Chapter Twenty-Two
Ciara
I would love to say that, with a bit of space and a couple of hours of sleep, I woke up without my editor on my mind. That I would not be thinking about his hands on my waist, and his eyes on my lips and everything that happened after.
Instead, after typing furiously for as long as I could, I went to bed thinking about him, and when I woke to bright, monotonous sunshine what felt like a second later, it was as though he was in the corner of my mind, waiting for me.
Maybe I have a crush.
Or maybe I just haven’t had sex in a really long time.
Whatever it is that’s altered all the chemicals in my brain, I find myself staring at my bedroom door and imagining him walking through it.
My whole body perks up at the thought, and I grow impatient as I stare at the handle, willing it to turn.
Like…now.
Except it doesn’t. Obviously. Nothing happens. The house is silent except for the usual birdsong outside, and after thirty more seconds of waiting because, you know, just in case, I fling the blanket off me, admitting defeat.
Of course, as soon as I stand up, I hear his door open.
I jump so hard that I lose my balance and whack my heel on the bedpost. Under the stream of curse words flooding from my mouth, I listen to him head to the bathroom. A second later, the shower turns on.
It does not help things.
Visions of a soaking-wet, soaped-up Sam Avery fill my mind and that’s the moment I know I need to be out of my house today.
I dress quickly, throwing on the first things I find before slipping out of the room. The shower’s still going, and I keep my gaze firmly ahead as I stride purposefully past it, down the stairs, and out the door.
A walk is good. Will clear my head.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I keep going, putting more and more distance between us until I find myself halfway to the village.
By this point I’m starting to regret my decision.
It’s still early but already getting warm, and I meet only one or two other people on the way before I get to the pub, where Ronan’s outside, accepting a delivery.
“Is that Ciara Sheridan?” he asks, squinting exaggeratedly my way. “In the daylight?”
I hold up my arm. “I think I’m burning.”
“Better get inside, then,” he says, and I don’t need to be told twice as I flee into the main room.
This pub was my happy place when I first moved back. It was the only place I could escape to when Dad was sick. Mainly because it was the only place in the village I could go to that wasn’t my house.
“How’s the boyfriend?” Ronan asks, striding in after me.
“He’s not— Fine. He’s fine.” I hop onto the stool. “Can I have a drink?”
“No.”
“Seriously?” I check the time. “Not even a mimosa?”
“Not according to the Habitual Drunkards Act of 1879. So blame that and not me.”
“I will,” I say. “I will write it a strong letter.” And I slump as he pours me a glass of orange juice.
“Use your imagination,” he says at the look on my face.
“Hmm.” I take a sip, eyeing him over the rim. “Did you get a haircut?”
“Flirting won’t get me to break the law.”
“Says the guy with an unlicensed microbrewery in his back room.”
“I am a man with hobbies,” he says, unruffled. “And that’s a thing to be praised. Maybe you should think about getting some yourself.”
“I have lots of hobbies,” I tell him. “Number one: drinking before noon.”
“You should get out. Do a class.”
I stare at him. “What class? And where?”
“In the city,” he says as if it’s obvious. “You can’t stay cooped up in that house all the time.”
“I’m sitting here now, aren’t I?”
“And what happens if I’m not around?”
“You mean if you keep drinking that whiskey?” I ask before realizing what he’s saying. “You’re not thinking of closing down, are you?”
Ronan just shrugs. “I’m getting on. And so are the costs. A good summer season isn’t enough to keep me going through the winter.”
“Yeah, but…” I shift on my stool, not knowing what else to say. This place has been the same ever since I was born. No matter how long I stayed away, Ronan was behind the bar and my dad’s picture was on the wall and the only wines available were “white” and “red.” It isn’t supposed to change.
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?” I ask, taking another sip.
“Whatever it is you’re thinking about. It will do you no good.”
“I’m thinking about how sad I’m going to be when you retire.”
At that, he snorts. “You will not. You’ll be long gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Anywhere!” he exclaims. “Back to Dublin, at least. Or London. You’re doing no good here. You’re barely around enough as it is.”
“That’s not true,” I protest. “I’m an active member of the community.”
“What community?” he scoffs. “Sure, there’s barely any of us left. School’s closed down. Church closed down. Half the houses around here are holiday lets and there aren’t even that many of those anymore.”
“What are you talking about?” I frown. “The room upstairs is booked out for the summer.”
“It is not,” he huffs. “I’ve got one backpacker down for a few days next month, but that’s about it.”
