Page 4 of Wild Irish

My breath catches in my throat as his palm runs up my back, steadying me. His other hand rests on my leg, and his mouth is inches from mine, the warmth of his breath tickling my cheek.

The coolness of his wet t-shirt is the only relief from the heat that scorches my skin at the contact.

“Sorry.” I squirm, trying to move away, but I’m in an impossible position.

My palms rest on his chest, and I swear I can feel his heart hammering with the same wild tempo as my own. I glance up, meeting the cool blue of his eyes.

A shock and pleasure races through my system as I fight to make sense of the impulses that battle against common sense.

For a moment, I swear the world stops moving. I’ve never been one to believe in instant connections, but something sparks between us. Then it’s gone so quickly, his eyes clouding over with apathy, that I’m left thinking I must’ve imagined it.

He releases me, and I scoot back to the driver’s seat.

Awkward silence stretches between us.

“I can’t find my phone,” I mutter, chewing on my bottom lip.

“Yer American?” He reaches between his legs and picks up the phone, handing it to me. His tone is harder now.

“From Chicago.”

He grunts. “No wonder ye were driving in the middle of the road.”

“I wasn’t driving in the–” Shit. I realize who he must be. “Wait, you’re the jerk that ran me off the road.”

“I didn’t run ye off the road, sweetheart.” His eyes narrow. “Ye had plenty of room.”

“You were driving like a maniac. I don’t know what the speed limit is here, but I’m pretty sure you were well over it.”

He opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it. His fingers rake through his hair, and he glances out the window. Cold and aloof.

I shake my head, ignoring his sudden sullenness, and try to turn my phone on, but the screen stays black.

“Damn it.” Tilting my head against the seat, I close my eyes and scream through gritted teeth, “Can this day get any worse?”

There’s a deep huff beside me. “Come on. The rain is stopping. I’ll give ye a lift to wherever yer staying. Do ye have family here?”

A small pathetic laugh bubbles in my throat. “No.”

“No? Then what are ye doing here?” The way he says it sounds like an accusation. Like an American in Ireland is some rare occurrence.

“I…” Shaking my head, I decide not to give him any more information than necessary. Because in all honesty, right now, I’m starting to wonder why the hell I came here in the first place. “I’m just…visiting.”

“Where are ye staying?”

The words come out in a rush of frustration. “I don’t know.”

Silence.

“Then where’d ye plan on sleeping tonight?”

“Here.” I throw up my hands.

“In yer car?” I can hear the judgment in his tone.

Emotions tighten my throat, and I meet his hard gaze with my own, all of my frustration directed at him. “If you hadn’t come flying around the corner at me, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

He ignores my accusation. “Let me get this straight. Ye came to Ireland, alone, and yer planning on living in yer car?”

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