Page 10 of Beneath Pearly Irish Skies
“I could have sworn I saw a sizeable club in your Mercedes when we went to dinner the other night. The night I lost my keys.”
“You know what kind of club that is.” He shot her a look, and she had to hold back a chuckle. Leave it to him to joke about his manhood. No doubt he’d known it would make her laughandmake her belly tight with desire.
He liked to joke with her, but he also gave her what she needed, everything from passionate kisses to pleasant hours reading in her parlor or his greenhouse, where he’d bought her her very own chair in hot red.
She hadn’t expected Donal O’Dwyer. She’d known him and liked him for decades, but never likethis. Why, the fool man had planted an entire rose garden for her.
“You like sex, don’t you, Bets?” he asked straight out, his green eyes suddenly narrowing.
“Oh, Jesus, I thought you were only havingcoffee,” Liam said, stopping a few steps into the kitchen. Then he turned right back around and walked out.
“Liam O’Hanlon, come back here!”
That was another reason why she was dragging her feet. Her son lived with her. Sure, he was an adult, but he lived down the hall.Down the hall.He approved of Donal, but she was a little weirded out by the setup. Because she expected she was going to be really loud with Donal.
Maybe she could buy Liam earplugs. Yeah, she could see that.Here, son. Please shove these into your ears at night so you won’t hear your mom shouting Donal O’Dwyer’s name at the top of her lungs.
Liam had never brought a girl home, knowing it was a house rule. Until now, they hadn’t talked about changing that rule now that he was a grown man. Should she bring it up? Jesus, she didn’t need questions like this at her age. It had to be bad for her blood pressure.
Her son appeared again, peeking into the kitchen with a knowing grin on his face. “You sure, Mum? I can grab my coffee and a roll and head to the parlor for breakfast.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, fighting the urge to rise and serve him like she’d done most of her life. Maybe it was how she’d been raised—a woman took care of things—as much as her days as a bartender. Whatever the reason, she had to stop herself from falling back into old patterns with her sons. And she imagined the same would also be true with Donal, should they become a real couple, married or not.
Pulling on the gold hoop in his left ear, her son made a face. “I don’t want to be in the way. It’s no bother, Mum.”
Her heart hitched a little at that. This was his home as much as hers, and that was something she’d never see change. “Come. Sit. We’re finished talking.”
“Are we now?” Donal asked softly. “We’ll pick this topic up another time.”
She nodded. “Yes, we’ll talk.”
He kissed her cheek and stood. “I’ll see to the fridge and do my best to cool down.”
If that didn’t melt her on the spot…
He headed over and pulled the fridge out and looked behind it. She frowned as Donal pounded the back of it, muttering swear words in Gaelic like she didn’t know their meaning.
“Is it on the fritz again?” Liam asked, sighing audibly. “Mum, you need to call it and get a new one. I know you love it, but this has been going on since Angie and Megan arrived.”
“Do you know how hard it was to find a red refrigerator?”
“If it doesn’t work, what does it matter?” Liam asked. “I can paint a white one for you if you’d like. Good morning, Donal, by the way.”
“Morning, Liam,” he replied, his head buried behind the fridge.
The back door opened, and she glanced over to see Brady McGrath holding a letter as well as a stack of envelopes. “Good morning, all. Bets, I brought your regular mail along with this letter addressed to you at the arts center.”
“Thanks, Brady,” she said, smiling at her dear friend Siobhan’s son, so much like another son to her. But now the moment with Donal wasdefinitelyover. She wasn’t sure if she was frustrated or relieved. Probably both.
“Grand day, isn’t it?” Brady said, dropping the mail beside her and then opening the cupboard for a mug and pouring himself a cup of coffee, something everyone did on a chat.
When she’d first come to Ireland, she’d been shocked to discover that the postman—and pretty much everyone else—simply walked into one’s house unbidden and expected coffee or tea and sometimes a biscuit. She didn’t mind people popping by, but it had presented a glaring problem to her, a newly married woman.
She’d suggested locking the doors. Bruce had laughed at her naiveté, saying people would make a big deal of it since it wasn’t the custom. They’d ask you why you’d locked them—cringe—or peer into the windows to see if you were dead or had fallen since your car was visible—double cringe.
Or they’d call the Garda, the Irish police, to look for you.
Flummoxed, she’d asked how anyone had sex outside their bedroom during the day if people just popped by all the time. One didn’t, he’d said and brushed it off, hurting her feelings.
