Page 115 of Her Irish Savage

“Let me guess,” Fiona says. “The first night we met in that bar, I told you my lifelong dream was to watch the Sox from seats like this?”

“Pretty much,” I say. “The first two rows were taken. I could only get these because Kansas City isn’t a major rival for the Sox. And I was willing to pay six times the ticket price.”

She stares at me. “Six times?” She gestures toward thestands behind us. “I’m not a big baseball fan. I would have been fine up there.”

I shake my head. “No cameras up there.”

“No…” Once again, she’s fast to catch on. “We’ll be on TV for every batter.”

I spare an appreciative glance for those red leather flowers across her chest. “And I don’t think anyone will miss us. At least not any straight man who can see.”

She throws back her shoulders, and the bustier has to fight to do its job. For just a moment, I weigh the merits of taking her up on her sly little offer, but ballpark security would certainly throw us out.

We need to cement our alibi. Plus, if tonight goes the way I plan, we’ll have days and days for Fiona to deliver on promises like that.

The game is a sloppy one—plenty of hits, defensive errors on both sides, and both starting pitchers are knocked out by the fourth inning. Any true baseball fan would be exasperated by the poor play spread out over almost four hours. I’m just happy they end the ninth tied at seven apiece. Extra innings give us another hour of rock-solid alibi before the Red Sox finally win.

That eighth run means the bars are full after the game. We head to the one closest to the park; I don’t want to stay unseen for too long.

It’s easy enough to get everyone’s attention. Fiona’s magic always works well on drunk and stupid men. She gets them working on limericks—baseball-themed ones at first, and then the usual filth.

My job is to stay close enough that no one gets too handsy. I make sure Fiona eats as well, something that passes for nachos, along with a broad array of deep-fried snacks, and that’s on top of the ballpark food she polished off during the game.

We close the place down at two in the morning. Fiona leans into me, nestling her head under my chin. “We can go home now?”

“Not yet.”

She’s gorgeous when she pouts. “I’m tired.”

“That’s a shame. Because we still have several hours to kill.”

She slips her fingers into my belt loops. “I’ll make it worth your time.” When I shake my head, her lips curl, and she whispers, “Daddy.”

I know she feels my cock’s answer, but my brain overrules my body. Our Uber pulls up to the curb as I take her hands from my waist. I kiss her knuckles before I hand her into the car.

The all-night diner on South Street has been there since I was a kid. Da sat me at the counter once, in the middle of the night. While he begged his bookie for a break, I dipped French fries in a chocolate malt.

Fiona and I are too tired to sit on stools at the counter. I put us in a booth, close to the register. When the night-faded waitress comes to take our order, I pretend not to be able to decide. “What do you think?” I ask Fiona. “Waffles or pancakes?”

“Or French toast,” she says. “I never get French toast.”

“Maybe an omelet?”

“Spinach and feta,” Fiona says. “No! Ham and cheddar!”

I turn to the waitress. “I guess we’ll get it all.”

She chomps on her gum. “All?”

“Waffles, pancakes, French toast, one spinach and feta omelet, and one ham and cheddar omelet.”

Chomp. Chomp. “You got money? We only take cash.”

I take out my wallet and show her a stash of twenties.

She finally nods. “You want bacon with that?”

Fiona wants bacon. And Fiona wants country ham. And Fiona wants sausage, both kinds, the patties and the links.

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