Chapter 7 Jimmy McCool
JIMMY MCCOOL
ANASTASIA
Things are quiet in the car as I’m too absorbed in my own thoughts about seeing the man who is supposed to be my father. It’s been a while and even though he at least said hi, it was almost like I was invisible to him. But I’m used to it.
When Saint finally parks on the street in front of a neighborhood bar with a green neon sign out front reading Jimmy McCool’s Pub, I guess I don’t care where we are. Drinking away my misery for the night with Saint to lean on is fine by me.
“Hey.” He reaches up and swipes one last tear away from my cheek, his eyes searching mine.
The touch is so…tender and unexpected that he’d care.
This is Saint, the man who could have been with plenty of other women tonight, but I’m the one he asked to be here.
“What did that man do to you? Did he hurt you?”
“He’s been hurting me since the day I was born.”
“How so?” He asks through clenched teeth.
Before getting to know Saint’s family situation a little more tonight, I never realized how much we have in common. Only our lives are at opposite ends of the spectrum.
“My mother was a waitress at a five-star Hollywood restaurant. My father was an actor who would come in and charm the pants off of her every chance he could. When she ended up pregnant with me, he refused to acknowledge me, being married and a celebrity. It took years before he would meet me, while Mom struggled as a single mother to make ends meet.” I pause and draw in a deep breath, staring straight ahead out the window, the neon light of the pub flickering.
“I have no real relationship with him. He probably has a dozen other children like me. I wouldn’t know.
We’ve never had a serious conversation. Seeing him tonight just took me aback. ”
“I can only imagine. Some men weren’t meant to be fathers.
Others wish they could be,” he mutters so sadly, I wonder if it has anything to do with what Misty told me Big D found in Saint’s dresser drawer.
The sonogram image of a baby. I want to ask him about it, but I’ve already shared my sad story, bringing us down. Two might be too much in one night.
“I’m fine.” I brush away the last of the tears and pull down the visor to peek at the mirror, all in the name of proving, other than a quick cry from the shock of seeing him again, that I have learned to rise above the disappointment.
“While I grew up with a father not wanting to be a part of my life whatsoever, at least Esme had your father. She’s lucky. ”
He blows out hot air and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’m certain you’re making a point in there somewhere, but it’s been a helluva night, so excuse me if all I can think about is the whiskey calling to me from the pub. I need that drink.”
“Yeah. Me, too. Let’s go in. What is this place, anyway?”
“Just an Irish pub owned by one of my cousins, Jimmy. Hey, hold on,” he says as we exit the car and he removes his mask.
“Good idea.” I slip off the white gloves, and carefully take off my mask, too.
We lay them down in the back seat next to the pairs of wings.
Saint removes his suit jacket and tie, and rolls up his sleeves, tossing the cufflinks into the cup holder.
We’re still way overdressed by the looks of the pub.
“Do you mind if I borrow your jacket?” I ask. On his nod, I peel off the lacy layer of my costume above my head, leaving only my satin mini-dress. As I do, I feel the weight of Saint’s eyes travel up and down my body, sending a quiver through my thighs.
This may be a friendly outing, but the entire night, every time we touch, has sent me to the edge and back. I’m so ready to take a bath and use one of my special bath toys the minute I return home tonight.
His oversized black suit jacket covers all of me and is the perfect accompaniment to the minidress, with the sleeves rolled up of course.
And the best part is, it smells of him. My nose has been teased all night with this scent and now I’m bathing in it.
A sinful mix of spicy and sweet, pepper, nutmeg, citrus, a hint of salty air. All California cool and devilish musk.
I might nix the bath later now, only so I can hold on to a part of him a little longer before washing it all away.
We barely get inside when Saint is immediately attacked by the red-bearded man who comes out from behind the bar. “Hey, if it isn’t my cousin. Been a while, bro.”
On his green polo shirt is the name Jimmy embroidered in white, and of course, a shamrock appears there too. The two men are almost the same brawny, tall size and do a bro hug, slapping backs. For once, Saint appears relaxed, a natural smile on his lips.
