Page 38 of Taming Irish

“It is.” He chuckles, taking the cup from me, his fingers brushing against mine when he does. “Are yehungry?”

“Not really.” I say, forcing myself to swallow past the lump in mythroat.

It’s a lie. I’m starving.Just not forfood.

He holds my gaze for a long, intense moment before blowing out a breath and dragging his fingers through his hair. “Ye shouldn’t look at me that way, love. Not if ye don’t want a repeat of thismorning.”

I blush and drop my gaze. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just make sure ye know what yewant.”

I want you, every cell in my bodyscreams.

He sighs again, this time motioning me to follow him outside, but not before tucking the mason jar under his arm, along with the two tincups.

“Do you own this place?” I ask when we reach the muddy shore where a rowboat is tiedup.

“It was my grandfather’s, then my dad’s. It’s still in my mom’s name, but I’m the only one who ever comes down here. Emer isn’t really one forfishing.”

“You’re taking mefishing?”

“Never caught a fish with whisky before.” He lifts the jar up and winks, before placing it and the cups in the boat, then reaches out for myhand.

I let him help me into the boat. “Again, not exactly what I would have expected fromyou.”

“Ye said ye didn’t want any media attention.” He watches me from the corner of his eye as he unties the boat, then pushes off with an oar. The muscles of his shoulders and biceps bunch and strain under his t-shirt as he rows out into the middle of the lake. “Ye won’t get any out here. But I couldn’t guarantee that if I’d taken ye intotown.”

The man is full of surprises. And my heart does a little flip in my chest. “Thankyou.”

“Plus, this just happens to be one of my favorite places in the world.” In the middle of the lake, he locks the oars, then picks up the mason jar and hands me a cup. After pouring whisky into both tin cups, he winks at me. “And today, I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather share itwith.”

I drain my cupquickly.

Something in my chest warms at his words. Or, maybe it’s the alcohol, because at the same time, it squeezes inwarning.

He’s a player, and he’s playingyou.

I know it’s the truth. But as I let him pour me another shot, letting it burn down my throat and heating every inch of my body, I want him to play me. To play every inch of my body, no matter how much I may regret ittomorrow.

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