Page 13 of Wild Irish

I’m impressed.

In all the years we were together, the only thing Matt ever cooked for me was scrambled eggs and burnt toast. But then, he always had the expectation that once we were married I’d take up most of the household duties.

I hadn’t thought much about it at the time, summing it up to the fact that he was raised by a stay-at-home mom who did everything for everyone. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I just always believed in equal responsibilities. I realize now that would never have happened with Matt. He would have expected me to play the dutiful housewife.

For a time, that’s what I thought I wanted. To be someone’s wife. Have kids. Move to suburbia and live the American dream.

I didn’t want to listen to Maeve when she told me not to settle. I ignored the small voice in my head warning me that I was giving a piece of myself up for a dream I didn’t really want.

I see it now. How I gave up three years of my life to be with someone because I thought he was the safe choice.

Despite how painful it was to find him with another woman, at least I found out before we were married.

I just wish Maeve could have seen his face when I threw his clothes, including his favorite Gucci suit, out the window of my twelfth-floor apartment.

I put the lid down and go searching for Cillian.

He’s sprawled out on the couch, and the way he’s laying with one arm extended above his head has made his shirt rise, exposing his stomach.

My gaze roams down his body, my fingers itching to touch the dark ink that runs up his one arm.

God, he’s sexy. Not the tall, dark, cookie cutter handsome you read about in romance novels. But something rougher, more raw and real. He could just as easily be on the cover of Rolling Stones magazine. He’s got the whole bad boy vibe down.

The opposite of what I usually go for. The kind of man I usually run in the opposite direction from.

“Do ye make it a habit of watching people sleep?” The words rumble in a slur from his beautiful lips, but his eyes remain closed.

Shit.

“I…I...” I have no excuse. “Sorry. I woke up, and…” God, I sound like a gibbering idiot.

He stretches, exposing more of his stomach, and the soft line of hair that trails under his jeans.

My tongue darts over my bottom lip.

A small growl rumbles from his throat, and I jerk my gaze to his.

Hunger flares in his eyes. A look that says he would devour me in a heartbeat.

My breath catches in my throat, and I panic.

I take a step back, bumping into the coffee table behind me and knocking an empty glass onto the floor. Thankfully, it doesn’t break. My fingers are shaking when I lean over to pick it up.

“Sorry.” I place the glass back on the table.

He rolls off the couch, picking up the whiskey bottle that’s beside him. “Ye hungry?”

I give a small nod and look away, anywhere but the gorgeous man in front of me.

I’m starving.And not just for food.

I want to taste him.

Feel his lips on mine.

It’s insane.I don’t even know him. But my body is craving his touch.

He takes a step toward me, and my heart begins to race, because for one crazy second I think he means to kiss me.

---