Wild Irish Envy (Copperline #2) (10 page)

“I should probably shower before I go anywhere,” she finally said. “Is it morning or night? It’s hard to tell the way the light is coming through the window.”

“Morning. That’s why I offered breakfast and not supper.”

“Whatever,” she muttered, “smartass…” I was treated with a fiery little glint in her eye. That spark did weird little things inside me.

“I’ll wait. You go take a shower,” I offered, even though the thought of her naked and wet was sorta killing me all of a sudden. “You do need it. You’ve been out of it for almost two days.”

“Two days?” she softly exclaimed.

“Well, if you count the flight from Butte, and you were lookin’ pretty rough for a majority of that. I got ya checked in here yesterday morning, and you pretty much slept through the day.”

“Damn,” she murmured. “So, it’s Tuesday, right?”

“It is,” I replied.

“Good. I’m supposed to meet with the landlord about my flat Wednesday afternoon.”

“Well, let’s get ya fed first. Then I can help ya find your way around.”

Once again, the puzzled suspicion reflected in her eyes. “Why are you being nice to me?”

Because I’ve thought about you almost every day for years.

The words wanted to come out, but I couldn’t say that. Instead, I shook my head, as though I had no clue.

“Not sure. Just get on with ya before I change my mind.”

For a second, I could see the indecisiveness in her. The wavering wonder if this was a good idea.
Hell if I knew.
I was a fuckhead for suggesting it, but I wasn’t quite ready to leave her all alone yet. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I just wanted a little more time while she sorta kinda needed me.

“It’ll take me about fifteen minutes or so. I just need to clean up and do something with my hair.”

I lifted my chin towards the window. “Well, it’s a grand day for the ducks, so don’t worry about your hair too much.”

“It’s a what for the… what?”

“It’s pissing down.”

She just sort of stared at me and shook her head a little, as though she still wasn’t sure what to make of my words.

“It’s raining right steady out there and not likely to let up for a bit.”

“Gotcha, I think,” she murmured. “Good to know.” Then she nodded and grabbed some clothes from her suitcase before heading back into the bathroom.

Then I groaned as the door closed behind her and the shower kicked on. I really should have said I’d meet her down in the courtyard. Even though she was still not entirely well, and even though I fought it with everything in me, all I could do was sit there on the bed thinking of a wet and soapy Fliss.

We sat in a small restaurant looking over the street. The misty rain was gently falling outside, but the muted light did nothing to dim the bright red of Fliss’ hair or the brilliant blue of her eyes.

“So what will you have,” I asked as we looked over the menus. “How about a good Irish breakfast?”

“What exactly does an Irish breakfast consist of?” Fliss asked. She looked a little bit skeptical, and the wariness was still very evident in her eyes.

“Well, it’s all the traditional things an Irishman would eat for breakfast. Eggs, rashers, beans, black pudding…”

“Beans? You eat beans for breakfast? And what the hell is black pudding?”

She seemed to be turning just slightly green at the gills, and I wondered if maybe all of that might be a bit much considering how sick she had been. She hadn’t eaten hardly anything in two days, nothing but pomegranate smoothies and a few sips of 7-Up.

“I’ll let you off on the pudding, at least until you’re feeling a bit better, but you should have some eggs and rashers. The beans wouldn’t be bad for you, although I know that’s not really something an American typically thinks of as a breakfast food.”

“Can I just have toast? I’m really not very hungry.”

“You need some protein in you, but you can likely get a floury bap or something with your breakfast.”

Fliss stared at me in confusion before she spoke. “What the fuck is a floury bap?”

“Like a, um… a bun.”

“Why don’t you just call it a bun?” she asked.

I grinned. “Because it’s a bap.”

“Can’t I just get toast?” she sighed heavily and turned her face to the window to watch the rain outside. “I really just want toast.” She pursed her lips for a second before looking back at me. “Do you have hash browns here?”

I laughed. “This is Ireland, Fliss. We’ve got about every type of potato dish in existence. We’ve got hash browns.”

After placing our orders and receiving our drinks, I grabbed the glass of 7-Up I’d ordered, not for myself, but for Fliss, then picked up my spoon and began to stir, releasing the carbonation from the clear liquid. Fliss narrowed her eyes, watching me in consternation. I flashed her a slight smile and kept stirring until it seemed sufficiently flat, then pushed it across the table to her.

“Here ya go,” I said. “Drink up. It will cure what ails ya.”

All I received in response was a skeptical glance.

“Really,” I replied. “My nanny always said it will cure everything from a bellyache to a broken leg.”

“It’s 7-Up.”

“It’s
flat
7-Up,” I clarified. “It’s medicinal.”

“Denny, it’s 7-Up.”

I unwrapped a straw and put it in the glass, tipping it towards her lips. “When in Dublin…” I trailed off.

Fliss looked down into the glass, then trained her sapphire-blue eyes back up at me again. “Why flat? What does taking the bubbles out do?”

“You’d have to ask my nanny. I never questioned the old woman, just did as she said.” I nudged the glass just a little closer. “Like you should do.”

So she finally did. And I know it made her feel better, even if she was too stubborn to admit it.

She did admit to loving the rashers, though.

