features.
He wasn’t talking about history he’d read in books or learned from family stories passed down through generations.
He was talking about something that felt immediate, personal, real.
Who was this man? None of it made sense.
“The music became our way of saying, ‘We were here. We loved. We lost. We endured.’ Every melody carried someone’s story forward, made sure they wouldn’t be forgotten.”
“That’s beautiful. And heartbreaking.”
“Aye. Beauty and heartbreak often walk hand-in-hand.”
There it was again—that slip into a more pronounced Irish accent, like his careful American pronunciation was a mask that fell away when his emotions ran high.
Combined with the way he talked about Irish history like lived experience, it painted a picture that didn’t make sense with what I knew about him.
But as I looked into his green eyes, saw the genuine emotion there, the vulnerability he was sharing with me, I realized something.
I didn’t care what secrets he was keeping.
The man sitting beside me, the one who held me at night and made me feel safe and cherished—that man was real.
Whatever else he might be hiding, his feelings for me felt genuine.
And my feelings for him were growing stronger every day, despite all the unanswered questions. “Would you sing one?” I asked impulsively. “One of those songs?”
Eamon’s eyes widened in surprise. “You want me to sing for you?”
“Only if you want to. After hearing you talk about it like that, I’d love to experience it the way it was meant to be experienced. Not from a recording, but from someone who understands what it means.”
He was quiet for so long that I thought he might refuse. Then he set down his wine glass and turned to face me fully. “There’s a song that always reminds me of my ma…”
“I’d love to hear it.”
Eamon’s voice, when he began to sing, was nothing like what I’d expected. Rich and haunting, with perfect pitch and a quality that seemed to reach directly into my chest and squeeze my heart.
An Irish boy was leaving, leaving his native home,
Crossing the broad Atlantic, where once more he wished to roam,
And as he was leaving his mother, while standing on the quay,
She threw her arms around his neck and these were the words she said:
A mother’s love is a blessing, no matter where you roam.
Keep her while she’s living, you’ll miss her when she’s gone.
Love her as in childhood, though feeble, old and grey,
For you’ll never miss a mother’s love ’til she’s buried beneath the clay.
And as the years grow onward, I’ll settle down in life,
And I’ll find a nice young Irish girl, and take her for my wife.
And as the kids grow older, and climb about my knee
I’ll teach them the very same lesson that my mother taught to me:
A mother’s love is a blessing, no matter where you roam.
Keep her while she’s living, you’ll miss her when she’s gone.
Love her as in childhood, though feeble, old and grey,
For you’ll never miss a mother’s love ’til she’s buried beneath the clay.
The melody was simple but devastating, and the way Eamon sang it—with his eyes closed and his whole body invested in the emotion—made tears prick behind my eyelids.
This wasn’t performance. This was a prayer, a confession, a piece of his soul laid bare.
He was somehow singing about his own mother, even if the lyrics didn’t make sense for that timing.
But he felt that song to the very depths of his soul and it was evident in the way he sang it.
When the last note faded into silence, broken only by the crackling fire and the whisper of snow against the windows, I couldn’t speak. The beauty of it, the raw emotion in his voice, the way he’d shared something so personal and precious—it undid me completely.
“Eamon,” I whispered, reaching for him.
He opened his eyes and looked at me, and what I saw there took my breath away. Love, longing, and a kind of desperate hope that made my heart race.
I kissed him.
Eamon responded immediately, his hands coming up to frame my face as he kissed me back with equal eagerness. His lips were warm and soft and tasted like wine and something uniquely him that made me dizzy with want.
The kiss deepened, Eamon’s tongue tracing my lower lip in a silent request for access that I granted eagerly.
It triggered something inside me, something wilder, something that made heat curl low in my belly.
His hands slid into my hair, tilting my head to find the perfect angle as he explored my mouth with devastating thoroughness.
I couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t feel enough of him. I twisted on the couch until I was straddling his lap, my hands fisted in his shirt to pull him closer. Eamon groaned into the kiss, his own hands moving down my back to grip my hips, pulling me flush against him.
The evidence of his arousal was unmistakable, hard and insistent against my thigh.
I rolled my hips experimentally and was rewarded with a gasp that sounded like my name.
Emboldened, I did it again, reveling in the way his fingers flexed against my skin, the way his breathing grew ragged and uneven.
“Charles,” he rasped, breaking the kiss to trail his lips along my jaw, down the column of my throat. “We shouldn’t…”
“I don’t care anymore.”
It was the truth. I’d stopped caring about all the reasons this was a bad idea, all the warnings and risks. I wanted him and he wanted me, and for now, that was enough.
I reached for the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head in one swift motion.
Eamon’s eyes went dark with desire as they raked over my exposed chest. His hands were both rough and gentle as they traced the planes of my chest, fingers grazing over my nipples and making me shudder.
I’d never felt desire like this before—raw and urgent, an ache in my bones that only his touch could soothe.
“You’re so bloody gorgeous. I’ve wanted to touch you like this since the moment I saw you.”
I groaned, arching into his hands. “Then touch me. Please.”
He surged up to capture my mouth again, kissing me with a hunger that stole my breath.
His hands were everywhere—in my hair, skimming down my sides, gripping my hips to grind me against the hard ridge of his cock.
I fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine, to map the contours of his body with my hands and mouth.
My fingers trembled slightly as I worked them open, revealing inch after inch of smooth, tanned skin stretched over firm muscle.
When I finally pushed the fabric off his shoulders, I couldn’t help but stare.
He was magnificent. I’d seen him the previous night, of course, but now I could really take my fill.
Broad shoulders, a dusting of dark hair across his chest that trailed down to disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans.
Scars too—faded white lines that spoke of a life lived hard and dangerously.
I traced one with my fingertip, feeling the way his breath hitched at the contact.
“You can touch me,” he said, his voice rough with desire. “I want you to.”
Permission granted, I let my hands roam freely, mapping the planes and angles of his body. He was all hard edges and coiled strength, but he yielded beautifully under my touch, his eyes fluttering closed as I explored.
When my fingertips grazed his nipple, he let out a soft gasp that sent heat racing through my veins.
Emboldened, I did it again, rolling the sensitive nubs between my fingers until he was panting and arching beneath me, and then I lowered my head and flicked my tongue across one, reveling in the way his hands tightened on my hips.
I hummed against his skin, tracing slow circles with my tongue before sealing my lips around his nipple and sucking gently.
Eamon’s hips bucked beneath me, seeking friction, and I couldn’t help but rub against him in response.
The layers of denim and cotton between us were maddening—I needed to feel his skin against mine, no barriers, nothing separating us.
As if reading my mind, Eamon’s hands slid down to cup my ass, squeezing and kneading the flesh through my jeans.
I moaned into his chest, nipping lightly at his skin before soothing the sting with my tongue.
He was so incredibly responsive, every touch and taste drawing gasps and groans from deep in his throat.
It made me feel powerful, desired, like I could take him apart with my hands.
“Christ, Charles,” he growled. “You’re killing me.”
“You started it. Singing to me like that, looking at me like you want to devour me whole.”
“I do.” His voice was low and rough, his eyes nearly black with desire. “I want to taste every inch of you.”
The words sent a shiver down my spine. “Then what are you waiting for?”