Page 101 of Her Irish Savage

“Fiona and me?”

Hannah glances at my hand, the one that’s gripping my coffee mug so tight the pottery might shatter. “Crap,” she says again. “You aren’t married yet.”

“There’s noyet. We’re just friends. Wewerefriends.”

Her look is full of skepticism, like I’ve just told her I left my wallet at home and can’t afford to pay for the breakfast I’ve finished. “Right,” she finally says. “Whatever.”

I debate how much of an explanation I owe this woman because—however unlikely—Iamher Uncle Pat. Before I can settle on an answer, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

My stomach registers the letters on the screen before my brain does, and I regret my second cup of coffee. I look around the bakery like I expect to find a hidden camera. Or maybe there’s a microphone taped beneath the counter.

Hannah glances at the screen and cracks up—a full belly laugh that crinkles her eyes and shows her teeth. “Go on and answer that,” she says. “I’ve got dishes to wash.”

I barely notice her walking back behind the counter. Instead, I’m busy clearing my throat. I’m fighting to draw a full breath. I’m telling myself to let the call go to voicemail.

But my hand doesn’t listen to my feckin’ brain. My finger lands heavily on the bright green icon. I raise the phone to my ear and try to sound normal as I say her name: “Fiona.”

43

FIONA

Ididn’t think this far ahead.

It’s been a week since Oona told me to call Patrick. A week that I’ve been telling myself she’s wrong. She doesn’t really know me. She still thinks I’m a child, that I’m hercoinín beag. Not Fiona Fucking Ingram.

Iamstill hercoinín beag.And I’m Fiona Fucking Ingram. And I’m…whatever the fuck that word is that Patrick calls me, the one I’ve never managed to find online or in print, even though I’ve bought three different Irish-English dictionaries.

And I’m going to be Aran Dowd’s wife if I set foot outside this apartment. If any member of the Crew finds me anywhere in Boston.

So I finally call.

I’m convinced Patrick won’t answer. I’ll hang up. I won’t even bother with voicemail. That’s how civilized people use their phones, right? We look to see what calls we’ve missed, and we phone back if we want to.

“Fiona,” he says again, and his voice sounds strange. “Are you okay? Give me a number between one and five if someone’s keeping you from speaking freely.”

“Patrick,” I finally say. I’m laughing, because the first thing he thought was that he had to save me. And he’s laughing, probably because I didn’t give him a number. “Where are you?” I ask, and I pray he doesn’t say Philadelphia, because I know him. He’s loyal, and it would make perfect sense for him to go back to Braiden Kelly. Back to the one clan that’s ever welcomed him with open arms.

“At the bakery.”

“The bakery?”

“Yankee Roast. Where we met Rónnad.”

Thank God.But I don’t say that out loud. Instead, I say, “Then you can be here in half an hour.”

“Here?” he asks. It’s only one word. Four little letters. But it carries more than a month of all the bitter things we said on that golf course, all the hateful words we spewed inside that car.

“Beacon Street,” I tell him. “The apartment.” And then I add, “Please.”

There’s a pause, and I wish I could see his face. I wish I could reach out, that I could take his phone, that I could set it aside and pull his mouth to mine.

I can’t think.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t speak.

But finally he says, “I’m on my way.”

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