Page 43 of Wild Irish

“Work?” He looks at me like it’s a foreign concept.

“A job? You know, that thing you do to make money.”

He chuckles, and places his forearms on the table. “Ye wouldn’t believe me if I told ye.”

That’s sounds like trouble.

“Try me.” I cross my arms and lean back in my chair.

Shrugging, he says, “I’m in between gigs right now.”

I start to ask what the hell that means, but a metal tinging sound fills the room, and someone taps into a microphone.

“We’ve got a special guest here tonight,” the man says into the microphone, causing both Cillian and I to turn our heads in the direction of the stage.

It’s one of the men from the beach, and he’s pointing in our direction, or more specifically at Cillian.

Raising my brows, I look back at Cillian, whose expression has darkened.

“Fuck.” He drags his fingers through his hair and starts to move out of the booth. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

“Why?”

The man, who introduces himself as Patrick Murphy, says something in Gaelic that has the crowd cheering.

“The fecking bastard,” Cillian mutters, leaning with his palms on the table, back towards the stage. “Sorry, love.”

“Sorry for what?”

He takes a sip of his beer, then kisses me hard before turning and heading to the stage.

I am so freaking confused right now. But the crowd obviously isn’t. Everyone here seems to know exactly who he is. They clap and cheer as he steps onto the small stage.

“Wild Irish’s Cillian Gallagher,” Patrick says, before stepping away from the microphone so that Cillian can approach.

Wild Irish.

I’m pretty sure my mouth hangs open as I watch him adjust the stand, smiling out into the audience like he owns the place. Broody confidence surrounds him like an aura.

He takes the guitar Patrick hands him. He leans over and whispers something in the man’s ear that has him chuckling, but I can tell by Cillian’s eyes it was more of a threat than a joke. Yet, when he turns back to the crowd, all the anger is gone, and he actually looks like he wants to be up there.

“Hello. How are ye tonight?” He grins, and the people respond with more applause and cheers.

From the moment I saw him, I thought he was gorgeous. But on stage, he’s magnetic, pulling every pair of eyes towards him. Yet, it’s nothing compared to when he opens his mouth, his deep melodic voice filling the room.

His gaze holds mine as he sings the familiar words from the radio.

“Let the Irish rains wash away yer tears. Let me kiss away yer pain.Come to me, my love. I’m waiting on the shore. It’s safe in yer harbor, but that’s not what ships are for.”

People have their cell phones out, recording him like he’s a celebrity.

I guess he is.

His voice has been on every radio station since I’ve been here.

It hits me, then; he’s a freaking rock star. I’ve been living—andsleeping—with the lead singer of Wild Irish, and I didn’t even know it.

I’m sure there’s a part of the situation that I should be upset about. But I’m so turned on right now that the only thing I can think about is getting him out of this damn pub so I can kiss him.

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