Chapter 8
POV: Maeve?
That night when I lay wide awake, staring at my ceiling and listening to the wind howl against my quaint little Irish cottage, I should’ve accepted that Liam was just as that girl said—a man whore, who happened to also be a player.
But all I could think about was him. How I kissed him.
Because I did it, not him.
So, I guess that sort of makes me the player here and not him.
But the more I thought about the kiss—the more I dissected it—like the true literature enthusiast I was.
Was it more like Fifty Shades of Grey or more like Pride and Prejudice?
Well, if I were to assign it to either, the longing of it was definitely more like Pride and Prejudice, but the roughness of it—-hands in hair and the tension was definitely more like Fifty Shades of Grey. So, I guess I would call it a good mixture of both.
But the problem wasn’t that I was comparing kisses to both vastly different types of literature, which in all honesty, should never be compared, but the problem was I couldn’t stop thinking about him. About his kiss. About the way he looked at me. About the way he flirted with me. About the way he made me feel.
I shouldn’t feel like this at all and if I’m being honest, I haven’t felt this way before.
He made me feel…alive.
He made me feel like this trip to Ireland could actually turn into a bit more than a fabricated story.
And one thing about authors is they love emotions, and right now I was full of them. Excitement being the primarily one of them. FOMO, fear of missing out being another. Then lastly—pure desire.
I couldn’t stop thinking about what it felt to be loved by a man like that—to be underneath him—to let you ravage you—to wake up in the morning with regret but also happily sore.
God—why was I thinking about that? Him? Sex?
I shouldn’t be thinking of either.
I should be thinking of Declan—the nice, sweet boy who was a schoolteacher, who was kind, shy, and made me feel….safe. He was the type of guy that you married because it was the right thing to do…because it was the safe thing to do.
But all I could think about was Liam. The type of guy was the exact opposite of Declan. Not blatantly kind. Definitely not safe. He wasn’t shy or safe or overly kind, he was the furthest thing from any of those options but he awoke something inside me that Declan didn’t. Intensity. Spontaneity. Electricity.
And I liked feeling that a lot more than I liked feeling safe.
I rolled over to my side and tried my best to lull myself to sleep.
I wasn’t here for love, I told myself. I was here for research purposes only.
So maybe a night of sloppy sex could bring me inspiration. But I knew with sex there was a fine line between inspiration and emotions and I needed to remember that.
But when I rolled around that morning, brewed a fresh pot of coffee and sat with my thoughts again, they all went back to the same thing—seeing Liam again, not like stalking him, but conveniently running into him again. And what better place to run into him than at his bar?
So when 11 am rolled around, I was already in a half-packed bar, snuggling into a booth with my laptop open and drinking a coffee with Bailey’s liquor.
The bartender who served me wasn’t Liam, it was a younger girl with brown hair and green eyes, who made my coffee with extra Bailey’s and recommended the daily special of lamb stew.
I just got done typing my little heart out. Officially, my work in progress outline was completed, when I let out a heavy sigh of relief and looked up from my laptop screen.
Naturally, my eyes went to the bar. And then naturally, my eyes went straight to him. Liam.
And god, did he look…
Before I could finish my internal sentence, his gaze flickered to mine and I instinctively turned my head and gaze away from him and back to my laptop.
He had just caught me staring at him. Normally, that wouldn’t be weird. It’s natural for people to look at people, especially when one happened to be the owner and bartender in the pub I was at.
But after last night’s dilemma…and our unspoken kiss, I thought I looked a bit stalker-ish.
Don’t look at him, Maeve, I scolded myself.
But every part of me wanted to sneak another peek up at him. Plus, I needed another coffee with Bailey’s and I was just about ready to order lunch.
So I sucked all the shame deep inside me then snuck another glance. But when I did, he wasn’t looking anywhere at me, in fact he turned the complete opposite way, which seemed almost…intentional. But the kind brown haired girl noticed me and walked over and took my order.
While I waited for my lunch, I snuck small glances at him, hoping we’d lock eyes again and he’d walk over and we’d strike up non-awkward conversation. But he didn’t look at me once. And I repeat. Not once. It was almost as if he was avoiding me.
My pride, that horrible Irish pride of mine felt a bit wounded.
But still, I ate my lamb stew in pure solitude, with no visit from Liam, in between daydreaming novel title names for my work in progress and wondering if he regretted kissing me.
Normally, I was a queen at ignoring men—pretending like they didn’t exist and going on about my day, saying, oh, it’s their loss, not mine, but for some reason, his avoidance irked me.
Still, I decided to play the same game that he was playing—cold shoulders.
I packed up my laptop, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and left the bar without a second look at him.
And a part of me knew, maybe even hoped—that he noticed I hadn’t even spared him a glance.
If Liam wanted to pretend like nothing happened and like I didn’t exist, then two could play that game.