Kiss Me, I'm Irish: The Sins of His Past / Tangling With Ty / Whatever Reilly Wants...

She’d have to keep the conversation on him. Otherwise, he’d probe too deeply. “So, what was your thought right before you hit the wall in that car?”

“My dad’s gonna kill me.”

“He was furious,” she acknowledged. “The language was colorful, I can tell you.”

He glanced at her. “How did you screw up?”

“Let it go, Deuce.” Please.

“Was there a guy involved?”

“Yes.” The truth.

“Did you love him?”

“Yes.” More truth.

“Do you still?”

Oh Lord. “Once in a while, I think about him,” she managed to say, despite the real estate her heart was taking up in her throat.

“Did he…hurt you?”

She thought of the blood and the pain and the insane trip to the hospital. All the guilt and disappointment, and, the worst part, the relief. “They were dark days.” She’d lost the baby, Harvard and Deuce. “But I survived.”

She pulled the seatbelt away from her chest, sucked in a breath of sea-salted air and smiled at him, aware that for the whole conversation, his hand had stayed firmly planted on her leg. “So what kind of pizza oven did you want to get?”

He shot her another disbelieving look at her sudden segue.

“You know, the more I think about it,” she added before he could answer, “the more I think pizza would be a big hit at the café. I did a little research and Baker’s Pride, Blodgett and Lincoln seem to be the best options.” They stopped at a light, but she let the words roll out and fill the air. “The best price would be Blodgett, which is truly commercial grade, and I think we might even be able to get a refurbished—”

His fingers squeezed her thigh. “We were talking about your love life.”

She put her hand over his, instantly loving the power she felt in those fingers, the hint of masculine hair tickling her skin, the sinewy muscles that baseball had formed. “Now we’re talking about pizza ovens. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

“One of the reasons,” he said, turning his hand so they were palm to palm and threading his fingers through hers. “The other reason is because I’ve been trying to get you alone for a week and it’s impossible.”

“I’m busy.” She congratulated herself on yet another half truth that could not technically be called a lie. Why didn’t she extricate her hand from his?

Because she couldn’t. Any more than she could look away as he leaned closer to her face. His mouth was a breath away. His eyes locked on hers and his lips parted as he closed the remaining space between them.

The kiss was hotter than the sun that burned leather seats, and sweeter than anything Kendra could remember. At least, since the last time he’d kissed her.

A horn honked and startled them apart.

He held up his hand in apology to the car behind them, but didn’t take his gaze from hers. “I’m not even close to done with talking about your love life.” He shoved the gearshift into first. “Or kissing you.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

DEUCE SAW THE LOOK of shock on Kendra’s face when he’d introduced himself as Seamus Monroe to Buddy McCrosson, owner of Fall River Restaurant Supplies. Either Buddy didn’t put two and two together with the names, or he wasn’t a baseball fan. Either way, Deuce and Kendra spent nearly two hours with the man and no one mentioned the Snake Eyes or their former pitcher.

Watching Kendra in action was definitely the best part of the meeting. Although she never lost that feminine, sexy aura that surrounded her, she pounded out a tough deal, negotiated for way more than he’d have even thought of, and managed to let poor Buddy think it was all his idea.

All the while, Deuce studied her long, capable fingers as she examined a refurbished oven and imagined them on him. He listened to her soft laugh and fantasized about hearing it as he slowly undressed her. And, of course, he took any excuse to brush her silky skin or touch her slender shoulder.

He hadn’t been kidding when he told her he wasn’t done kissing her. He wasn’t.

While she’d gotten Buddy to knock off two percentage points of interest on a short-term loan and throw in an $800 fryer—surprising him completely with her willingness to add more unhealthy food to her café menu—Deuce had started planning where and how and when he’d get back to kissing her.

The minute they said goodbye to Buddy, he launched his plan into action.

“I’m starved,” he told her as they climbed back into the 450 SL.

“Anything but pizza,” she agreed, buckling her seatbelt. “There are tons of places between here and home.”

“I know exactly where we’re going.” But he had no intention of telling her. “It’ll be a little while before we eat, but I promise, it’s worth the wait.”

