Page 21 of Wild Irish

Maeve’s list sits on top of my suitcase. I pick it up, then sit on the edge of the bed and unfold it.

I’ll never be able to complete the list now. Not without a car. But there are still a few things Icando. I drag my fingers over the words and sigh.

Maeve added one final thing to the list the day she died. At the bottom of the page, bolded in black ink, she wrote,Find Your Happiness.

It seems an impossible thing.

I know the words were written for me, and not her. Like she knew she’d never do any of the things on her list.

Even through her illness, Maeve never lost her joy or her passion. Her smile could brighten any room. She was happy. And not the fake happy that most of us try to muster to get through the day. No. She enjoyed the short amount of time she had here.

God, I miss her.

“Find your happiness.” I sigh, fold the paper, and put it down on the dresser. It’s probably the biggest challenge she gave me. But it’s one I’m going to try my best to accomplish, at least tonight.

I open my luggage and pull out a pair of low-rise jeans and a black halter top, as well as my make-up bag and curling iron. I haven’t worried about my appearance since I’ve been here, but as I get ready, I spend a little extra time on my hair and make-up.

When I open the door, the soft strumming of a guitar drifts down the hall. I’ve never heard the song before, but I know enough about music to know it’s an intricate pattern of notes that require skilled fingers.

I lean against the doorframe and watch him. He must’ve changed when I was in the shower. He’s wearing ripped jeans and a gray t-shirt that’s snug enough to allow me to see the muscles beneath as they bunch and constrict when he moves. His hair has flipped forward, covering half his face, but I can still tell he’s lost in the music.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him with his defenses down, his handsome face free of whatever burden he’s carrying.

He finishes playing, and for a moment his gaze is distant, his fingers resting over the strings.

“You’re good,” I say, coming into the room, not wanting to be caught gawking at him.

He grunts and places the guitar on the couch beside him, then he glances up at me. His brows draw down immediately, and his mouth parts.

I can’t read his expression as his gaze roams down my body and back up, but I see the way his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare.

Self-consciously, I fidget.

“I didn’t know what to wear. Is this not appropriate?”

He swallows hard, then shakes his head and looks away. “Ye look fine.”

It’s not the compliment I was hoping for.

“I guess we might as well be getting this over with.” He stands and grabs his phone and keys from the coffee table, once again inflicted with a moroseness that’s almost contagious.

Not tonight.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything but miserable.

Tonight, that changes.

Tonight, I’m going to cross off at least one of the things on Maeve’s list –hopefully, with Cillian.

Even if it means using a little liquid courage to do it.

Chapter 8

Cillian

Iswearthe woman has been sent by the devil himself to tempt me.

My cock is throbbing, and the way her jeans hug her curves, showing off her long legs, isn’t helping matters. If I don’t touch Delaney soon, I’m going to be a candidate for the asylum.

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