Knocked Up on St. Patrick’s Day (The Forbidden Reverse Harem Collection)

Chapter 1 Bree

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I’d never planned on coming back here. In fact, I’d sworn never to grace the town of Clover Hill Maine with my presence ever again.

Course a girl of twelve didn’t think much past escaping her mother’s death and finding some kind of solace.

I’d made that vow in the heat of the moment. Didn’t occur to me that Nana Maeve would eventually pass and I’d get sent a rather strict voicemail demanding I come back to hear about the will.

Standing outside the pub’s wooden door, I inhaled the cold, clean air and firmed my resolve. I’d do what Nana required of me, then I’d hightail it back to Boston and my real life.

Fifteen years. I’d managed to stay out of the small town of my birth for fifteen whole years before today.

My heart seized as I took in the hunter green frame around the door. I’d helped Nana paint it the year I turned ten. From the cracked paint, I’d say she never painted it again.

A single CLOSED sign hung in the window, but it took less than a minute to dig the key from the pot of dead flowers tucked into the corner. I unlocked the door and stepped into a world I thought I’d forgotten.

My eyes stung and my throat tightened. I cleared it, lifted my chin, and hauled my two suitcases toward the wooden staircase on my left.

Nana’s apartment above the pub had never been much, but it would be my home until I finished the unsavory business of listening to some lawyer read her will. Unlucky. That’s what I called it.

Right when I’d had a run of good too. The stairs creaked a familiar tune, and I skipped the third step from the top to avoid the warped board.

My suitcases clanked behind me, the racket almost comforting after the abhorrent quiet from downstairs.

O’Sullivan’s had always been lively, and I despised this new silence that settled in my bones.

There was no digging in pots of dead flowers for the key to the door at the top of the stairs.

I slid the key I’d taken with me fifteen years ago into the lock and twisted. It clicked and the door swung open.

Wooden floors. White walls. Potted plants in every available window soaked up the meager light threading through the clouds. “Nana, I’m sorry, but all those plants are as good as dead. I didn’t inherit your green thumb.” Black, more like.

I couldn’t keep a cactus alive much less the lush vegetation Nana loved.

My vision blurred as memories crashed in. God I’d loved living here with Mom and Nana.

“Oy, you can’t be in here.” A rich, masculine voice slammed into the cozy apartment and ripped me right out of my emotional spiral.

I whirled, both hands raised. “What the hell do you mean?” The remainder of my questions and protests died on my lips as the man took shape in front of me.

Tall. Broad shouldered. Holy shit. Blue eyes bright enough to make angels cry contrasted dark hair turning a delicious salt-and-pepper at the temples. Everything my dreams were made of.

I should be terrified at being face to face with a stranger barricading me in my own home, but this man’s tightly controlled presence caused a flutter of excitement in my belly.

Now that was uncalled for. I gave my body a mental smack, warning it to behave.

“Oh, shit.” It came out sounding more like shite, and I almost grinned. No one sounded quite so put out as a cursing Irishman. He shook his head and ran a hand across his chiseled jaw.

One second he looked at me like he’d be more than willing to toss me over his shoulder and haul me outside, and the next he offered a hint of a smile that put the butterflies in my stomach in full flight.

I narrowed my eyes when he took a step toward me. “What the hell are you doing?”

He halted. Blue eyes swept over me.

I resisted the urge to smooth my hands over my deep green peacoat. I looked fine. I’d made sure of it when I left the airport. Curvy but delicious.

The smirk turned into a frown. “You’re Shayla’s daughter.”

It should have been a question, but the way he said it took out any hint of uncertainty.

I doubted this man had ever been uncertain a day in his life. He had that controlled, imposing air I usually found insufferable. What was it about him that made it intriguing?

The temperature in the room rose several degrees when he crossed his arms and leaned one shoulder on the doorjamb. “Apologies for bursting in on you. Thought you were an intruder.”

“You think an intruder would lug two suitcases up that flight of stairs and use two keys to open the doors?” I aimed for sarcastic, but his presence scrambled my brain and it came out sounding far too flirty for my liking.

His smirk returned in full force, proving he’d heard the underlying attraction. “Well, now, you never know, do ya?”

“How’d you know who I was?” I fought down the rising emotions as grief welled. “And who are you?”

“Sorry.” He stuck out a hand large enough to engulf mine. “Declan. O’Sullivan’s most loyal bartender.”

“I’m guessing you’re the only bartender.” I shook his hand, my fingers tingling from the contact and staying wrapped around his hand far longer than necessary.

“And you’d be right.” His thumb brushed over my knuckles before he let go. “You look a bit like your mother. Same red hair. Bit sharper in the eyes but she’s there too.”

“Wait…Declan. As in the same Declan who worked here when I was a kid?”

“The one and the same.” He pushed off the door and straightened to his full height. “Welcome home, lass.”

Lass. God how long had it been since I’d heard a genuine Irish brogue? I’d spent so long burying that part of myself. The tears came for me again, harder and faster than I thought possible. I pressed my fingers into my eyes and took a shaky breath.

“Well shit.” Declan’s heavy sigh brushed my cheek. When had he crossed the room? “Need a hug?”

I tried to shake my head, but it nodded instead.

Heavy arms wrapped around my shoulders and pulled me close to his muscled chest. Good lord.

How often did the man work out to have a physique like that?

Not important.

My hands curled beneath my chin, and I allowed myself four whole seconds to enjoy Declan’s embrace.