She gave him a curious look, but didn’t argue. She slid the paperwork from their meeting into the side pocket of her door, then dropped her head back and closed her eyes, letting the sun light her face. As he turned to back out of the parking spot, his gaze lingered on her face, her long throat, her sweet lips.

He wanted to kiss her right then. Why wait? Because, as any good pitcher knew, timing was the key to success.

They listened to jazz and barely spoke as he drove toward Rockingham. When they finally stopped at a deli in West Dennis, she looked surprised.

“Barnstable Bagel?” She half laughed. “You in the mood for a Reuben?”

“Great deli sandwiches here, if I recall correctly.” If he told her he was going for atmosphere instead of cuisine, she’d fight him. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

When he returned, she took the bag of food and drinks that he handed her and tucked it into the space behind their seats. “We’re eating in the car?”

“I believe it’s called a picnic.”

She lowered her sunglasses enough to look hard at him. “A picnic?”

“Chill out, Ken-doll. You’ll like it.” He hoped.

When he pulled up to the dunes at West Rock Beach, he practically felt her whole body tense. He shut off the engine and turned for the bag in the back. “I’ve always liked this beach.”

She backed away to avoid contact. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

“No,” he said slowly, pulling up the deli bag. “This is my idea of a picnic.”

“This is… We don’t have a blanket,” she said quickly.

“We can sit on the benches.”

Barely disguising a long, slow sigh, she climbed out of the car and they walked toward a low rise of the dunes, then stopped to take in the panorama of the Atlantic Ocean. A cool, salty breeze lifted his hair and filled his nostrils.

“Why are you doing this, Deuce?” she asked quietly.

“This has always been my favorite beach.”

Without responding, she reached down and slid out of her loafers, then bounded toward the weather-worn bench that faced the ocean. He followed her, lumps of sand sliding into his own shoes.

“And because I want to make up for not calling you,” he said as he sat next to her.

“By coming here?” She crossed her arms and faced the water. “I told you, I’ve forgotten about it and I think you should, too.”

“Turkey or roast beef?” He held out the two wrapped sandwiches and she took the one marked with the T.

“I’ll take this one.”

“You’re lying, Kendra.”

She looked up at him. “I like turkey.”

“You haven’t completely forgotten.”

Wordlessly, she unwrapped the sandwich and made a little tray on her lap with the white deli paper. As he did the same, she nibbled at the crust of the whole grain bread, gazing at the blue-black waters of the Atlantic.

“Okay,” she finally said, setting her sandwich in her lap, “I haven’t forgotten. But I forgive. I mean, I forgive you for never calling. I don’t see any reason to hold a grudge. Can we move on now?”

“But you remember everything else?”

She nodded, but didn’t look at him.

“So do I,” he admitted. Every kiss, every touch, even that long, shuddering sigh as he entered her.

He thought he saw her close her eyes behind her sunglasses, but then they ate in silence, only the rhythmic crashing of the waves and the occasional squawk of a gull breaking the mood. Two young mothers with three kids between them wandered by looking for shells, and a retired couple walked hand-in-hand by the water’s edge. He stole a sideways glance to see which vignette held her attention.

Her focus was on the children. Funny, he’d thought she’d like the old people who still held hands. He regarded her as she took a bite of a potato chip, watching the children with rapt attention.

“You want kids, Kendra?”

Her jaw stopped moving and her whole being froze. Slowly, she wiped the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin and swallowed. “What brought that question on?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re about thirty, right?”

“As of last November.”

“Well, don’t most women your age want kids? Tick-tock and all that?”

She didn’t answer, but that little vein jumped in her neck. She took a drink of water and he watched her throat rise and fall.

“I’m so involved with the café, I don’t really think about it,” she finally said.

He opened another water bottle for himself. “I want kids,” he announced, surprising himself with the sudden candor. By the look on her face, he’d surprised her, too. “I do,” he continued. “Nine boys so I could have my own little team.”

She leaned back and let out that pretty laugh that sounded like music. “I pity the poor woman who has to give you nine children.”

“Adoption.” He could have sworn she sucked in a tiny breath at the word. “Seriously. Adopt a couple of sets of twins and bam, you got an infield.”

