8. Bree
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I stretched an arm over my head, searching the back of the shelf for another bottle.
Finn had brought out my curiosity when he gave me Nana’s empty whiskey bottle, and I’d spent all morning looking for more.
My nails scraped along the wood where the shelf met the wall, and I lifted onto my tiptoes.
The ladder wobbled, and I let out a short shriek before a warm hand wrapped around my calf.
“Easy.” Declan spoke from below me, his voice warm and rich as my morning coffee. “I’ve got you.”
Hell yeah he did. I did not need to think about his hand on my leg. Or how his palm burned through my jeans. Or how I immediately wanted to shift my weight to feel his grip tighten.
Oh hell no.
“Almost got it.” I stretched toward the ceiling beam. “While I’m up here, I might as well hang that shamrock garland. Hand it to me?”
Declan grunted and stretched beneath the ladder, managing to hold my leg and hook the garland without letting go.
The move exposed a stretch of bare skin along his ribs and the ladder wobbled again when I shifted to get a better look.
“Stop that or I’m making the executive decision to hang the garland myself.” His Irish brogue deepened when he was annoyed.
Which meant I’d made it my ultimate pleasure to annoy the piss out of him just so I could hear it.
I gave him a grin that dimpled my cheeks and fluttered my lashes. “Then Nana will haunt you because an O’Sullivan always hangs the garland.”
Declan muttered under his breath but passed me the garland.
Once I took it from him, he gripped my calves with both hands.
My breath caught. It made more sense for him to hold the ladder, but shit if I’d complain.
This was fine. Totally normal. Totally not freaking me out that I loved feeling Declan’s hands on me.
He was keeping me from cracking my skull open on the hardwood floor. That was all.
Any decent human being would do the same.
It didn’t mean anything that I felt every single finger through my denim jeans.
“I’m sure Maeve would not have minded.”
I could hear his glare, and my shoulders shook with my attempts to hide my laughter.
“Right. I’m sure she let you hang decorations last year.
I bet her favorite mugs she didn’t climb this very ladder and cuss a blue streak every time the ladder dared move.
” I jammed the thumbtack into the wall and hung the garland.
“I’m perfectly capable of hanging decorations. ”
“Bree.” He squeezed my calves. “Please come down.”
What was it about the “please” that got me every damned time? I descended the ladder one rung at a time, hyper-aware of how his hands traveled with me. From calf to thigh to waist, he steadied me until my feet hit solid ground.
He didn’t let go.
We stood there, his hands bracketing my hips and my back against his chest, while my heart fluttered and I forgot how to breathe.
We stood close enough the scent of his cologne wrapped around us.
It had an almost vintage smell to it, bourbon or something similar.
I should move away.
One step to the side, and there would be enough distance between us I’d stop noticing his thumb tracing small circles on my back. “Thanks.” I cleared the huskiness from my voice. “Nice reflexes.”
“Anytime.” He took his time letting me go. “Next time, wait for me to hold the ladder.”
Next time. Like there would be a dozen more moments with his hands on my body, steadying me and keeping me safe.
I turned toward the bar. “I’m going to hang more decorations. In there.” I pointed toward the tables, chairs, and fireplace. “Without the ladder.”
“The shamrock window clings are in that box.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “And Maeve’s favorite statues. Surely you can’t get in trouble with those.”
“I don’t know. Does she still have the naked statue of St. Michael?”
Declan’s face reddened. He spluttered and coughed. “A what?”
My smile broke free, along with a laugh. “Guess she put that one away.”
The door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and Mrs. Whittaker in a purple coat that resembled a grape. “Bree, dear.” She clapped and waved. “The place is looking lovely. Maeve would be so pleased.” j
“Thank you, that means a lot.” I turned away before the tight feeling in my throat spread to tears in my eyes.
“Declan, be a dear and pour me a coffee.” She settled on a barstool with a satisfied smile. “Extra Bailey’s.”
Declan arched his eyebrows at me in a full smirk and fixed the coffee to Mrs. Whittaker’s exact specifications.
I grabbed another strand of garland, and the box of window clings, and focused very hard on forgetting how wonderful his hands had felt on my body.
“You’ve got three of Clover Hill’s finest wrapped around your little finger already.” Mrs. Whittaker sipped her Bailey’s with a splash of coffee and eyed me over the rim of her cup.
Heat crawled up my neck. “That’s no–”
“Oh, don’t deny it. I’ve got eyes on you.” She took a long sip. “That Finn has been in here every day since you arrived. Ronan can’t seem to finalize a single renovation decision without asking you. And Declan here–”
“More coffee?” Desperate to derail the conversation, I pointed at Declan. “Why don’t you fix her another cup.”
Declan’s lips twitched. Bastard was enjoying this.
The door opened again, and Ronan stepped through. We were turning into a fucking three ring circus at this rate.
But holy hell did he look delicious in his flannel shirt.
My stomach did that stupid flip-flop thing that kept happening around him.
Something about his broad shoulders that looked like they could carry the weight of the world without bowing. And his hands.
I’d never been obsessed with hands, but Ronan’s held me captive with all the scars and calluses from years of labor.
“Bree.” He nodded at me, then Declan. “Got those paint samples you wanted to look at.”
Mrs. Whittaker wiggled her eyebrows as though to prove her point.
Ronan had delivered every sample by hand.
