Page 37 of Illicit Heir

I finally understand why my brothers couldn't let their O'Leary women go.

Yet I'm not them. I won't be stupid like they were and take that headache on. Besides, there's no way in hell that Lauren would ever come near me again.

So all these thoughts are pointless. She is who she is, and I am who I am. Yet the facts don't stop my brain from running a mile a minute.

I got it out of my system. I fucked an O'Leary, and now I can move on with my life.

I'm full of shit. I could keep her as mine and make her forgive me. I should turn her against the O'Learys like my brothers did with their wives.

No, I'm just having a momentary lapse of judgment, wanting what I know I can't have.

I could get her back.

What am I saying?

My debate and scolding goes on and on until we arrive in Belfast. I order my brother to drop me off at my flat. I step inside and walk to the window, cross my arms, and stare out into the city.

Belfast just isn't New York.

I miss everything about my city, including its busyness, the rude people, and the frantic energy. Belfast is a nice city, but something about New York fills me with life. It's missing here in Ireland.

It only takes a few minutes of missing home to realize something that doesn't help my current predicament.

Last night was the first time I felt like myself in a long time.

It's because of Lauren.

I grumble out loud, "Goddammit. Stop being a fucking pussy and thinking about her."

I go change my clothes and leave my flat. I walk for several miles and finally end up at the pub, feeling just as angsty as when I left my flat.

I need to find another bird to shag so I can get her out of my system.

I go inside the pub, even though it's barely noon. There are only a few people scattered about at this time of the day. I grab a barstool and sit on it.

The barmaid, Chloe, looks up. She chirps, "Devin, are ya hungry?"

My stomach growls, and I realize I'm famished. "Aye."

She bats her eyes, leaning across the counter, stating, "We've got some bangers and mash on special today. It's fresh. Want me to fix ya a plate?"

"Aye," I agree, nodding and motioning to the levers. "I'll take a pint too."

She pours Guinness into a glass and sets it in front of me, offering, "On the house." Her cheeks flush, but I ignore the little advance and nicety. Since our rendezvous about six months ago, she's been dying for a repeat. But I'm not interested.

She's not Lauren.

Jesus, I need to let it go.

I mumble, "Thanks," and concentrate on the TV screen, barely tasting the Guinness as it hits my tongue.

"Can I get ya anything else?" she questions.

I glance at her and sternly say, "No."

Disappointment fills her expression. All it does is reiterate how much I don't want to sleep with her.

She's too eager. I wouldn't even have to ask. I'd just have to cock my head and point at the stairs, the back room, or tell her to lock the pub and kick everyone out. I know she'd do it. Most of the women who frequent this pub would do it.

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