“You’re nuts.” She folded up the white paper carefully, her fingers quivering a little.

“Are you cold?” he asked, reaching over to touch her hands. “We can go back to the car.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

God, he loved holding her hand, touching her skin. He squeezed her fingers.

“Listen to me,” he said softly. “It wasn’t as if that night didn’t leave an impression,” he said slowly. “Because it did.”

She whipped her hand out from his grip. “What part of I don’t want to talk about it anymore don’t you understand, Deuce?”

“Why don’t you want to talk about it?”

She blew out a disgusted breath. “Maybe because it embarrasses me.”

“Why are you embarrassed? It was…” Incredible. Amazing. Mind-boggling. He got hard just thinking about it. “Great.”

“I doubt you remember the details.”

Oh but he did. “You’re wrong.”

She folded the deli paper into a tiny square and held a pickle to him. “Want this?”

“Don’t change the subject again.”

“I’m not changing the subject. I’m offering you a pickle.”

“I’m offering you an apology.”

“You did that already. Apology accepted. But you’re going to owe me another one if you don’t drop the subject.”

He took the pickle and her deli wrap, stuffed them into the bag, and carried it all to a trash can about twenty feet away. She stayed on the bench, sipping her water.

When he returned, he held out his hand. “Let’s take a walk.”

She just looked up at him, a half smile tipping her lips, deepening her dimples. “Aren’t you a little overdressed for a walk on the beach?”

He reached down and slid off his Docksiders and socks and tucked them under the bench next to her loafers. “Let’s go.”

For a moment, he thought she was about to refuse, but then she slipped her hand in his and stayed by his side as they walked down to the sand still packed solid by the morning tide.

“I wisely carried a blanket around in those days,” he said. “Came in handy that night, didn’t it?”

She playfully punched his arm with her free hand. “You won’t let go, will you?” Before he could answer, she slowed her step, shaking her head. “Actually, as I recall, I grabbed the blanket from the bar before we left because it was chilly and you had your dad’s car.”

He frowned. “I thought I had a blanket in the trunk.”

“See?” she said, her voice rich with both humor and accusation. “You don’t remember a thing.”

“Not true. I remember kissing you outside Monroe’s, by that side wall.” She’d tasted like oranges and cherries, as if she’d been sampling the bar garnishes.

“We were in the car the first time we kissed.”

He closed his eyes for a minute. He could remember the taste of her, the need to pull her closer, but he didn’t remember if they were standing or sitting. “Maybe. But I remember the kiss.”

“Me too.” She whispered the words into the wind, but he caught them.

Deuce let go of her hand and put his arm around her shoulders. “You were wearing a little pink top.”

“Blue.”

“Your hair was shorter.”

“In a ponytail.”

He tightened his grip and lowered his voice. “You had a snap-in-front bra.”

“Finally, he gets something right.”

“I bet I remember more details than you do,” he insisted.

“You’d lose that bet.”

“I would not.”

“Cocky and arrogant as always.” She dipped out of his touch and slowed her step. Deliberately, she pushed her sunglasses over her forehead and the look in her eyes hit him like a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball to the chest. “There is nothing, no detail, no minor, incidental facet of that night I have forgotten. Don’t bet me, Deuce Monroe, because you’ll lose.”

He never lost. Didn’t she know that? He took his own sunglasses off so she could see the seriousness in his eyes. “I’ll bet you a reenactment.”

She stopped dead in the sand. “Excuse me?”

“If I can remember more details about the night than you can, I get a reenactment. On the beach. Tonight. Maybe again the next night.”

She shook her head, the only sound she could make was a disbelieving laugh. “And what if I win? What do I get?”

“A reenactment. That way we both win.”

Just as her jaw dropped, he reached down and sealed the deal with that kiss he’d been wanting all day long.

BLOOD RUSHED THROUGH Kendra’s head, deafening her and drowning out the sound of the waves. For stability, she reached up and grabbed Deuce’s rock-hard shoulders just as he opened his mouth and deepened the kiss. Wide warm lips covered hers and the tip of his tongue slid against her teeth with unbelievable familiarity, a welcome invasion that made her whole body clutch.

