Page 75 of The Scald Crow

“Are you really a tree farmer?” I pressed him, delving into his personal life.

“Hmm.” He drew his thumb between the cuff of my sleeve and my wrist, the gold flecks in his eyes deepening.

“The truth. The whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” I drummed my fingers on the table.

“If I tell you, I might have to kill you.” He covered my hand, stilling my tap dance.

“Really?” I grinned.

The lantern overhead flickered and then went out.

“Perhaps.” His voice surrounded me.

“Perhaps?” My curiosity piqued. His past seemed shady and secretive.

The lights flickered and then sparked, bathing the booth in a golden glow.

“I do freelance work for the government.” His face colored a delectable soft pink.

“The government?” The bench groaned as I sat back. “Whose government?”

“The Irish Republic. Dark ops,” he murmured as if the world was listening.

My imagination fired in all directions.

“Dark Ops? Oh my God, are you a hitman?” I exclaimed in a loud voice.

“No.” His matter-of-fact voice expected me to believe him.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” I lifted his chin with my forefinger, holding his heart captive.

“I can’t. I can tell you one thing, though. I’ll be staying in Ireland for a while.” He set his knife and fork on either side of his place setting.

“A while?” I ran my thumb over my bottom lip. That was a bombshell revelation.

“Here we are, folks.” The server brought our order to us: Colm’s fish and chips, my oysters served on the half shell, and a farl of dark and dense Irish Wheaten bread.

“Wow, that looks amazing.” I reached for one of Colm’s crispy fries. “I should have ordered some.”

“Help yourself. I’m watching my figure.” He slid half the fries onto a side plate.

“Your figure looks great. Have some oysters.” I gestured toward the generous platter.

“I don’t eat those things.” He supped on his brew, watching me over the rim of his glass. His gaze told me one thing.

“They’re an aphrodisiac.” I bit down on my lower lip. Swallowing my hunger for that man became more impossible by the minute.

“My sex drive is one hundred and ten percent, and all appendages are operating at full capacity.” He defended his virility.

“I love this bread.” I slathered yellow butter on top of one thick slice. “Do you always hold your pinky finger in the air when you drink?” I slurped one oyster and washed it down with a hearty hunk of the moist and nutty bread.

“I guess I do.” He chuckled.

“Is it a family trait?” I smothered the chips with ketchup.

“Can’t say I’ve noticed.” He peeled the crispy batter away from his fillet, leaving remnants piled on the side of his plate.

“What are you doing?” I wolfed down two ketchup-covered chips at a time.

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