Something about it helped push back the tide of pain. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He patted my shoulders before dropping his hands to his sides. “Come downstairs whenever you’re ready. Your Nana’s attorney will be here soon.”

I nodded and wiped my eyes. “Thanks, Declan.”

He turned and hurried down the steps, leaving me alone to process the moment and prepare for the next.

I placed my suitcases in my old bedroom, ignored the other two open doors leading to Mom’s and Nana’s rooms and hung my coat on the rack.

A quick look in the full-length mirror in the living room proved my choice in the sleek black dress had survived the trip with minimal wrinkles.

A single green shamrock nestled high in the right corner of the mirror.

Nana’s good luck kiss.

She’d loved hiding shamrocks around the house for me to find.

Get it together. Nana’s sharp but loving voice came to me almost easier than Mom’s. I patted my cheeks. They had enough color, but the gentle taps helped clear my head.

The door downstairs opened, and Declan’s voice trickled up the stairs as he welcomed someone he called Mr. Turney inside. Must be the lawyer.

Time to face the music. I straightened my skirt and swallowed any remaining grief, promising myself I’d feel it all later. Alone.

Both men looked up when I descended the stairs.

Declan stood behind the bar, broad hands resting on the polished edge and beige shirt pulled taut over the lines of his shoulders.

He hooked his thumbs in a set of suspenders and dragged them up over his shoulders.

Holy shit. How had I missed the suspenders? I must really be off my game.

Stop it. My current sexual dry spell made my attraction to him that much more potent. I’d always preferred older men.

“Miss Sullivan?” Mr. Turney swept his hat off and motioned toward two chairs parked in front of the fireplace.

“I’m sorry for your loss. Maeve always spoke highly of you.

She was rather proud of your accomplishments.

Boarding school at twelve, then college and a high-end job in Boston as an event coordinator.

” He listed my accomplishments with the air of reciting a grocery list.

I ignored it for the most part. It was my life. Good or bad, I’d made the most of it. “Thank you, Mr. Turney.” I sat and crossed my ankles. “I’m sure you have plenty of business to attend. I’m ready whenever you are.”

He tugged his collar and sat. “Yes, well. I’ll make this as painless as possible. In essence, your grandmother left you the pub and all of her worldly possessions, along with a sizable sum. There is one stipulation.”

Of course there was. I motioned for him to continue.

“Maeve wanted you to give this place the proper facelift it deserved. The one she was too old to oversee. You must spend the money she’s given you on breathing new life into the pub.

Maeve has already hired the contractor. You’ll meet with him tomorrow morning.

You have three months to meet the conditions of her will, otherwise you receive nothing. ”

A snarky, Nana-worthy comeback sat on the tip of my tongue. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep it from blurting out against my will. Of course Nana gave me some ridiculous task.

Did I even want to bother spending three months here?

Mom always pushed for me to leave Clover Hill.

It had been her one big wish for me to live beyond the tight confines of Nana’s small town where rumors grew bigger than life.

But Nana poured her heart and soul into the pub. I didn’t need the money or the headache. Love for Nana and giving her this one thing butted against my desire to run away once again and never look back.

Declan polished the spotless bar, his ear tipped toward us as he pretended not to listen.

Nana had probably talked all this over with him. No doubt he knew more about the bar than she’d ever learn. Why hadn’t Nana left it to him, and would he feel put out at Nana’s choice?

I examined his face but found nothing that told me his feelings.

“Thank you, Mr. Turney.” I forced my attention to the lawyer, dismissing him with a nod and smile as fake as Declan’s need to clean.

He stood and propped his newsboy cap at a jaunty angle. “Good day, Miss Sullivan.”

“We open in five minutes.” Declan tossed the clean rag into a nearby sink and crooked his finger at her. “You look like you need a drink. Allow me.”

My legs moved of their own accord, beckoned over by that single motion. I propped my elbow on the bar and watched Declan pour a shot into a glass and a Guinness into a deep mug.

He held out both. “Bottoms up.”

I tossed back the lemon drop shot and almost groaned at the bite of the sweet and tart citrus. “Thanks. I needed that.” I nursed the Guinness in slow sips. Rich and flavorful and oh so delicious. Kind of reminded me of Declan, honestly. Doubted he’d mind being compared to Nana’s most revered drink.

The door burst open behind me, a raucous wave of noise following the bang of wood on wood.

Declan uttered a curse while smiling, which told me this was most likely a normal occurrence.

I slid my ass onto the nearest stool and turned toward the commotion.

A man stood at the front of a group of firefighters. Soot stained all their faces, and they still wore their blue pants, blue shirts, and red suspenders.

What was the deal with me and suspenders today? Maybe I’d missed them. Which made no sense.

I’d left at the age of twelve.

Far too young to have preferences on men’s fashion.

But hot damn if it didn’t make my stomach clench when the blond-haired, blue-eyed man leading the pack hooked his thumbs in his suspenders and sauntered toward the bar.

Laughter came easy to this man. It showed in the lines framing his mouth and eyes, and the casual way he threw his head back and laughed with his entire body.

One of the men behind him said something, and he turned, slapping the man into a quick bro hug. It ended a second later, and he swiveled toward me.

I’d never had one of those movie worthy moments where everything happened in slow motion, but it happened now.

Every muscle moved together, bringing his gorgeous profile into view, then his full face. He blinked, eyes scanning the bar.

Then his gaze landed on me and he smiled.