He wrapped his arms around her and eased her against his body with a low, slow, nearly inaudible groan.

“For example, I remember that you like,” he whispered huskily against her mouth as he broke the kiss, but not the body contact, “very deep, very long French kisses.”

Arousal, quick and sharp, twisted inside her, forming a knot in her tummy and between her legs.

She dug deep for sanity and a clear head, but he ran his hands down to the small of her back and pressed her hips against his. Her throat felt as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of sand.

“And I remember,” he said, making a tiny left-right motion with his hips, “that you can have an orgasm fully clothed and in the car.”

Her hips responded with a mind of their own, driving against him with some uncontrollable need to prove him right. She couldn’t argue with his memory. She couldn’t argue with his body, kisses or silky voice either.

Lifting her face to his, she kissed him again for the sheer overwhelming joy of it, stalling the inevitable with one more dance of their tongues, one more minute of heaven.

With a long, deep breath she managed to ease him back and end the kiss.

“All lucky guesses,” she told him. “You could be talking about any of the dozens of girls you seduced on this beach.”

“No,” he denied. “No one on this beach but you.”

Wouldn’t she like to believe that?

“I already told you two things you forgot,” he teased. “And I bet you don’t even remember what I wore that night.”

She frowned and scoured her well-visited memory bank. Surely she knew every thread of clothing he had on that night. But all she could see was his face. His bare chest. His… Oh, of all the things to forget. What was he wearing that night? She had to blame the memory loss on the blood draining from her head to that achy spot between her legs. “Are you asking me if I remember what you wore?”

“You’re stalling for time, Ken-doll. You heard me. What did I have on that night?” He raised a suggestive eyebrow. “That is until you undressed me.”

Oh, yes, they’d undressed each other. She could still remember the feel of his flesh as she pushed his clothes away. As she closed her fingers around his shaft.

Another bolt of that heat lightning singed her at the thought.

She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes, infusing her tone with confidence. “A baseball shirt and jeans.”

“Nice guess, but wrong.”

“You don’t remember what you were wearing,” she countered. “You probably don’t remember what you wore yesterday.” But she did.

“Funny thing is, I do remember.” He tunneled his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck, his large hands engulfing the back of her head. Her stomach braced for another dizzying kiss. “I’d gone to the bar that night after having dinner with some relatives who were still in town for the funeral.” He did remember that night. The realization that it was important to him made her almost as lightheaded as the way he was holding her. “So I had dress pants on, something like these. I wouldn’t wear those with a baseball jersey.” His smile was victorious.

“Okay, so you remember some things. But if we had a contest, I’d win.” Why she’d admit that the night meant so much to her, she wasn’t sure. Probably because the game was fun. His hands were fun. That last kiss was way more than fun.

“Care to exchange more memories, sweetheart? I’m really looking forward to the historic reenactment of…” He paused for a moment.

Bingo. She had him. “You don’t remember the date.”

“I do. Of course I do. It was June. Before the All-Star break.” He dragged his hands up and down her spine, closing his eyes as though he was memorizing the feel of her, and for a moment she thought she might melt right into the sand. “June twelfth,” he said. “A Friday night.”

“I’m in trouble,” she said with a laugh. “You’re starting to scare me.”

“I told you, I remember everything.”

“The date and the style of my bra. Hardly everything.”

He pulled her close again, putting his mouth up against her ear. “I remember what you said afterwards.”

I love you, Deuce Monroe. I’ve always loved you and I always will.

Her heart really did stop, then it thundered in double-time against her chest. She waited for him to repeat her declaration and knew she couldn’t deny it.

“You said…” His breath tickled her ear. “‘I can’t wait for the next time.’”

Yes, she’d said that, too. Maybe he didn’t remember the whole I-love-you-forever-and-always part. She could hope.

“Guess what, Miss Locke?”

She backed away from his treacherous lips and looked at him. “What?”

“I think I out-remember you.”

“Not a chance.” Was there?

“What did I say to you when you left?”

She regarded him, looking for clues in those eyes. How could she forget? But she had? She had no memory of his last words to her. “You said, ‘See ya later, Ken-doll.’”

