Page 22 of Devil's Luck

I love learning little Irish words and phrases from Fergus. I hope to one day be able to speak it fluently with him, and maybe even teach our future children the language of my love’s birthplace.

As we climb the ladder into the loft, Fergus stays close behind me, saying he wants to make sure I don’t fall. I’ve climbed this ladder a thousand times by myself, and at a lot quicker pace than he’s letting me move now, but he won’t relent. “Please be careful. It’s only been a week—“

When we reach the top, I silence him with a kiss. “No more take about that. We’re here to have a good day.”

“Yes, boss.” What a cheeky devil I have found.

Looking around the loft, a flash of memories flood my mind in seconds. I don’t know how Fergus knows about this place, but this surprise is the best.

“Do I even want to know how you arranged this date, and got all of this up here before we arrived?”

As Fergus pulls me down to the black and green checkered quilt laid out on the hay scattered wood plank floor, he tugs a picnic basket closer to us. “I might have had some help.”

“Like who?” I ask as I sit up on my knees and open the double lidded basket to see what’s on the menu. But as soon as I see the food inside, I know exactly who helped him with this ruse.

“I asked Remi for your Mama and Dad’s number,” I was right! “and when I told them my plan, they were all in to help set this up for us.”

My mama’s crispy fried chicken is still warm and the smell of oil and seasonings fill the loft. Alongside a container of potato wedges, coleslaw, and made from scratch biscuits, I am in heaven.

“This is the best date I’ve ever had.” I turn scoot as close to Fergus as I can, my knees press into his thigh. I lean in to kiss him, but he takes over in a flash.

His kiss isn’t romantic, not in the way you’d think. It’s not soft or sweet or gentle, it’s brash and erratic and hungry. He steals my breath and my body shivers with the need bursting from him.

Fergus threads his right hand into my hair, tugging a handful at my roots, directing me where he needs me, holding me in place so I have no choice but to grab hold of his shoulders and just let him lead.

When he finally lets our lips break apart, I suck in a lungful of air and feel a little dizzy. “You are a damn fine kisser, Mr. O’Carroll.”

“There’s lots more where that came from.” He pecks my nose and nudges me in the direction of the picnic basket that I’ve almost forgotten all about. “There’s one more thing in there that’s not food that I need you to pull out before we get to eating lunch.”

“What is it?” I ask as I rifle around the containers, looking for whatever mystery item he’s talking about. “I’m not seein’—“ and then I see it.

And my world spins up and slows down all at the same time. This really can’t be happening . . . can it?

“Nola,” Fergus’s voice is soft and quiet, a volume he doesn’t use very often. “Look at me love.”

I grab hold of the small and square, velvet soft box and pull it out of the basket, then hold it up between us. “What’s this?”

“Why don’t you open it and see?”

I pinch the top of the box and flip it open, but what I find inside is not what I was expecting. My heart drops a little and I know my face is showing confusion and sadness.

“A key?” I fall back on my butt as I pull a single silver key hanging from a green, four leaf clover, metal keychain from the box and dangle it between us. “What’s this for?”

“Our house,” Fergus replies with a soft smile.

“Your house?” I’m so confused. I’m still trying to figure out which way is up, because as soon as I saw the box, I thought this afternoon was headed in a much different direction.

“No, Nola.” He tugs on the keyring, then lifts me into his lap. He’s sitting flat on the floor, legs together and out straight. He then arranges me so my butt is on his thighs and my legs are bracketing his hips. “Our house. I want you to live with me forever, mo fhíorghra.”

“But I already moved in with you. Didn’t I?”

“You did. But the key is only the first part of your gift.” Fergus shifts my left leg a little bit so he can reach into the right front pocket of his jeans. “This is the real reason we’re here.” And he holds up a green heart shaped gemstone silver claddagh ring, pinched between his thumb and index finger.

“That looks just like Remi’s,” I gasp.

“It does,” he says with a smile as he grabs hold of my left hand, “but this one was Nana Máire’s. Tadhg got one made for Remi, but she gave this one to me when I was younger.”

“It’s beautiful, Fergus. Thank you.”

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