15
B riggs is going to kill Eoin O’Connor. Every ounce of his body wants to charge the field and destroy him. Ten years of pent-up anger pushes on Briggs’s chest. He could do it, too. Eoin may appear strong, but he’s a coward who only ever gets the upper hand with cheap shots. One on one, undistracted, Briggs could finish him.
Eoin is the only person on the planet who infuriates Briggs to the level of physical violence. Adrenaline swirls uncontrolled through his body. His heart pounds. For months, Eoin has hidden out in town like the snake he is, cunningly planning his attack. How did Briggs not see this coming? Of course, Eoin would use a stage like the game to assert his influence. That’s always been his way. He places himself in a position where he appears blameless. To everyone watching, he’s just trying to win for the Dohertys, but he is burrowing under Briggs’s skin, hoping he’ll take the bait. Then when it’s over, and Eoin is bloodied and bruised, he’ll say he was just playing the game and that Briggs’s lack of control, his temper, his violence, instigated the fight.
“You need to calm down,” Isla whispers. “It’s not good for you to get riled up.”
But Briggs can’t. He should have warned Maeve about Eoin. Who cares if she hated him for it. At least he would have tried. But it’s Aoife’s story to tell— her secret. Hell, Briggs should have taken care of Eoin ten years ago, when Aoife first showed up on his doorstep, panicked and abandoned. Briggs had played into Eoin’s hands back then, too.
And now here he is again, on a grand stage, hoping Briggs will take the fucking bait.
But right when Briggs’s anger is ready to erupt, Maeve runs off the field, and instead of charging Eoin, Briggs takes off after her, worried she’ll disappear. His heart hiccups at the unreasonable thought. This is a goddamn island. He’d search every nook and gully until he found her. But he runs as hard as he can after her, ignoring his doctor’s orders, unwilling to let one more minute pass without telling her what a goddamn idiot he is.
Maeve races around the vendor tents and toward the stage where the postgame band and DJ will play tonight, when Inishglass will turn into a raging party, welcoming the summer season well into the early morning. With the noise of the crowd diminishing, Briggs yells after her, but that only causes her to speed up, which makes him work even harder.
“Fecking hell, Maeve! Would you slow down! I’m not supposed to run!”
Maeve stops. They’re behind the stage now, out of view of everything and everyone. The only noise is their breathing. “Why can’t you run?” she asks, confusion in her eyes. “Is that why you’re not playing?”
Briggs bends over, catching his breath, hand to his pounding heart, willing it to keep working. His vision splotches with spots, his head feels light. “Doctor’s orders,” he pants.
“Doctor’s orders? What does that mean? What’s wrong?”
Briggs shakes his head. This isn’t how he wanted to tell her. If he had it his way, he wouldn’t admit to his heart condition at all. He’d have the surgery without her knowing. He doesn’t want her to worry about him. He never wants to be the cause of concern, but he can’t lie to her. He promised honesty, and that’s what she’ll get.
“Harsh reality, Maeve. I have a broken heart.”
She steps closer to him and reaches her hand out, then pulls it back. “What do you mean, a broken heart?”
“Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. That’s the technical term for it.” He gives her space, though it’s the opposite of what he wants. “The condition is hereditary.”
Maeve’s hand comes to her mouth. “Your dad ...”
Briggs nods. “I found out right before you showed up. Shit timing, really. Though a part of me has always known, I think.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she begs. Then she casts her eyes downward. “I take that back. You don’t owe me an explanation.”
“I think I do.” But when he tries to approach her, Maeve backs away.
“No. You don’t.”
“What’s going on?” Briggs asks.
Maeve looks up at him, resolve on her face. “If you changed your mind, it’s OK, but you could have just told me.”
Briggs sputters, thrown off guard. “What the hell are you talking about? Changed my mind?”
“Your Instagram post was pretty damn clear. I got the message.”
“What message?”
“The redhead, Briggs.”
Briggs is confused. Redhead? And then it hits him. Isla.
“You basically advertised yourself with another woman,” Maeve adds.