“What are you doing here? And who is this pretty lady with you?” Jimmy asks.
“My date tonight. Anastasia,” Saint gestures, winking at me. My insides flutter, even if I’m only his date for one night.
“Anastasia… Nice.” Jimmy’s eyes tour my body up and down.
“Hey. Quit looking at my girl.” Saint jabs his arm.
My girl…? I suck in a breath at the way Saint just casually puts that out there. But I have to remember, I’m one of many the playboy probably has.
The two laugh and play at fighting, dancing around, talking smack, and tossing out jabs until finally Jimmy knocks him away and takes my hand as if he’s the victor. They have me giggling, at least, a marked improvement from my earlier mood in the car.
“What will the lady drink tonight?” He’s a huge flirt, I can tell. He leads me to a barstool clad in red leather. Only after he makes quite the show of taking a bar towel out of his back pocket and wiping the seat down for me do I sit down.
“Such a gentleman,” I praise.
“Oh honey, Irishmen aren’t gentlemen unless we want something.”
“Back off, Jimmy. She’s mine.” Saint growls and settles on the stool beside me.
Flutters, shivers, thrills. You name it. Saint using the word mine impacts my entire system like I’ve let my guard down and sent my entire army of guards on vacation.
“Cheap Irish whiskey for you, puck face. But, pretty Lady Anastasia, you get whatever you want. On the house.”
Saint rolls his eyes.
“How about an Old Fashioned?” I ask.
“Excellent taste, my dear. And I’ll bring a sample platter of our appetizers as well.” Jimmy knocks his knuckles on the bar top and heads for the kitchen.
“A couple pints of Guinness, too,” Saint yells after him, but his cousin flips him the bird as he disappears through the swinging doors.
“He’s so different from you,” I observe and chuckle.
“How so?”
“Funny and loud. Easy going.”
“Is that the type you usually go for?”
“No, actually. I usually go for the brooding bad boys.”
“Then you’re with the right guy tonight.” His voice drops to dangerously syrupy levels. Mixed with the scent of him, I almost lose my common sense with everything that’s happened, like I’m already drunk.
This is Saint, the playboy, which means every word of his could be an act of seduction, like a minefield I need to tiptoe through or risk being caught in his trap.
“Sure, Saint. We can drop this act now. This flirting and dating thing.”
“What act? What do you mean? I told you I don’t fake anything. I’m definitely not the actor my mother is.”
“Your mother is a talented actress. I’ve watched her for years.”
“After tonight, has your opinion of her altered?”
I hesitate. “It was eye-opening, yes.”
“I hope it didn’t traumatize you, her number one fan.” He snorts.
“I’ll live.” I scan the bar. Most tables are full and there’s a constant din of voices in the air. Irish paraphernalia of all kinds adorns almost every inch of the upper walls, the lower parts covered in dark paneling.
“At least I had a good father. I can say with one hundred percent conviction that he was the best, teaching me the ways of the world. I think if he’d have lived I may not have pursued hockey, but gotten a biz degree and followed in his footsteps. But he passed before I could do that.”
I put my hand on his forearm on the bar, the touch warming me through my core, heating quickly. “With such a good example, you’ll probably make a good one yourself. One day.”
His back stiffens, like I brought up something resembling commitment that goes against everything a playboy stands for. I drop my hand.
Jimmy pops out from the back with a tray of food. Our drinks come next. “Here we go. Try our latest on the house. Crispy smashed potatoes with Dublin cheese, Irish Cheddar Pub Cheese dip with crackers, and sausage rolls.”
“It all looks delicious. Thank you, Jimmy.” Replacing Saint’s musk, I inhale the various scents on the platter, starving. Jimmy walks off to wait on the other patrons.
Saint relaxes again. “His food is the best. Ladies first. Dig in.”
I tenderly pick at it with a fork, selecting a tiny morsel of each just to sample on my plate.
“That’s it?” Saint scowls at my plate as he fills his.
“I can barely breathe in this dress as it is,” I whisper.
