Chapter 11 #2
“Now I see a few fan favourites, and a few wannabe Sinead O’Connors, God rest her soul. Now, who is going to be first?”
Andy glanced at Aisling and raised his eyebrows. “Go on. You know you want to.”
She laughed, and shook her head. “I don’t want to be presumptuous.”
“Aisling Fairall, is that you I spy over there?” the emcee called. “Ah, and are you with the man who gave the excellent Jim Kerr impression from last time?”
Oh. The man was referring to him, was he? Andy gave a small wave.
“I’m taking that as a yes! So, how about you two come on down and get proceedings started?”
“Want to?” Aisling asked him.
He shrugged. Clearly her fearlessness had infected him, too. “We’ve got nothing to lose.”
“That’s right.” She winked. “Everyone else has.”
She drew him forward to the music where they could pick their songs. His body was humming with anticipation.
“Now,” Aisling glanced at the emcee, “Andy here was saying he wanted something a little cheesy—”
“Hey!”
“So I’m wondering if you have any suggestions for us.”
He laughed. “A duet, huh?” He tapped a song. “Well, you can’t go wrong with this one.”
“Oh, but I think we can,” he objected. “I don’t know it too well, but from what I remember some of those words are a little, well—”
“They’re just words,” Aisling murmured.
“But I don’t want anyone thinking that’s what we’ve done.”
“Then we mumble those parts.”
“Fine.” He sighed. “Seriously, this song is the best you can suggest?”
The emcee laughed and hit play.
Aisling grabbed his hand. “It’s just a song, okay?” The country music started, the guitars starting fast that he didn’t realise he’d missed the opening bars. He had to scramble to catch up. “I was soft inside, there was something going on.”
She smiled and joined in, adding a harmony, her eyes never leaving him. “You do something to me that I can’t explain.”
They continued, and he faked a cough during the problematic phrase. He didn’t want anyone thinking they’d done that. He hadn’t even kissed her. And he figured her reputation—as a Christian—meant they should look above reproach.
But as they sang the famous chorus, people joined in. “Islands in the stream that is what we are…”
She sang and smiled up at him, then took the next verse which started as a key change.
The song finished, and they were cheered and applauded, and after some good-natured tease they reached their seats. “And look, for the prize of going first you’ve both got a drink. What’ll it be?”
There was only one right answer. “Two Guinness, thanks.”
“Two pints of the black stuff it is.”
Aisling glanced at him. “See, that was fun, right?”
“It would’ve been better if I knew the song.”
“I can’t believe you don’t know such a classic,” she teased.
He thanked the waitress who placed their drinks on the table. Then he held up his glass. “Sláinte.”
“Sláinte.” She tapped his glass then sipped her drink. “Looking forward to the next song.”
“I don’t know if I’m up for another song.”
“Oh, come on. We’re only getting started, right?” Aisling’s smile faded.
He wondered what she was thinking about. “You’re a good singer.”
“So are you.” She sipped her drink.
Someone began singing something from one of Madonna’s early albums, which made him wince.
“Have you got another song you want to do?” he asked her.
She eyed him. “Maybe.”
“Go on. Anything has to be better than this.”
She studied him a moment longer, then nodded, and slipped from her seat. Went to speak to the emcee. Then it was her turn.
He led the applause as she was introduced, then the familiar guitar chords began. His heart slammed against his chest. She was singing this?
“Kiss me, out of the bearded barley.”
As the squeezebox sounded, her eyes remained on him, like she was singing this song just for him.
Did she seriously mean to suggest she wanted him to kiss her?
Around him, people kept peeking back to smile or smirk, and a few “go on then, lad!” comments were flung his way.
He drained the rest of his pint, her words—note perfect as ever—fusing with his emotions and the dare that Grady had left him with on Monday. The dare he’d reiterated this morning.
So when the plaintive strains of the squeezebox closed the song, he was feeling plenty of pressure. Pressure that only compounded as the room erupted into cheers, and more calls for Andy to “Take the lass up on her offer!”
“I’ll kiss her if you won’t,” someone else yelled.
Aisling’s eyes widened, and he realised he didn’t want anyone else taking his place. Something that she’d clearly asked for.
She was drawing closer, closer…
He stood.
Her smile was tentative. “How was that?”
“Go on, lad!” someone called.
So he moved into her space, cupped her face in his hands, and bent and kissed her.
He’d intended it as just a simple peck, a way of shutting up the bar’s inhabitants, and giving her what she’d asked for. But it seemed that his lips didn’t get the memo as they softened and melded with hers.
He was faintly aware that the cheers around them had doubled, but he was far more aware of how sweet she tasted, how much he loved to kiss her, how perfectly she fitted, her body close to his.
He drew back, and she released a shaky laugh. “So, you liked that song, then?”
“I liked it a lot.”
She smiled. “Do you want to stay here?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think any song could top that one.”
Her gaze was dark, intense, and made him long to pick right back up on what they’d just been doing.
“Let’s get out of here,” he murmured.
“Okay,” she whispered.
They exited, and he caught her blush and small smile as catcalls chased them from the room. They reached outside, and she shrugged on her coat, then turned to him, tentatively.
Suddenly he didn’t care that they were on the main street of Derryloughlin. He needed to kiss her again. Once was not enough. “Hey, Ash. Would you mind—?”
“Not at all,” she murmured, moving closer and meeting his mouth with hers.
The stars she’d just sung about seemed to twinkle through his soul as a kind of headiness made him lose concerns about what others must be thinking.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, pressing against her.
He needed this woman’s kiss in his life.
He needed her. He wanted her. And while he and Greta had never reached the stage of their relationship where that problematic line in “Islands in the Stream” was true for them, they’d sailed awfully close.
And after two years of not touching a woman in a romantic way, it was obvious his body had zero problem remembering just where this kind of kiss could go.
He startled, and drew back.
Aisling’s eyelids were heavy. “Is everything okay?”
How could everything be okay? How could anything be okay? Not when he was leaving tomorrow, and she was staying. Not when he’d vowed to God that he wouldn’t stir up feelings for anyone, not for the next five years, and he’d just done this.
He stared at her, unable to formulate an answer. How could he say any of this to her?
“It’s getting late,” he said instead.
“Yes, but—”
He released her. “I have a long trip tomorrow.”
“You do? I thought you lived near Cork.”
He did, but—wait. Did this mean she didn’t know where he lived? “I, um, know this is hard, but it’s probably best that we don’t do that again.”
“What? Why?”
There was a plaintive note in her voice that struck his heart.
But he knew it was important to be clear, to have safe boundaries.
Because stirring up emotions that were better left unstirred wasn’t wise.
And he had vowed to God to be wise. And he really didn’t want to hurt her.
Even when the shattered look in her eyes suggested it was already too late.
“I think we should go back.”
“You don’t want me?” she whispered.
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?” She touched her swollen lips. “Did I kiss badly, is that it?”
“No, it was perfect,” he rushed to reassure. “You are perfect. It’s just that I can’t afford to get involved in another relationship right now. I promised God I wouldn’t.”
“Then… then why did you kiss me?”
“I don’t know,” he murmured. “It was the heat of the moment, I suppose. Everyone was calling for it. I’m sorry.”
She blinked, then looked down, shaking her head.
“What is it?”
“I’d like you to take me home, please.”
So he did.