Chapter 32 #2
“Come on in.” He gestured to the front room, which was a combined living, dining, and kitchen space. The floors were of mottled gray brick, covered with faded hooked rugs.
Her shoes were soaked, so she stepped out of them and placed them beside a pair of mud-spattered work boots and a pair of tennis shoes.
There was a fireplace flanked with bookshelves on the wall opposite the door, and a charcoal velvet sofa facing the fireplace.
Nearby was the dining area: a round oak pub table and a pair of mismatched ladderback chairs.
The room smelled faintly of woodsmoke and wet dog and something else—maybe lemons?
It was all impressively neat for a single man, Maeve thought.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Liam called as he opened the door to an adjacent room. “I’ll just get a towel to dry off Lucy when she finally decides to come inside.”
She wandered over to the bookshelves, encouraged that he was apparently a reader and curious to see what Liam’s literary tastes ran to.
She found the thrillers she expected—the boy books by John LeCarré, Len Deighton, Lee Child, and Frederick Forsyth, but was surprised to find them mixed in with novels by Tana French, Ruth Ware, Gillian Flynn, and Val McDermid.
But the biggest surprise was the row of older novels, many still in their faded original paper jackets, books by Ian Fleming, Agatha Christie, Alistair MacLean, and Daphne du Maurier.
Liam, she thought, was a man of wide-ranging interests.
There was a row of books on Irish history, another half row of books about World War II, and two shelves full of textbooks on chemistry, biology, agritourism, horticulture, and, of course, distilling.
A group of well-thumbed cookbooks took up half the lowest shelf.
Just then he emerged from the other room with a towel over his shoulder. He went to the door and opened it. “Lucy! Come on, girl. Let’s get a treat.”
The dog came bounding inside and ran straight to where Maeve was standing, and shook her whole body, showering her with raindrops.
“Lucy!” Liam gave the dog a stern look. He handed the towel to Maeve. “Sorry about that.”
She shrugged. “I can’t get much wetter than I already am.” She began toweling off her hair while Liam went off to fetch another towel for the damp dog, who followed along behind.
“There’s a bottle of mediocre Pinot Grigio in the fridge,” he called. “But a much better bottle of Cabernet in the cupboard by the sink. Help yourself.”
The kitchen was compact, but tidy, with a deep soapstone sink, old-fashioned cabinets painted a buttery yellow, and teak countertops. Wineglasses were arrayed on a shelf beside the sink, along with stacks of thick white pottery plates and bowls.
Maeve took down two red wineglasses and uncorked the bottle of Cabernet.
She poured out two glasses, then gazed out the kitchen window.
The rain was coming down harder now, if that was possible, slashing at the window glass.
She sipped the wine. It was, as promised, delicious, fruity and fragrant, and most importantly, the perfect antidote for the butterflies fluttering around her stomach.
An arm slid around her waist. She turned around slowly to face Liam.
He kissed her then, and for the first time since her mother’s funeral, Maeve finally felt lightness settle into her spirit. She put her arms around his neck and relaxed into him, matching his fervor with hers.
Liam nuzzled her neck. “Shall we move someplace more comfortable? Perhaps somewhere more … horizontal?”
She went still. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? The thing that had been lacking from her life for longer than she cared to admit—intimacy. A human connection.
And yet, she was suddenly paralyzed with fear and self-doubt. Liam Grogan seemed perfect on paper: kind, smart, thoughtful, and yes, sexy as all get-out. He was, as Therese would say, a thirst trap.
In other words, too good to be true.
He sensed her hesitation.
“Something wrong?”
Maeve shook her head, as though the act might shake loose her inhibitions.
He took a half step away and studied her face. “You can tell me, Maeve. I’ve never in my life forced myself on a woman.”
She felt her face grow hot with embarrassment. “I know that. I mean, I believe that. But we’ve only just met. And … to be honest, I’ve never been a casual hookup kind of girl.”
Liam had been holding her hands, but he dropped them now.
“Is that what you think this is?” He looked as though he’d been slapped in the face.
“No!” She buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
He gently pried her hands away from her face. “Don’t be sorry. Just tell me what’s wrong?”
She was near tears. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, beyond the fact that I’m a hot mess. You’re great, and I’d be lying if I said I’m not attracted to you, because I am. And I honestly can’t believe someone like you is interested in … me.”
“You can’t be serious. Maeve, I was attracted to you the minute you walked into my whiskey tasting. I broke the company rules … hell, I broke my own rules, when I asked you out. And no, I’m not just saying that because I want to get into your knickers, although, yeah, eventually I do want that…”
“Oh my God.” Maeve covered her face with her hands again. “I can’t believe you just said that out loud.”
“How about this,” he said, finishing his drink. “We’ll take it slow. And when you are ready for something more … physical, you let me know. Will you?”