“Then I’ll have Jimmy box the rest up so you can enjoy it later when you’re more comfortable,” he whispers back. Other men I’ve dated would have made comments about what I’m eating or drinking or regard my body with a snide remark about it here or there. Saint’s approach is refreshing.
“How long have you two been seeing each other?” Jimmy returns.
“Come on. Don’t start twenty questions,” Saint complains.
“What dude? I gotta keep up with you. You don’t call often enough. I have to catch your games on the radio just to hear your name and make sure you’re still alive. Look, I even keep up with your sports stats. Check it out.”
He draws our attention to a large board on the wall, where he has the logo of the Puckers, and below it, Saint’s name and number 68 along with his stats, written in chalk.
“Impressive,” Saint smiles, like he’s suddenly won a popularity contest at the bar.
I scan over his numbers of power play goals, assists, and shots on goal, among others, including the number of fighting major penalties he received per season. There’s a discrepancy I notice, and shouldn’t open my mouth, but…
“Your fighting penalties are off,” I say. I pull up the stats on my phone directly from the Puckers website. “See?”
“Damn, I must have missed that.” Jimmy erases the number with the back of his hand.
Saints lips twitch. “Someone pays attention to my career.”
“I’m a fan of hockey.”
“Really? I never took you for a puck bunny.” He winks.
“I am not a bunny.” I chortle and playfully slap his arm. “Believe it or not, women can be just as big of fans of hockey as men are. I know plenty of women like me who enjoy the sport. I am a serious fan.”
Jimmy chuckles at us as he fixes the number.
“Remind me to come to you every time I need to know my stats.” Saint brings the Guinness to his lips. He has a full pair and my nipples pebble at the thought of him dragging those across them. Playboy or bad boy aside, there’s no denying my growing attraction to him.
Suddenly, music starts in from three men on the little stage in the corner.
“These guys are good. My new house band. You’ll like them,” Jimmy nods.
“Do you ever bring the team down here?” I ask Saint.
“No. I like to keep some things in my life private.”
“Just like your rooftop sanctuary, only for you? You’re so interesting, Saint. Between the public you and the private you.” We’re talking a little louder now over the strains of the music.
“It was worse growing up. Barbara flaunted me, Esme too, like we were pieces on her chess board that she could move around and show us off at will, especially in front of paparazzi or cameras. Guess I prefer some privacy at this point in my life.”
The band launches into a fast tune similar to a polka, stirring up the crowd.
Saint jabs me with his elbow. “Time to cash in that rain check, angel. Let’s dance.”
I almost choke on my beer. “To this? I don’t think I know how.”
“It’s fun, trust me.”
He ends up simply swinging me around. Linking arms, dashing one way, then switching, linking, and swinging the other. It’s a blast and a fast dance to the finish, leaving me breathless.
Then he starts in with some fancy footwork on his own, and soon Jimmy joins him. The small crowd of us circles around the pair, clapping hands to the music.
“They’re clogging,” a mature woman explains next to me. I don’t care what it’s called, Saint’s all at once sexy but masculine stomping out the beat, and I’ve never smiled so hard in my life.
At the tail end, the cousins clasp hands like in some secret handshake, with everyone in the bar cheering for them. Why didn’t I think to record Saint dancing? Misty will never believe this when I tell her.
Then the band switches things up with a slow tune I recognize from a movie I’ve watched with Nana, one of her particular favorites.
“Oh, Danny Boy…” Jimmy breaks in with a deep voice, then yells, “Come on cuz, sing this with me for your dad, the best man I ever knew. To Daniel St. James, everyone.”
Saint sidles up to him, shocking me with a rich baritone.
The bar joins in, too. Linked arm in arm, together, the men deliver a rousing rendition of the timeless song.
I never even knew Saint could sing, smooth as whiskey.
His voice caressing every inch of me like velvet. And I’m certain his eyes are wet.
This entire night has been like an in-depth study of the man. I’m in awe. He has to be the most misunderstood playboy ever. Why doesn’t he show this side of himself to his friends?
There’s so much more to him than I thought, like he’s layers deep. Each one I peel back, another appears, surprising me with what I’ll find next. Leaving me wanting to know more.