“But Mary told Sam…” Oh, for fuck’s sake. “She is…meddlesome,” I say, unable to think of another word.
Ronan nods gravely. “That she is.”
“She told Sam he had to move out.”
“Did she now?” he says, not looking surprised at all.
My mouth drops open. “You knew?”
“I don’t know anything,” he says. “Except that it sounds like he needed a push to begin with. Ten thirty,” he adds, looking at the clock, but the moment has passed.
“Just a coffee.” I sigh, and he busies himself with the machine. As he does, my phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take it out to see a text.
Did you leave?
Sam.
The little burst of giddiness I feel is alarming. He’s thinking of me!! inner teenage Ciara squeals, which is odd, because real teenage Ciara was a self-conscious introvert and would have run a mile in the other direction.
I don’t want to tell him I’m in the pub this early lest I perpetuate a national stereotype, so I tell him a half lie instead.
Decided to help Maddie at the beach.
Because I’m a good friend, and definitely not because I keep thinking about you in the shower.
Feel free to come down, I add, because I am so brave, but his reply pings barely a second later. I’ll never get over how fast that man can type.
I have meetings this afternoon.
I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed by this, but a new message appears before I have time for my soul-searching.
I’ll take a look at chapter eleven for you.
Eh?
What’s wrong with chapter eleven?
Nothing. Once I edit it.
The middle finger emoji seems appropriate here, but I’m smiling as I send it, and then I realize I am and stop because Ronan is watching me with a knowing smirk.
I spend another hour with him before Maddie swings by to pick me up.
I won’t lie; when I texted her, I mostly expected to spend the day detailing every confusing thing happening in my life while she nodded in all the right places and told me exactly what to do.
But of course the reason she agreed to let me help her was because the beach is completely rammed.
I barely have time to catch my breath, let alone chat, as the customers line up by the dozen for the next few hours.
But even with the constant activity my thoughts have a habit of returning to the man in my house. At every single moment, I’m either wondering what he’s doing or what he’s thinking or remembering how big his hands felt around my waist. How soft his lips and how hot his mouth.
It could have been awkward afterward, but it wasn’t. Even when I sat back down in the room when he left and waited for it to be.
It felt natural.
And fuck me, but it worked.
If that’s how you get over writer’s block, then that’s how you get over writer’s block. It reminds me of the time I took a creative writing class when I first moved to Dublin, and the tutor spent the whole session talking about how he spent three months in Venice doing some vital research.
Maybe Sam is my Venice.
It would explain how I wrote three thousand words last night. Most of them will probably have to be cut because reading it back it’s just a lot of touching and clothes coming off, but who am I to not give the people what they want? And according to Sam, it’s what they want.
Judging by the look on his face yesterday, it’s what he wants too.
And while that thought alone makes me want to go straight back to the house, it’s Maddie who drove me here and so it’s Maddie I’m chained to, unless I want to walk for two hours in this heat.
I’m exhausted by the time I finish, my feet aching from standing all day and my face tired from smiling.
We don’t end up closing until after five, and then I help clean up before we grab a pizza from one of the seasonal restaurants along the strip because she wants to check out the café again.
We eat our slices sitting on the curb outside and I listen patiently as she describes exactly what awning she wants.
It’s dark by the time we finally head back. Late too.
I don’t exactly expect Sam to be awake, but I’m still disappointed he’s not as I grab a glass of water and sneak up to the office.
I’m weirdly eager to get to work after a full day away from the book, and when I open my email I find that he has indeed gone over chapter eleven, and his suggestions make sense.
Enough sense that I work my way through them first, just so he won’t be smug about it in the morning, before spending another hour polishing the words I wrote last night.
Maeve wasn’t alone in the room. She sensed this instantly, something deep within her making her pause just inside the door. But it wasn’t alarm she felt. There was no danger here.
At least not the kind she feared.
His mouth on mine. His taste on my tongue.
My skin prickles as if he’s standing right here, and I swear I can feel the pulse of my blood in the places where he touched me.
Burning flashes of memory sear across my mind, mixing with my imagination as I think about what would have happened if I hadn’t stopped it.
How he would have kept going. How I’d have lifted my arms and he’d have lifted my top and he’d—
WRITE YOUR BOOK, CIARA. WRITE YOUR DAMN BOOK.
I get to my feet, annoyed with myself as I stare out the window, at the sky and the moon and the stars.
I should be channeling these feelings, not writing fan fiction for my own life.
And yet all I can think about is that it’s a beautiful moon. A beautiful night. And it’s been so, so long since I’ve shared it with someone.