Briggs chuckles to himself. He’s going to kill Hugh. He points at Maeve and says, “Well, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“I leave you for a week and you kiss Eoin Fecking O’Connor!”
Maeve gasps. “I didn’t kiss him! He kissed me! Without my permission! And I totally pushed him away.”
“Tomato, tomahto, Maeve.” He crosses his arms.
She groans and gets in his face. “Well, you stole my hashtag!”
“You don’t own the hashtag!” Briggs says. “I can use whatever the hell I want!”
“How typical,” Maeve snaps. “Taking what you want. Which apparently is a redhead with really good taste in shoes!”
Briggs groans. “That redhead is my baby sister!”
Maeve steps back, shocked. “What?” She gulps.
“Isla’s working at the pub this summer. I brought her back with me.”
Maeve’s eyes grow wide. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried, but Eoin Fecking O’Connor got in the bloody way.” Briggs rubs his bruised cheek. Maeve focuses on the ground, her snark turning to sheepishness. “Why don’t you trust me, Maeve?”
“Because ...” She shakes her head. “You said you needed space to think. A lot can happen with ... space and ... thinking. What felt like a good idea one day can become a mistake the next.”
Briggs runs a hand over his face. “Damn it. Maeve, look at me.”
“I can’t. Just say what you came to say, so we can get back to the game.”
“Fine.” Briggs groans. “You’re right. I made a very bad mistake. One I greatly regret. I should have acted differently.”
“That’s all you had to say. Let’s get back to the game now.”
But when she turns, Briggs grabs her arm and yanks her to him. She gasps as he holds her so close, consumed by her sweet smell.
“The mistake I made was thinking I could ignore my feelings for you,” Briggs confesses. “The mistake I made was thinking my life would be better without you. The mistake I made was not telling you sooner, and wasting all this bloody time fighting when we could be fucking! And for the record, the only thing that’s changed since I left is how badly I want you!”
“You do?”
Briggs groans and drops his forehead to Maeve’s. “Infuriatingly so.” He runs his hands down the length of her body, aching for her, reveling in the closeness. “We started all wrong that first night. I should have told you the truth about me, but I thought if you knew who I was, you’d kick me out of the pub, and I’d lose the one chance I had to meet you without the baggage of my last name. It was a mistake, but I promise, from this moment forward, I will never intentionally hurt you, Maeve Kaminski. Trust me. Can you do that? Can we start again, right now?”
Her eyes penetrate deep into his, holding his gaze. She nods, and overwhelming relief rolls through him. She sinks into his body, through his tough exterior, rooting herself into the deepest part of him. And Briggs knows, no matter what happens, she will be a part of him forever.
Maeve links her arms around his neck and pulls him close. “We don’t have to stop fighting, right? I kind of like that part.”
He chuckles. “Hell no. You’re gorgeous when you’re angry.”
Maeve blushes. “So ... how should we mark this new beginning?”
“Well, I had a lot of time to think this past week, and I came up with a few ideas.”
“I hope you wrote them down.”
“Oh, believe me. I could never forget these. They were very vivid in my mind.”
“Really?” Maeve’s hand trails down his chest, plays with the waistband of his joggers.
Briggs closes his eyes, attempting to control himself. “We have a game to play, Maeve.”
“Game? What game?”
“You’re trying to distract me so I lose focus, but it won’t work.”
“I would never do that.” Her hand brushes the bulge between his legs, ever so lightly, coaxing a moan out of him.
Briggs’s head falls to her shoulder, his jaw clenched in restraint. “The Moorings hasn’t won since I took over five years ago. I’m not giving up the title that easily.”
Maeve leans into him, pressing her hips where her hand was, and whispers, “I don’t want you to give it up. I want a dirty, sweaty fight ’til the end. And then I’m gonna tear it out of your hands fair and square.”
“God, you turn me on when you talk like that.” Briggs’s mind could not be farther from kickball. It’s been weeks since he touched another body, and his hands tingle with need. “Don’t get your hopes up, Maeve. We’re up five runs. It would take a miracle.”
She brings her mouth to his ear, and her breath warms his skin. “I’ve come back from worse.”
