Page 3 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
“I am at that,” the man said, giving her another flash of a bold smile with what she could only call a twinkle in his eye before turning his head to her nephew. “I’m Carrick Fitzgerald. I would imagine you’re Betsy O’Hanlon’s relation from America.”
“Yes, I’m Ollie, and that’s my mom, Megan, and my aunt Angie. How did you guess?”
“Well…” He glanced back toward her. “Your Yank accent. Besides, your mom and aunt favor Bets, especially in the face and the mouth.”
“Cousin Bets’ mom and my grandma’s mom are sisters,” Ollie explained.
“Well, that explains it!” he said, leaning against the car. “I haven’t seen Bets this excited in an age. Your coming to Ireland is all she’s been able to talk about. The whole village is eager to welcome you.”
“Really?” Ollie asked. “The whole village?”
“That’s the story, and so it is,” the man said with another winning smile.
God, his accent was as sexy as his sheer physicality. She could feel all her good intentions starting to cave inside her. Where was her willpower? She closed her eyes and repeated her alternate mantra.No. Men. Ever.
“Roll your window down!” Megan leaned into her lap and hit the button, knocking her out of her moment. “Who put the words on your sheep?”
He pointed to his chest as Angie’s brain captured the rest of him. Long legs covered in worn and faded jeans and Windsor blue wellies up to strong knees. An insulated rain jacket of raw sienna highlighted a broad chest that contained a soulful and intriguing heart, if the words on the sheep were any indication. Her pulse started racing again.
No, no, no, no.She’d vowed she was not going to be sidetracked by another man, no matter how compelling.
She hit the button to roll the window up, wanting to tune out Carrick for her own self-preservation, but Megan grabbed her arm and stopped her. They grappled over the button, the window going up and down, before Megan pinched her like they were little kids again, thus winning like she used to.
“Is your window malfunctioning?” Carrick leaned into the car, enveloping her in what she could only imagine a real man smelled like: the fields, sunshine, wool, and musk.
He had his big strong hand on the window button before she could muster a reply. His presence overwhelmed her. She pressed herself back into the seat to get more space.
“It’s probably a user glitch,” Megan told him, giving her a pointed look. “We’re not used to the steering wheel being on the other side.”
He tested the window before smiling and stepping back. “Seems to be working fine. You’re probably a little tired from the journey.”
“No, I’m great,” Angie responded, not wanting him to know he was getting to her. “It’s only nine in the morning. Heck, I could drive another two hours.”
His thoughtful gaze rested on her. “Seems you brought the sunshine,” he said before turning to talk to Ollie.
Sunshine? Her? Her heart glowed at the compliment.
“What is wrong with you?” Megan hissed under her breath.
I’m weak, she wanted to say, but that was pathetic so she sat on her hands—they might get a mind of their own and reach out and touch his colors and textures, God help her. She looked straight ahead, trying to ignore the handsome stranger. Wasn’t it her bad luck to meet a hot Irishman the moment she arrived? God, shewasliving in a Greek tragedy. She blinked when she read the sheep again.
Be.
Good.
Here.
Seriously? Okay, maybe it was a Greek comedy.
“Why did you write on your sheep, Mr. Fitzgerald?” asked Ollie.
“Yes, why?” Enthusiasm laced Megan’s voice.
Angie bit her lip to keep herself from joining in the conversation. She started to visualize the things that usually tempted her as much as a man. She started with an image of a three-layer dark chocolate cake with chocolate shavings. Cake couldn’t break your heart, and chocolate was an acclaimed healer. But his voice still came through, like the sexy baritone one might hear on a commercial.
“Well, it started on a sad and lonely night, let me tell you, but people around here—the tourists included—all seemed to like it, so it’s become a thing. My wife was a poet, you see. The words are from her poems, so she’s always around me.”
Angie jolted in her seat, her imaginary chocolate cake falling off its table and crashing to the ground.He’s married?