He shook his head. “I win. I’ll pick you up tonight after the bar closes. Say, midnight?”

“What did you say?” she asked, trying to ignore the voice in her head that was screaming yes, I’ll be ready at midnight! “When we said goodbye, Deuce. What did you say to me?”

“I’ll tell you tonight. Or better yet…” he grinned at her the way he did right after he left some poor kid at the plate not knowing what had hit him. “I’ll tell you tomorrow morning when you wake up.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

EVERY TIME THE FRONT door of Monroe’s opened, Deuce glanced up from the almost empty bar, expecting to see Kendra. Not that he really thought she’d come down to the bar to speed up the closing process so they could get to the beach…but he hoped. His blood simmered at the thought. She wouldn’t back out, would she?

After all, a bet was a bet.

At eleven o’clock, only two stragglers sipped beers and watched the end of a Celtics game at one end of the bar. The medieval game-playing twins had abandoned their jousting to work a couple of girls at a table, but they’d already closed their tab. A few other tables were ready to call it a night.

Very soon, he could close up and collect on his bet. At the sound of the great door creaking open, he turned to see Martin Hatcher pulling off a bright-green trucker cap as he entered.

His eyes lit up at the sight of Deuce. “There’s my favorite knuckleball man,” he said, ambling over to the bar.

“Kind of late for you, isn’t it, sir?” Would the Hatchet Man settle in for a few hours? Not that Deuce wouldn’t enjoy the conversation, but tonight he wanted to close as early as possible.

Martin slipped onto a barstool and crossed his arms. “I’m retired, son. So it’s no longer a school night for me. How about a draft?”

“Coming right up.” Deuce poured the golden liquid, tilting the glass to create the perfect head. “Here you go, sir.”

Martin raised the glass in salute. “Lose the sir, Deuce.”

Deuce laughed and leaned on the bar. “You’ll always be the voice of authority to me, Martin.”

The glass halted halfway to his mouth as his lips twitched. “I’ve never been the voice of authority to you, Deuce. You always marched to your own…authority.”

Then he drank. One of the bar patrons held up a twenty and Deuce cashed them out and said good night. Two down, a few to go. He moved back down to where the ex-principal sat.

“Been to any more practices?” Martin asked.

Deuce shook his head, but Martin’s look stopped him. He could never fudge the truth with the Hatchet Man. “All right. One. Well, two.”

Martin released a soft, knowing chuckle. “How’s the elbow doing?”

“Not bad, actually.” He rubbed the tender spot, and blessed the workouts he’d been secretly doing every day. “I can actually throw a knuckleball again. But man cannot live by knuckleballs alone.”

“Keep working out and you can play again.”

“I can play now,” Deuce said defensively. “It’s the lawyers who blackballed me from baseball, not the doctors. I’d need more P.T., but…” his voice drifted away. “Anyway, I’m a barkeep now.”

“You can’t stay away from a ball field,” Martin said with a wry smile. “I remember that was the only way I could really get to you. Detention, suspension, parental call-ins, nothing worked but keeping you off the field.”

“That was where I wanted to be,” Deuce agreed. “Although detention had its side benefits. That’s where you find the cute bad girls.”

Martin laughed at that and sipped some more draft, then glanced around. “But not your business partner,” he mused. “She never did anything bad.”

But she would. In an hour or two.

“Where is Kendra?” Martin asked.

Hopefully, slipping into something…easy to slip out of. “She only works days. I cover the nights.”

“Interesting arrangement,” Martin mused. “How’s that going?”

“We’re working on some changes.” Deuce flipped on the water to wash the last of the glasses as a burst of laughter erupted from the Gibbons’s table. Maybe they were getting ready to take the ladies home for a wild night of medieval sportsmanship.

“As I understand it, Kendra was already working on some changes for Monroe’s. Did she tell you about them?”

Deuce looked up from the sink. “Of course. I’ve seen all the plans.”

“What do you think?”

The truth was, he thought that her plans were great. But he also could make a sports bar profitable. Deep inside, he hoped for a compromise, but couldn’t imagine her agreeing to it. “Jury’s out.”