Briggs can’t stand it anymore. He grabs her ass, pulling her hips to his, wishing he could wrap her legs around his waist and drive himself so deep into her that she moans for the whole crowd to hear.
And then, in the distance, a whistle blows, signaling the end of the time-out.
Maeve peels herself away. “See you on the pitch, Murphy.” She saunters back toward the field, all confidence. “I’m looking forward to kicking your ass.”
Briggs breathes heavily, pulsing with a carnal desire like he’s never felt. His head falls to his chest. “We’re fucked.”
Watching Maeve celebrate her win was almost as satisfying as watching Eoin’s face when she sidelined him for the rest of the game. True to her word, the Moorings came back to kick the Thatch’s ass in the final inning, Maeve herself clinching the victory with a grand-slam home-run kick. Fans rushed the field, and Maeve was hoisted on the shoulders of her teammates—all but Eoin, who disappeared immediately after the game. Briggs made a proper show of utter disappointment, but inside, as she ran the bases, arms raised in victory, face brighter than he’d ever seen, he actually thought that he could love this woman. One day. The idea was altogether terrifying and yet, for the first time in his life, a real possibility.
The sun has almost set now, and the sky is dusty rose and orange. Briggs has settled into one of the picnic benches on the outskirts of the main stage area, nursing a beer while keeping one eye on Maeve. Aoife finds him tucked away from the festivities, a glass of wine in her hand and a half-cocked smile on her face.
“Hiding from the shame of your loss?” she asks as she sits down.
“Aye, tragic.”
Over her cropped Thatch T-shirt, she now wears a black Mettā Café hoodie, the evening having grown chilly. “If you’re supposed to look pissed, you’re doing a shite job of it. You’ve been giving her the glad eye all night.”
“Maybe I’m plotting my revenge.”
“More like plotting your marriage.”
“Piss off.” Briggs takes a sip of his beer. Aoife clocks his intake. “Don’t worry,” he assures her. “The doc said I could have limited alcohol. This is the only one I plan to have. It’ll look odd if I don’t.”
Aoife smiles. “So you’re doing the surgery?”
Briggs nods. “You know, this is all your fault. A month ago, my feelings were contained. Now, they’re fecking everywhere.”
Briggs realizes he can feel his craving for Maeve even in his fingertips. It’s as if he kept his life contained to a box, and she has opened the lid, but the feelings didn’t come out in solid pieces he could put back if he needed to. Maeve has turned him into vapor, expanding him beyond what he ever imagined.
“That’s what love is, eejit,” Aoife says.
Briggs considers her use of the word “love.” He won’t refute it, though Aoife’s saying it doesn’t make him any more comfortable with it. Seeing his unease, she lays a hand on his.
“People have the wrong idea about love,” she says. “They think it makes you a sappy pushover, but it’s the opposite. Love gives you a backbone. Why do you think I named my café after it?”
“That’s what mettā means? I thought you made the word up.”
She punches him in the shoulder. “I’ve had to listen to you and Hugh talk about food, sex, and sport for years, and now we finally get to talk about our feelings. You owe me, Briggs Murphy.”
She has a point, but Briggs can’t talk about Maeve yet, not when it’s all so fresh, so he offers something else to appease his friend. “I’m sad Hugh is leaving.”
“Sad.” Aoife nods. “That’s an emotion. I’ll take it.”
“I got kind of used to his odor in the house.”
Aoife chuckles. “Maybe it’s time to sell the place?” That gets his attention. “Be honest. You don’t like living there.”
Briggs has never actually said as much to Aoife, but she’s right. He has never felt comfortable in his parents’ house. Joe and Peggy’s dreams were built and lost there. Briggs only moved in because getting rid of the place felt wrong. But he’s much more at home in his art studio.
Hugh and Isla emerge from the vendor tents, their faces painted. Sparkly purple butterfly wings bloom around Hugh’s eyes, and Isla looks like a fairy princess, with sparkles around her cheeks and a silver and baby-blue crown across her forehead. She carries a stuffed bear nearly her own size.
“Check out what we won!” she yells at Briggs.
“How many times did it take you, Tinker Bell?” Briggs asks Hugh with a knowing look.
