Page 7 of Irish Fire and Forbidden Love
“Thanks,” he said and took the offerings. He closed the bathroom door, then a moment later, when I had a chance to brew a pot of tea, he came out, fresh and clothed. More than fresh. He looked handsome.
“How are you feeling?” I held out a cup of hot tea.
He took it with a “thanks” and I led him into my living room. I sat beside the window, but he sat beside my bookshelf: a collection of worn classics with titles such as:Anna Karenina,The Sun Also RisesandUnder Milk Wood.
Rory picked upUnder Milk Wood. “I’ve always loved misunderstood artists.”
I nodded. “Some fun trivia? A friend of mine gave me that book after he painted me as one of the book’s characters: Lily Smalls.” I pulled a painting out from behind the couch. It was of me as Lily Smalls. Oil on canvas with me dressed in a button-up blue shirt and gray overalls, my hair tangled and wild as I leaned toward the viewer. “My friend, a painter, wanted to paint me as the character.”
“It’s beautiful,” he said.
“I suppose.”
“You don’t think so?”
I looked up at him. “It’s funny— I don’t like it. I think he made the space between my mouth and nose too long. Everyone else seems to love it, though.” I studied the painting for a moment. It was more than just the space between the nose and mouth. There was something unsettling looking at yourself through someone else’s eyes.
“It’s lovely. Not as lovely as the real thing, of course.”
I blushed, then set the painting back behind the couch. “Well, I don’t enjoy looking at it, but I can’t tear myself away from it. It’s like it’s this thing. A piece of myself, no matter how much I dislike it.”
“Maybe it’s even more so because you dislike it.”
“Yeah…” I said, looking back at where I’d hidden the painting. It had been exhilarating getting asked to be part of Daniel’s collection. He’d chosen me out of everyone else. All I had to do was let him take my picture. “Sometimes he asks for it—for shows and the like. I don’t really go to those anymore, though. Too busy with the bar and open mic.”
“The open mic you don’t play at, right?”
“Well, I?—”
“Who told you that you weren’t good enough for even an open mic?”
“No one, not really anyway. They didn’t have to.” That was when my face went red-hot at the memories. How many times had I embarrassed myself on stage and my friends had only come as pity support? “Look, I love music. It’s my soul, and even though I can’t play, I still want to share that experience with others. I still want to give people a chance to show their skills. Maybe make it big.”
“Hence why you don’t want to lose the bar.”
“It’s one of the reasons.” I looked down at our tea.
Suddenly, I wanted something a bit stronger, especially if Rory was going to keep talking about my past. I’d come to Ireland to forget all of that stuff, and most people here were kind enough not to keep prying about everything. Give it up to the American to be the nosy one.
“There’s some really good musicians. It would be a shame if they didn’t have a place to perform.”
He leaned toward me. “And what about you?”
“What about me?”
His lips were right next to mine. I could almost feel them on me.
How soft they could be over my lips.
How his tongue would feel between my gums.
How his body would feel pressed against me.
I stood up quickly. “Would you like a drink?”
“We already have tea?—”
“I’m thinking something stronger, actually.” I walked into the kitchen without him answering and rifled through the fridge. I wasn’t much of an at-home drinker. I’d heard enough stories at the bar that gave me a distaste for it. Drinking alone felt like a stepping stone to something worse, but I did have a few bottles of a white Belgium ale I’d saved from Eliza’s birthday. It was over six months ago, but the bottles were unopened.