He stopped by to ask questions instead of calling, and he asked my opinion on everything while standing so close I often walked away with sawdust on my jeans where it fell off his shirt.
Good lord. I had to stop this. “Great.” I dropped the garland and window decor onto the nearest table and brushed my hands across my thighs. “Let’s see.”
He pulled several sheets from his back pocket and fanned them out. “I can bring a couple of your favorites over and we’ll make swaths on the wall for you to look at before you make a final decision.”
I leaned closer to catch every word spoken. He always talked like every word mattered. It made me pay attention, and apparently turned me into an attention diva.
Fuck.
“What about this one?” I pointed to a warm tone, trying to focus on paint instead of the way his forearm flexed as he plucked the paint strip from the stack. Forearms like that belonged on a calendar.
“Could work.” Ronan’s gaze flicked to my face. “Good instinct.”
The compliment settled warm in my chest, bringing a new rush of heat to my already scorching face. Paint. We were talking about paint for pities sake.
“I like the sage green for the accent wall behind the bar.” I rushed through my words, hoping to end the conversation before I self-combusted. “Nana loved green.”
His expression went all soft and solemn. “She did. Any others you want to try?”
I pointed out two more, yanking my hand back when my fingertips lingered too long on his wrist to stop him from going through the samples too fast.
His throat worked in a hard swallow, but nothing else about him changed. “I’ll order samples and bring them by next week so you can see them on the walls.” He marked the samples. “Anything else you need?”
You in my bed? No. Stop it. What the hell was wrong with me? “No, that’s perfect. Thank you.” I managed a smile. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“Not a problem.”
We turned at the same time, our shoulders bumping together. Ronan placed a hand on the small of my back to steady me.
Declan stilled behind the bar.
Well hell. What kind of new chaos had I stirred up now? Mrs. Whittaker’s sly smile promised a whole batch of stink.
Nana always said she was a harmless gossip, in it more for the fun than to hurt people.
But I’d never known that kind, only the kind that ripped me up and spit me out a shredded shell of my former self.
I grabbed the window clings and marched to the nearest window, putting much needed distance between me and my temptations.
The door opened a third time, and I didn’t have to turn to know Finn had walked in. His presence brought a change in the air pressure, and a constant, lingering hint of smoke.
“Well look who’s out and about.” Finn hooted and clapped. “Mrs. Whittaker, I thought you’d decided to give up the Bailey’s?”
She sniffed and finished her second cup.
I turned despite myself.
Finn stood just inside the doorway in his firefighter pants and a form-fitting department t-shirt that clung to his muscles. His blond hair was mussed and soot smudged across one cheek.
My mouth went dry. “Rough day?”
He grinned. “Nah. Drills.” He crossed to the bar with easy strides and a perpetual grin in place. “Thought I’d stop by for a drink before heading home.” He tapped the bar twice, then propped his elbow on the edge and spun to face me. “Need any help with that?”
With what?
“We’re managing.” Declan’s tone went flat and his eyes cold.
Um, excuse me?
Finn ignored him and moved toward me. “You have glitter in your hair.”
Before I had a chance to move, he brushed his fingertips through the strands near my temple.
My breath stuttered but I couldn’t move.
“There.” He lingered, fingers sliding along the curve of my cheek and behind my ear. “Got it.”
Move. Step back. Fall over. Do something before I drooled all over him. “I need to hang lights.” My words came out slurred but recognizable.
Finn’s lips crinkled into a grin. “I’ll help.”
Please. Please what? I handed him the lights and returned to decorating the windows before my brain short circuited and I did something foolish.
The afternoon blurred into a long line of decorations, drinks, and small talk. Most of the regulars remembered me now, and they spent most of their time trying to outtalk each other.
I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed the casual intimacy of small town life. People showed up when you needed them here.
Maybe Clover Hill wasn’t the trap Mom always thought.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Excuse me.”
I turned, a ready smile in place.
Bethany Clearwater stood in front of me, all big smiles and wide eyes. “I’ve been meaning to stop by and talk to you. Wanted to give you a proper welcome home.” She held out a box. “These are for you.”
I took the box without really seeing it, but the familiar red color with the leaping leprechaun and rainbow didn’t take much to decipher. Lucky Charms. She’d given me a box of cereal. Confusion spread through me, but I nodded. “Um. Thanks.” Maybe this was some kind of tradition I’d missed.
Bethany’s grin widened. I’d heard the expression “smiled like a shark” but hadn’t understood it until then.
Behind Bethany, two other women roughly our age covered their mouths with both hands and laughed.
Oh.
My cheeks flamed as it dawned on me.
Lucky Charms. Leprechauns. Irish stereotypes because I was Irish and apparently that made a good joke.
That old, familiar sense of judgment settled over me, suffocating and freezing me all at the same time.
Be the bigger person, Bree. Mom always told me that.
Iit didn’t help when I was literally twice the size of perfect, petite Bethany.
I gritted my teeth and kept it all locked up behind a saccharine sweet smile.
“That’s very thoughtful of you. I’ll be sure to set a bowl out for the leprechauns tonight. ”
Her nose scrunched in obvious confusion but she recovered. “Oh, you're welcome. Anything for our newest little resident.”
Her words said one thing. The cold calculation in her eyes said the opposite.
This was the kind of thing Mom wanted me to escape.