“Fuck off.” And then sheepishly, Hugh admits, “Thirty-seven times. And these are butterfly wings. Tinker Bell is a fairy, dummy.”
“Your Disney knowledge astounds me.”
“You know what else is astounding? We might not be losers after all.” Hugh pulls up the Thatch’s Instagram page. In one day, it’s acquired five hundred new followers. Hugh pulls Briggs up from his seat. “Now come on. I saw a photo booth with our names on it.”
Briggs sits back down. “No.”
“But it’s my last grudge match, Furphy! We need to document the moment.”
“Your stay on the island has been well documented by the smell you’re leaving in my house.”
“Don’t forget the stained sheets,” Hugh adds.
“I might burn the place to the ground after you leave.”
“Not a bad idea.” Hugh shrugs. “Easier than cleaning. Now get up and let’s take some wacky pictures.”
Briggs shows Hugh his phone. “We walk around with cameras all the time. Who needs a photo booth?”
This time Isla pulls her brother up. “You can’t say no.”
Briggs groans and looks to Aoife for support, but she’s on her feet and finishing her glass of wine. “Fine. But no tarot card readings.”
“We’ll see ...” Isla links her arm through his.
“Where’d you get that wine, by the way?” Briggs asks Aoife as they walk toward the bustling tents.
She tosses him a casual glance. “I broke into your pub and poured myself a glass.”
An hour later, after visiting nearly every vendor and playing nearly every game, along with multiple sessions in the photo booth, Briggs stands outside the tarot card tent, a Batman mask painted on his face. His phone chimes.
You never told me your ideas .
He stares down at Maeve’s text like an infatuated teenager who’s been desperately waiting all night for this.
He chuckles. Let’s just say they all included Ireland’s Most Wanted Potato.
She sends back a laughing emoji. I’m calling in my rain check for you eating my clothes off.
I was hoping you might.
Name the time and place and I’ll be there, fully dressed.
Briggs sends the address and tells her to meet him in an hour. Don’t be late, and prepare to stay all night. This might take a while.
He shoves the phone into his pocket and peeks inside the tent, where Isla, Aoife, and Hugh are huddled around the tarot reader, enthralled. He sends a text to Isla and Hugh that he’s spending the night at the art studio. He has no interest in knowing his future. He made the mistake of believing he was destined for a certain life before, and he won’t do that again.
Exactly an hour later, as Briggs waits in the studio, nervously fixing the pillows on the couch, the mugs on the counter, then cursing himself for being ridiculous, there’s a knock at the door.
Maeve stands outside, bottom lip nestled between her teeth. Seeing her eases the annoying pressure in Briggs’s chest. She wears a cropped white long-sleeved shirt that shows a sliver of her stomach, and a pair of jeans that hugs her hips perfectly. How he went the past few hours without touching her is suddenly unfathomable, but Briggs contains himself, inhaling deeply.
He takes a minute just to look at her, like he would a piece of art, examining the details. What drew him to Van Gogh was the artist’s use of color in his self-portraits, infusing greens, pinks, blues, and yellow in small strokes that are artistically vibrant and yet wholly human. To Briggs, Van Gogh not only managed to paint a human face accurately, but he captured the experience of being human, the flashes of light among the darkness.
Maeve is one such light. Briggs saw it radiating from her that first night, and only now does he realize just how dark he had become.
“Well, this is unexpected,” Maeve says. “I thought you invited me over for sex. You should have told me we were fighting crime. I’d have brought my Lasso of Truth.” Briggs is confused until she adds, “Is the Batmobile parked out back?”
“Shite.” Briggs touches his face, remembering the painted mask.
She chuckles and breezes past him into the studio. The wood-burning stove warms the room. A fresh canvas hangs on the collage wall. Maeve glances back at Briggs with an awed expression. “You’re an artist?”
“I don’t know if I would call myself that. I like to paint.”
“But you have an art studio.”
“Aye, I do.”
