Page 15 of Wild Irish

When I don’t answer, he grunts. “Ye’ve got the look about ye.”

“What look?”

“Like someone hurt ye.”

I shrug. “You’ve been hurt?”

Maybe that’s why he’s so damn surly.

His expression darkens. “People can only hurt ye if ye let them. If ye don’t care, they have no power over ye.”

“Good advice,” I say, picking up the glass he poured for me and lifting it in a salute. “To not caring.”

“To not caring,” he repeats, angling his glass towards me, then drinking.

I cough as the whiskey burns a line down my throat.

He chuckles and shakes his head, then pours me another shot. “And to the list.”

I wince, wondering if he read the entire thing. “To the list,” I mutter before draining my glass.

Silence stretches between us as he watches me eat the remaining stew.

“Thank you for dinner. It was good.”

He gives a sharp nod.

“Did your mom teach you how to cook?”

“No.” There’s a finality to the word, and I can see I’ve broached a taboo subject.

I take my empty bowl to the sink, fully aware of the way his gaze follows me across the room.

Everything about him is intense, pulsating with an energy that leaves me alert, on edge, and aching for something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s more than just his touch. Sure, the physical attraction is there, but there’s also a mystery to him, a puzzle that I want to figure out.

“Also, thank you for letting me stay here tonight,” I say as I rinse my bowl off in the sink.

I don’t hear him move, but I feel the warmth of his body behind me, even though he doesn’t touch me. If I turn, I know he’ll be only a breath away.

Despite the heat surrounding me, a small shiver races down my spine, sending little pinpricks across my skin.

“I’ll clean up.” The rich, melodic brogue is strained.

I turn slightly, just enough that my arm brushes against his. The skin-to-skin contact is enough to release the small moan that’s been trapped inside my throat.

His response is a low growl, and the next thing I know his gorgeously tatted arms are trapping me between the counter and his large, muscular body.

He doesn’t touch me. It’s like he’s making every effort not to.

“Delaney.” My name is a command on his lips, forcing me to look up at him.

When I do, there’s no mistaking the desire in his eyes.

A small sliver of fear races through me. “I…”

His nostrils flare, and he lets out an uneven breath before slowly stepping away, heading back to the table, grabbing the bottle, and pouring himself another glass, his back to me.

I’m left standing there, not sure what I did wrong.

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