Chapter 9
The last of the stragglers had gone, the staff had all left, chairs were flipped onto the tables, and the pint glasses stacked. The scent of hops and whiskey still clung to the air, but the noise was gone, replaced by a kind of loaded stillness that buzzed under Keefe’s skin.
He looked at the clock on the mantel. Now the pub was his—and hers, if she came.
He stood behind the bar, wiping down a glass he’d already cleaned three times, heart thudding like it was trying to punch through his ribs. He hadn’t waited on a woman like this since… ever.
The front door creaked open.
She stepped in like she belonged, like the night had cracked open just to let her through. A wash of pale blue twilight followed her in, glinting off her hair—rich auburn, loose around her shoulders—and gilding the edge of her sea-glass eyes.
Keefe straightened as his breath locked in his chest.
She wasn’t wearing anything revealing, a dark skirt that hung just above her knee, tall boots, and a brown leather jacket, over what he couldn’t tell, but it didn’t matter. She radiated heat. Confidence. Nerves. And a barely-hidden ache that matched his own.
“Hello,” she said softly, pausing just inside the door.
“Hello.” It came out hoarse.
He stepped around the bar slowly, like a man approaching fire fully intending to burn. She didn’t move. She didn’t look away. Her mouth parted slightly. Her breath hitched just enough for him to notice.
He stopped a foot away from her. Close enough to feel her warmth.
“You came.”
“You asked.”
He smiled, slow and warm. “Would you like a drink?”
“All right,” she smiled and looked up at him through her lashes.
Keefe pulled out a stool for her to sit on and as she sat down, he caught a smell of her hair.
Heavenly cherry blossoms and almonds. She looked over her shoulder and smiled.
He wanted to kiss her smile. Devour it. And if he didn’t put a little space between them, he would.
So he made his way to the other side of the bar.
“So, Ruby, what’s your pleasure?”
Hearing that fake name stung but now was not the time for confessions. She put her elbow on the bar and propped her chin casually on her fist. “How about whiskey with ice? Easy on the ice.”
“Which whiskey?”
“You choose.”
Keefe selected Powers Three Swallows and placed it on the bar in front of her. Then reached below for two glasses, one with ice the other without. “I wasn’t sure I would see you again,” he said as he poured one finger in each glass. “But here you are.”
“I couldn’t stay away,” Gwen answered honestly. Keefe slid her drink across the bar to her then leaned in and held his glass up between them. “What should we drink to?”
She looked up and away then brought her eyes back to his. “How about fate’s sense of humor.”
He clinked his glass to hers then took a drink. “Why sense of humor?”
If he only knew. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just funny that I should walk in for a sandwich and end up finding…”
“Me?”
“You.” And if she wasn’t mistaken, she had found herself as well. Nowhere had she ever been so at home. With no one had she been so at ease. She let that hang on the air for a long moment then took in a breath of him. “You smell like cooking.”
“Sorry about that.” He stood up straight. “I can take a quick shower.”
“No, no, don’t.” She hadn’t meant it that way at all. She sat up in her seat urging him to come back closer. “I like it.”
The look in her eyes was intense, irresistible, a call he couldn’t resist but would at least hold at bay for as long as possible.
Which wouldn’t be very long but just so he could say he didn’t jump her bones the very second she walked through the door, he would stall.
It was the gentlemanly thing to do after all.
She quickly finished her drink. The ice clinked as she placed her empty glass on the bar.
“Would you like to see my kitchen?”
She blinked in surprise. By the way his eyes blazed she had expected him to dive across the bar the moment her glass touched the wood. “Your kitchen?”
“I’ll introduce you to Bess.”
Amused and curious, her brow lifted. “Bess?”
“She’s new,” he said with an exaggerated reverence. “State-of-the-art. Induction and gas. She hums when she preheats. And I can’t live without her.”
That made her laugh—sharp, bright, and unexpected. “You're talking about your stove?”
He grinned. “What can I say? She’s beautiful, reliable, and she makes everything better.”
“You named your stove? You’re smitten.”
“Hopelessly.”
She followed him through the swinging door into the kitchen, and for a second, she just stood there, taking it all in.
Stainless steel surfaces gleamed. Pans were stacked with precision.
Everything was spotless. And in the center of it all stood his pride and joy, Bess—sleek, shining, and clearly adored.
“There she is,” Keefe said, running a hand along the stovetop like he was introducing her to royalty. “Look at her. Isn’t she gorgeous?”
“You know, under different circumstances, I might be a little jealous,” she teased as she folded her arms, one brow arching. “I bet you bring all your dates back here.”
“Only you,” he said, stepping closer making the small space between them sizzle. “So, do you cook?”
She shook her head. “Not really. Enough that I don’t starve but I tend to burn just about everything. But I have herb plants in my apartment. I like the smell of them.” She smiled and dropped her hands, a little breathless now. “So, how long have you been a chef?”
“I’m not a chef,” he said. “Just a cook. I tried culinary school, but it wasn’t for me so I dropped out.”
She could respect that. “How did your family feel about that?”
“At first my parents were furious but they came around.”
She tilted her head. “What changed their minds?”
“My sister, Sophie. She told them it was the right choice. Stood up for me.”
Gwen admired a man who spoke so thoughtfully of his own sister. “She must love you.”
“We’re close. More than most siblings, so we’re told. We’re twins, you see.”
“Are you now? That’s interesting. Yes, I can see how that would make you closer. You’ve known each other your whole lives.”
The conversation was taking a sentimental turn and while both were happy to revisit this moment, now was not the time either wanted to talk about sibling relationships.
Their eyes locked.
His pulse kicked up.
Her breathing shifted.