“Wow, this really is awesome bacon,” she moaned as she took a bite, and the moan shot straight through me, making me rather uncomfortable but wishing she’d do it again.

“Better than stripey bacon?” I asked.

“I plead the fifth,” she said.

“You’re in Ireland. That doesn’t really apply here,” I grinned.

Fliss just gave a half smile in response and looked back down at her plate to take another bite of her rapidly disappearing breakfast.

“I guess I was hungrier than I thought,” she murmured.

“Are ya feelin’ a little better?”

“Yeah, quite a bit.”

I tapped her empty 7-Up glass. “See?” I asked with a wide smile.

For the first time in years, I got to hear Fliss giggle. Just a little one. One she tried to keep in, as though she was afraid to let it out… to let me in.

But it warmed my heart and it made me want to hear more.

Picking up her bap, she tore off a small chunk and chewed it thoughtfully with a faint smile on her face. Then she reached across the small table and tapped the bold-lettered ‘
WANKER’
tat on my forearm.

“There was a time I would have totally agreed with this,” she said softly. “You can be a real
wanker
sometimes.”

I kind of hated that tat. The bold letters reminded me again and again that I really needed to stop taking people up on bets. Fortunately, I had enough ink that it wasn’t horribly obvious.

“I lost a bet,” I grimaced. “I got it because of the bet, but also to try and remind me to stop
making
bets.”

“What, like betting money? On horses or something?”

I shook my head. “No, just… betting about stupid shite.”

“Like what?” she asked. “What did you bet that made you get that?”

I leaned back and thought for a moment before I answered, gauging her expression before I decided to tell her. “Whether or not Justin could talk Brannon and his girl into a ménage.”

Fliss’ mouth fell open. “Did you bet that he could or that he couldn’t?”

“Couldn’t.”

“So Justin had a threesome with Brannon and some chick?”

“Not just some chick. Bran’s got a girl of his own these days.”

“And they let Justin join in?”

I nodded. “They did. Justin likes to think it’s some kind of rite of passage in a relationship… to have him join in. And, from what I saw myself, they get it on rather well.”

Fliss’ eyes went wide. “Oh my God, you watched them?”

“Well, not that time.” I cleared my throat to cover my amusement. Fliss was entirely too adorable when she was gobsmacked. “It was just Bran and his fine bit of stuff I watched.”

“Good God,” Fliss gasped. “What kind of parties do you guys have these days?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve watched someone.”

“Seriously?”

“Before I moved to America, my lads and I used to go down to the car parks here in Dublin in hopes of seeing people dogging. Sometimes, one of them would even get brave enough to go in for a tug or two.”

“Dogging?” she asked, tilting her head. “What’s dogging?”

“Doing the bold thing… out in the open.”

She shook her head, still not following me.

“Knocking knickers, like at a car park or something.”

Her blue eyes suddenly went wide. “Like fucking?” she asked in a hushed voice. “In public? Like a couple just goes and parks and gets it on?”

“Couple, singles, a couple couples and singles together,” I shrugged. “And a car park, not just a parked car. Generally some place a little remote, but quite a few people tend to show up. They hear about it through websites and text messages.”

“Singles? Like just some person goes alone and finds someone to hook up with?”

I nodded, beginning to feel just slightly uncomfortable with the topic of this conversation once I remembered who I was having it with. Part of it had to do with the lovely little ‘o’ shape her mouth took on when she was right shocked.

It sorta gave me ideas.

“Wow,” she murmured, “that’s… wow. And you’ve done it?”

“I’ve watched… never participated.”

She looked down and to the side thoughtfully, then back up to me. “Have you ever wanted to?”

Danger. Danger.
This conversation was quickly careening out of control. Talking to Fliss was hard enough without adding the whole talking about sex thing, too. I was beginning to become very uncomfortable, physically and psychologically.

“Jaysus, Fliss,” I muttered. “You almost sound like you want to.”

“I’m not some innocent little virgin, Denny,” she retorted.

“I know that,” I scoffed. “Believe me, Trent was always happy to share the details.”

“I wasn’t a virgin when I met Trent, either. I’m not like a total slut, but I like sex, so I have sex.”

“Feckin’ hell, Fliss,” I blanched, “I’m not so sure I want to talk about this with you.”

“Why, Denny? Does it make you uncomfortable? Is it going to make you run away from me again?”

I straightened in my chair and looked at her dead-on. “I never ran away from you.”

“Well, you sure as fuck avoided me.” She looked down and toyed with the bits of hash browns left on her plate with a frown. “I guess I don’t get it,” she whispered.

“You don’t get what?” I asked, completely confused.

“Any of it…” she said, looking directly at me. The deep blue of her eyes suddenly burned with confusion and a ragged torment that seemed bone deep. “What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“You. You were so…
wanker
-y?”

“Maybe I’m just a fuckhead,” I suggested with an attempt at a nonchalant shrug.

She stared at me for a long moment, and then she shook her head slowly from side to side.

“No, because you weren’t a dick at first and then you were. And then, out of the blue, you aren’t again.”

“Fliss—” I warned. I didn’t want to go there. I didn’t even want to think about it, much less talk about it. Especially with her, of all people.