Chapter 38 An Experiment Forged in Fire
We cycled back to return the bikes and pick up our suitcases.
It was only a fifteen-minute walk to the B&B, and the bike guy told us about a shortcut through the park.
People spoke Irish here as a first language.
I was in awe at how easily Tadhg spoke back—having learned it from his mother.
It was very sexy. That tongue of his was very talented.
It was starting to drizzle, but we walked on, followed directions, and—lo and behold—this B&B was also not a B&B, because we were clearly complete morons who had learned absolutely nothing.
It was cottage-core perfection—slightly crooked blooming garden outside, exposed beams and a large fireplace inside, every inch decorated with just the right amount of charm, history, and character.
The kitchen was beautiful, and the old windows looked out over the windswept sea.
It was something out of a movie. It was the cottage from The Holiday.
But the thing of it was, it was the sort of Airbnb with a lockbox.
No one else living there—no little old lady to greet us and cook us breakfast. And while we did at least have real mattresses and two separate bedrooms, the place was tiny, and we had it all to ourselves, and—because who would possibly know what we did in here when there was no one for miles to hear us scream—sex was implied.
My stomach gave a lurch as soon as the thought arrived unbidden to my mind and took root.
I needed to get out of that tiny kitchen, where Tadhg had leaned his hips back casually against the counter like he was the master of this cottage and he was going to take me in every room of it.
I had to physically stop myself from pushing up against him and kissing him breathless.
I needed to think of something else, anything else.
“Ugh. I’m already so cold and wet,” I said, turning to walk away as I started to pull my damp outer layers off. “I can’t believe we have to go back out to get dinner.”
“Why don’t I go to the shop, and we can cook something simple here?”
“Really? You’d do that? You’re going to get soaked.”
“I’m already soaked. You go and have a hot bath, and I’ll be back in two ticks.”
I practically purred. “Oh my God. I’d love you forever.” At that, his face did something strange. Shit! Shitty shit shit! Why don’t you ever think before you speak, you idiot? Turds in a basket!
He cleared his throat. “Is there something that you . . . want?” He gestured to the door so that neither of us was confused.
“Just to peel these wet clothes off and let you do all the hard work,” I said.
Tadhg coughed. Then he spun away from me in a motion way too reactionary to be normal.
No. You did not just say that. “I mean like . . . hard cooking work. Okay, thank you so much, bye!” I spat out and hurried away.
Uggggh. At least Tadhg was gone, and I could use that time to get my fucking self together.
The claw-foot tub was made out of my fantasies. They’d installed a massive, modern single-pane window that looked out to the sea and had no curtain, no place to hide. I felt risqué as I undressed and slid naked into the deliciously steaming water, bubbles like sea foam curling around my breasts.
I thought of nothing but Tadhg for the next fifty-some-odd minutes.
When I emerged pink and damp, wrapped in a robe, hair wet, I had to pass through the open-plan kitchen/living room space to get to my room.
Tadhg had put music on a travel speaker, some song about blue eyes sung softly by a man with an Irish accent, and there was Tadhg, dutifully chopping and washing and stirring.
Even his fully clothed back was too much for me to handle.
“Nothing hotter than a man in the kitchen,” I said, like a horny fool.
He turned around. His eyes tracked every inch of me. Leave. Walk away. Run! I urged my body to go, but I was rooted there.
His eyes darkened and he took an audible breath in, his gaze traveling from my wet hair down the seam of the towel. “Go get dressed,” Tadhg said softly, and then turned around to the stove. “Please.”
When I came back out in leggings and a big, stretched-out sweater, Tadhg was building a fire, his back to me and broad shoulders shifting under a plaid green flannel, like something right out of the Foreplay for Dummies manual. My vagina did a double take.
I watched silently like a pervert while he finished and set a match to it, the flames crackling into life.
This perfect B&B was a big mistake. This whole island was one big damn mistake.
I asked the universe to make me strong enough to withstand this unholy amount of temptation.
I knew I didn’t have a chance. I asked that the storm, which was blowing against the windows in a very sexily dramatic manner, would swallow the whole damn island into the sea so that we could go down with it.
I would sizzle in the waves, I’m so fucking hot for him right now.
“Should we . . . eat at the table?” Tadhg asked.
“Mm. The fire is so nice. Can we just eat here?”
His smile was soft. His eyes were soft too. “’Course.”
“Oooh. You got wine? Let’s have a sneaky little glass by the fire first. Unless you’re too hungry to wait?”
“Glass of wine sounds perfect. Dinner can stay in the oven.”
“Mm. What is it?” I called after him as he walked to the kitchen to get glasses.
“Oh, just simple stuff. Rocket and goat cheese salad with toasted walnuts, and baked mafaldine with spinach, cream, and roasted tomatoes.”
“Are you kidding? That sounds amazing!”
“Na. Just what they had at the shop.”
By the time he got back to the fire, I’d layered three blankets on the floor and borrowed some throw cushions from the sofa to make a comfy little wine spot.
I knew it was wrong. I knew what I was doing.
But, like game pieces that had already been set into motion, we circled around each other, and I couldn’t stop myself.
I tucked a damp, towel-dried curl behind my ear. “Want to join me down here?”
He waited a moment, and I thought he might choose the sofa instead. It would be a better idea. We both knew it.
“I shouldn’t. But I will.” He handed me a glass of wine and, with more grace than expected for a man of his size, swung down and sat next to me, back against the sofa, legs outstretched.
“God. What is that?” I inhaled again, more purposely. “That smell, what is it?”
“That’s turf. It’s a turf fire—it’s peat. I’m sorry, do you not like it?”
“What do you mean? It’s amazing. It’s such a cozy, earthy smell.” His smile was small, almost not even there, but his eyes crinkled and gave him away. Then he held his glass out, and we toasted and sipped. The wine was full and round and smooth, like everything that night.
He cleared his throat and looked away. “Listen, I’m .
. . I’m sorry for the other night. At the Causeway.
Things have been . . . awkward between us since then, and that’s my fault.
I know we had this talk and we both agreed and we had the rules, but I think they just made things worse, if I’m honest. It’s been impossible .
. . Jesus, every day I’ve been . . .” He stopped and ran a hand over his face and took a breath.
“That doesn’t matter. The last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable.
I don’t want to be like one of those clumsy, pushy blokes my father sets you up with.
Because I really like this.” He gestured with his wineglass, and somehow it encompassed the fire and the blankets and us being friends and traveling side by side.
“And I don’t want it to be awkward. So I hope we can just move past it. ”
I tilted my head and grinned, warmed by the bath and the fire and the wine, my blood slow like chocolate, warm, happy, wrapped up, protected, looked after. “Is that why you’re spoiling me? As an apology?”
His brow creased. Of course it did. “What do you mean?”
“All this.”
“Pfft. It’s just a bit of pasta. This isn’t spoiling you. I’m just . . .” He faltered.
My words came out slow and lazy. “You’re just . . . looking after me?”
I was so happy. There was only one thing I was missing. One more thing that I needed.
And then my body was moving like melted wax, slow and smooth and sure, and my wine-glazed lips were on his, and our tongues and breath met, and somehow something in my body shifted—my cells transformed, my brain rewired—because all of the sudden, I needed Tadhg the same way I needed air to breathe.