Page 41 of Since We're Here
“No.”
He’s drenched, dripping wet from head to cleats, his dark hair flopping over his forehead, raindrops sitting on his eyelashes. His long-sleeved jersey clings to his chest.
I want to throw back the hood of the rain jacket I bought in town this week and kiss him in the pouring rain, the way it might happen in a movie.
“No?” He tilts his head and twists his mouth.
“Not hiding. Just... sheltering.” I peel myself off the tree and try to look casual, even though I’m clearly the most awkward human being in all of Ireland.
“Come on. I’ll walk you home. I parked in front of the pub.”
I nod and fall into step next to him, thankful he’s not calling me out further.
“I wasn’t coming to watch you, you know.” But apparently, I can’t keep my mouth shut.
“You weren’t?” He cocks his head and touches my arm as we cross the road along the park. “You must look right first, love, or you’ll get run over.”
“Thanks. And no, I came to see your sister.”
He snorts adorably. We step back onto the sidewalk in the direction of O’Brien’s, his hand sliding off my arm, the touch lingering.
“Pub tonight? Are you working? Drinking?” I bite my lip and turn to watch him consider.
“I’ve got the girls.”
Damn.
“Have any fun plans with them?” My disappointment is immense, but I picture Patrick picking up Niamh and spinning her around, and that makes me smile.
“We’re going to paint wooden figurines,” he answers without hesitating.
“That sounds amazing. I’d love to do that.” I cringe when I realize it sounds like I’m fishing for an invitation. “I’m meeting up with your sister and Ian after my shift.”
“Have fun.” He slides a look in my direction. The man is impossible to read.
“You are getting drenched.”
“I already was drenched.” He meets my gaze, streams of water flowing off his face, and stops.
“What’s wrong?”
“This is you.” Patrick nods his head to the flat door.
“Oh. Right.”
“See you later, Madison.” Patrick’s gaze lingers on me for a beat before he turns and walks three cars up, pausing at the passenger door and pulling a towel out from the car to wipe his face down.
Then he peels off his wet jersey.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” I whisper and know I should unlock the door and go inside. Instead, I watch him rub his abdomen with the towel before sliding it up around his neck. When he’s done, he quickly strides around to the driver’s side, already wet again. But before he ducks into the car, he glances my way. A grin quirks his mouth before he lowers himself into the seat.
“Fuck!” I whisper-scream and spin to face the door. I was standing in the rain getting all hot and bothered, water dripping down around my hood and into my jacket, gawking at him. What is wrong with me?
Despite the pep talk I gave myself at the soccer game, I’m not sure I can resist that man. It’s a good thing we’re just friends.
10
PATRICK
