Page 32 of Twist of Fate
The tiniest of grins pulls at the corner of her plush pink lips. “We’re doing this.”
“Okay, but you realize you’re actually going to have to talk, right?”
She rolls her eyes before they drift over me to the waiter, who is still standing at our table, watching our exchange with far too much interest.
I didn’t even realize he was still here.
“Can I get a glass of wine?” she asks him. “Oh, and you mentioned something about dessert?”
* * *
“Wait.” I raise a finger. “Did you say Irish dancing? Your mom put you in Irish dancing as a kid?”
I don’t know what was in that dessert she ordered. Maybe it was the chocolate. There’s a good chance it was the glass of wine that came with it. Whatever it was, something seemed to change in Aisling.
Our first attempt at a conversation was stilted, to say the least, but then, by some miracle—likely fueled by alcohol and chocolate—we hit our stride.
And now, things just felt effortless—like they had that night in Dublin.
“Yep.” She pops the “P” and laughs, her whole face lighting up. “But you heard her at dinner tonight. My mom is obsessed with her Irish heritage; she named me Aisling for God’s sake. Do you know how many people in America can pronounce that? Five.” She holds up her fingers to emphasize her point. “Five people.”
God, she’s funny. “How long did you dance?”
“About ten years.”
My brows raise. “Ten years? You had to have enjoyed it to do it so long, though.”
She shrugs, taking one of the last bites of her chocolate torte. I watch as the fork disappears between her pretty pink lips. An image of those lips wrapped around my cock flashes across my mind. I shift suddenly in my seat and awkwardly reach for my Guinness. Jesus.
“I loved it until about halfway through high school when it started to get too intense, and then it wasn’t fun anymore. I think my mom would have liked me to continue, though.”
“You know we have a group dinner coming up at this restaurant that features live music. They always bring in Irish dancers when we’re there. I could pull a few strings and?—”
“Don’t you dare!”
I laugh again—something I’ve done a lot tonight—and then ask because I have to know. “Why didn’t you go out with the comedian?”
Her brow furrows before her expression morphs into something akin to amusement. “The comedian? You mean Clint?”
“He must be damn funny to make you laugh that much.”
“He’s not, really,” she confesses. “Or maybe he could be if he weren’t trying so hard? I don’t know. But I didn’t want to be rude, so I might have faked it a little.”
“I know, but it’s nice to hear you admit it.”
“You know?” She looks incredulous. Her fiery attitude shouldn’t turn me on this much. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I’ve been making you laugh for the past hour, and your real laugh is nothing like the one you were pawning off on him.”
“Oh.”
I grin. “Yeah, oh.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“At the time, no,” I tell her. “It was convincing enough that I wanted to walk down that aisle and throw him out the window for hogging all your attention like that.” Her breath catches, and I realize I’ve crossed a serious line with my honesty. “He’s not a great guy, Aisling. He wants a quick holiday fuck, and that’s it.”
“And what if that’s all I’m looking for at the moment?”