He reached for her slowly. His hand found her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek. Her lips parted beneath his touch. “Ruby…”
“Don’t call me that right now.”
There was a lie between them. But there was also this—this fire, this pull, this impossible knowing.
He didn’t press for more. Whatever secret she was holding could wait its damn turn.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” he said. “This doesn’t make any sense yet somehow…”
“I know what you mean: Cinniúint.” Fate.
He nodded slowly. He felt it, down to the bone. “If you stay…” he said, voice low and unsteady. “I won’t be able to pretend I’m not half-crazed for you.”
“I don’t want you to pretend,” she whispered.
His arms tightened around her as he kissed her like a man who had been starving for years. Every hour since she first walked into his pub had been exquisite torment.
Her mouth was soft, but insistent, her fingers threading through his hair and pulling him closer like she could never get enough. He was right there with her.
The kiss deepened—turned hungry. Teeth grazed, tongues tangled, breath mingled and stolen. She tasted like smooth whiskey and something wild, something untamable. And God, he wanted to lose himself in her.
His hands slipped beneath her shirt, skimming warm skin and the delicate dip of her waist. She gasped, arching into him. He kissed her harder, one hand sliding up her back to tangle in her hair, dragging a moan from deep in her throat.
Keefe grinned—feral and wrecked—and picked her up like she weighed nothing.
Startled, she laughed as he set her on the prep table and stepped between her legs.
His palms slid along her thighs, pushing her skirt higher, seeking skin, while her hands disappeared beneath his T-shirt, fingers tracing the hard planes of his stomach, his chest, his back.
Her breath hitched as his mouth found her neck. She clutched his shoulders, nails biting into muscle when he grazed the spot just below her ear.
“You smell like cherry blossoms,” he murmured, voice thick. “And something else I can’t place.”
Trouble. That’s what it was. And God, it was intoxicating.
“Does it matter?” she whispered.
“Not one damn bit.”
She dragged him down for another kiss—slower this time. Deeper. Less frantic, more dangerous. Because in that moment, it wasn’t just lust sparking between them. It was something older.
Something with teeth.
Something that wanted more.
“Still glad you came?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
She didn’t answer right away, catching her breath. Then, softly: “I told you—I couldn’t stay away. Just kiss me again.”
He did.
God, he did.
Their mouths met in a kiss that burned—hungry and messy, laced with desperation and the sharp ache of inevitability. Her body molded against his, all softness and heat, as she moaned—low, throaty, dangerous—and it nearly undid him.
His hands slid under her jacket, skimming her sides. “Tell me if I need to stop,” he murmured, voice raw against her lips.
She looked up, her eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare stop.”
Her fingers tangled in his hair as he dragged her closer, his body pressing hard against hers. Her skirt rode up in his hands, pushed aside with rough urgency, and she gasped as his palm slid between her thighs.
“Keefe—” she breathed, part warning, part plea.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, low and ragged.
And he did. She melted beneath his touch, her head falling back against the wall as he found her, teased her, stroked her, until she was trembling. He swallowed every sound she made, kissed her deeper as she shattered in his arms.
When it was over, he didn’t move—just rested his forehead against hers, both of them breathless. Her hand pressed to his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heart beneath her palm.
Whatever had started between them—it was no longer a spark.
It was a blaze.
“Come home with me.”
Still breathless, she nodded.
“I’ll drive.”
* * *
They barely made it through Keefe’s front door before their mouths collided again—hot, breathless, unrelenting.
She dropped her bag with a thud as he backed her against the wall, his hands tangled in her hair, hers tugging at the hem of his shirt. She laughed softly, breath catching as he swept her up, her legs wrapping around his waist like they’d done this a hundred times.
Like her body already knew him.
“I should slow down,” he murmured against her neck, voice rough with need. “I told myself I would.”
But her scent and the way she clung to him tore that resolve apart.
“I don’t want slow,” she whispered, brushing her lips to his.
That was it. The last thread snapped.
He kissed her—deep, reckless. Their rhythm fell apart, all hands and mouths and need. Frantic. Messy. And underneath it all, something more. Something impossible.
Something like knowing someone you had just met.
He carried her to the bedroom, trying to stay in control, but it was already gone. She clung to him, her breath ragged, her hands in his hair.
Their eyes locked—hers wide, open; his full of something quieter. Reverent. He brushed his thumb across her cheek. She leaned into it like she had been waiting all her life for that single touch.
His heart pounded in his chest as he kissed her again—slower this time, memorizing her mouth, the feel and shape of her.
His hands slid beneath lace and fabric. She arched into him, gasping when his mouth closed around her nipple, drawing a moan so deep it vibrated through them both. She was fire and surrender beneath him.
When his fingers slipped inside her, she broke apart—crying out his name like a prayer.
He couldn’t wait. Wouldn’t.
Hovering over her, chest heaving, he brushed her hair back with reverent fingers. She reached for him.
“Please,” she said, voice raw. “Don’t stop now.”
He entered her in one slow, aching thrust. They both gasped—at the shock, at how right it felt, how deep it went. Instantly, they were no longer two people anymore.
They were one rhythm. One storm.
He stilled, forehead pressed to hers.
“I can’t explain this,” he whispered. “It feels like I’ve waited lifetimes.”
“So have I,” she whispered back.
They moved together, rising and falling like the tide. Breathless. Tangled. Her nails marked his back. His arms held her tight, as if letting go would unravel the world.
She cried out, trembling beneath him as she came. He followed, groaning low in her ear, shuddering in her arms.
Afterward, he kissed her temple. Her cheek. The damp skin beneath her jaw. They stayed tangled—limbs knotted, hearts pounding.
What began as urgency had become something else.
Something older. Undeniable.
Old souls.
New fire.
And no going back.