“And those look like paintings.” She walks over and thumbs through the finished canvases. Briggs’s stomach constricts, worried she’ll think they’re all shit. “And these are a lot of art supplies.” She admires the bins of paints, brushes, scissors, stacks of art magazines, and Briggs’s collection of coffee table books on Matisse and Van Gogh and Klimt. Maeve faces him, hands on her hips. “Harsh reality, Briggs Murphy. You’re an artist.”
The word has never come out of Briggs’s mouth easily. In the past, impostor syndrome would have prompted him to downplay his abilities.
“I need to hear you say it,” Maeve demands cheekily.
“I’m an artist, Maeve,” he says, feeling the truth of it for the first time.
She moves to the collage wall, examining the artwork, taking her time, like each is a puzzle piece in the mystery of who he is. She kneels low, where his family picture is mounted.
“The redhead ...” She points at a young Isla and smiles, sheepishly. Then Maeve’s attention moves to Joe. “I wish I could see his full face,” she says, “and yet I love that I can’t because he’s kissing your mom.”
“That’s why I love it, too.”
Maeve stands. “Thank you for showing me this.”
Briggs knows she means more than just the picture. Letting her into the studio feels as intimate as letting her walk through his mind. He stands next to her. “I was hoping you could help me with something. I need to add a piece to my collage.”
A spark of panic hits Maeve, evident in her eyes, and the confidence she had moments ago vanishes. “But I’m not an artist.”
“You don’t need to be an artist to help me.”
She steps back, wringing her hands. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No,” she says in a pinched voice. “You don’t understand. I physically can’t.” She gestures to the canvas. “That right there terrifies me.”
“It’s a canvas, Maeve. It doesn’t bite.”
“A blank canvas. I need lines to fill. I can handle an empty bookshelf because I know what to put on it. Same with a closet. An empty datebook is full of detailed potential. So many squares and lines. Even an empty room has boundaries. But that—” She points at the off-white rectangle.
He cocks an eyebrow at her. “I thought you might say that.”
“Is this when you tell me to just try?”
Briggs lifts her chin. “No.”
“I know ... I have problems.”
He holds both sides of her face. “Problems to some are talents to others.”
“Are you disappointed?”
“Disappointed?” I’m fecking infatuated with you, he thinks. “I’m the furthest from disappointed. But do you trust me?”
“Yes,” Maeve says without hesitation.
“OK. Pick a color.” He gestures to the bins of paint.
“Any color?”
“Pick one that speaks to you.”
That doesn’t seem to sit well with her, but Maeve agrees and begins to rummage around the bins. Eventually, she settles on a light violet and hands it to Briggs. He’s not sure how many bottles of that color he’s bought, but it’s his most frequently used hue. There isn’t a painting he’s done that hasn’t included it. He tries not to read into this, but it’s impossible not to consider the coincidence of her picking his favorite.
“Let me see your hand,” he says. He turns her palm face up and traces the lines and fingerprints that mark her skin as all her own. “This might be a little cold. Just hold still.” He then puts a dollop of light violet in the center of her palm. Then with a brush, he slowly spreads the paint from the center outward until it covers her hand. Maeve watches, biting her lower lip. Just wait, Briggs thinks. This is only the beginning.
He walks her over to the collage, and they stand admiring it. Briggs has long felt like a piece was missing, but he could never figure out what. He places her palm right above the photo of his family and holds it there, letting the paint etch her uniqueness on the collage.
“I have a question for you,” he says.
Maeve grins as he pulls her hand away. She glances down at the mess of paint on her fingers and palm.
“Will you be my girlfriend, Maeve Kaminski?”
She laughs at the innocence of the question and throws her arms around his neck. “How could I turn down Ireland’s second most wanted potato?”
“I’d wait on that declaration. You haven’t tasted both yet.”
Maeve releases herself. “My turn.” She goes to the sink, washes her hand, and returns with a damp washcloth. She stands on the couch, eye level with Briggs. “You make the mess. I clean it up.” She runs the warm cloth over his cheekbones and eyebrows, leisurely yet meticulously wiping the Batman mask from his skin. “I’ve cleaned a lot of things ...” She tilts her head, focused but gentle. “But I think you’re my favorite.”
The warmth of the cloth and Maeve’s sweet voice are so calming that Briggs closes his eyes, soaking in her touch. Her fingers graze his face, making sure every last speck of paint is cleared away.
She leans into his ear and whispers softly, “All clean.” Then she runs her tongue along his earlobe.
A fragment of Briggs’s resolve crumbles away, and he moans her name. Maeve’s mouth moves down his neck, her tongue licking his skin, tasting him like he was a sip of coffee in the morning, slow and indulgent.
“Maeve, I need to apologize to you.”
She pulls back slightly. “For what?”
“Because I promised you a bed. Will a couch do?”
She laughs. “You could have fucked me up against that car and I would have been fine with it.”
He nudges her back onto the couch, and she lands with a giggle. Then he bends down and takes the bottom of her shirt in his mouth, nipping at her belly and making her laugh more. He slowly pulls her shirt from her body, taking his time, soaking in the sight of her breasts. He nibbles at her bra, teasing her nipples. As desperate as he is to disrobe and devour her, Briggs restrains himself. He kneels between her legs, his mouth coming to her stomach as she lies back, watching him crawl up her belly, his tongue making a trail to her breast. He reaches behind her and unclasps her bra, tossing it to the side, then takes one breast in his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue until she moans. Then he moves to the other one, teasing it as she arches her back, her hips pressing up into him.
“Not yet, Maeve,” he says as he reaches for the button of her jeans. “I’m still working my way through these clothes.” He slides them off, adding them to the pile. Black lace panties greet him, and he nips at the fabric.
Maeve squirms with delight. She lifts her hips, inviting more, pressing herself into his touch. Briggs slides a finger inside her, prompting a low pant of approval, and by God, it’s everything he’s wanted and more. He circles her, enjoying the rise he induces, the heat in her cheeks and between her legs, bringing her closer and closer to climax.
Then he delicately shimmies the panties over her ass and down her legs. Maeve is completely exposed, vulnerable before him, legs wide, nipples tight, her pale skin practically glowing in the dim studio light.
“Now don’t move, Maeve.”
Briggs begins at her toes, his tongue unhurriedly licking its way up her calf, knee, inner thigh. As he gets closer to the sensitive area between her legs, her breath gets faster. When his tongue lightly touches her, she melts back into the couch with a deep moan, giving herself over. He’s never tasted anything better as he swirls the apex of her being, coaxes more heat, egging her on to come.
Maeve pants and grips the couch. “Briggs, I want you.”
“You have me,” he reminds her.
“No. I want you inside of me. Now.” She looks at him like she might break, a craving in her gaze that makes his whole body throb. She reaches down and strokes him, a deep growl rumbling from the back of his throat.
“Do we need protection?” he asks. “I was just tested at the doctor, and everything came back grand.”
“Same. And I have an IUD.”
He’s never undressed so fast. And when she guides him between her legs, they both gasp. He thrusts himself into her, the ache he felt now calming to warmth.
“More,” she says, grabbing his hips and pulling him deeper into her, another gasp escaping her lips.
“This is what I thought about, Maeve. Every goddamn second of every goddamn day.” He watches her pleasure rise with every drive of his hips, his muscles tensing as he goes deeper and deeper.
Maeve grabs his shoulders, her eyes squeezed closed, and begs him not to stop. As if he could. As if, from this moment forward, he could ever stop consuming her, tasting her, loving her. Briggs has never felt this with another human being, and now that he has it, he can’t let it go.
“I want all of you,” he pants, his body on the edge of release. “Every last broken piece.”
Maeve’s fingernails dig into his skin as she gasps, balanced on the same edge as Briggs. He drives himself into her one last time and they both let go at last, their mutual ecstasy releasing in simultaneous cries.
As they lie on the couch after, naked and wrapped in each other’s arms, Maeve rests her head on Briggs’s beating heart. With her here, he’s not so afraid of it. How could he have considered not doing surgery? How could he have played with fire for so many years? No more. He’s fixing his broken heart. He has to. He has too much to live for.
“You win,” Maeve says with a tired smile. “Your potato is better. But don’t you dare tell anyone I said that.”