Page 6 of Wild Irish

A small grunt behind me makes me look over my shoulder, just as the woman lets out a string of curses that would have Tommy blushing.

She’s trying to lug her enormous suitcase up the hill, and the wheels keep getting stuck in the soft earth.

I give a harsh shake of my head and blow a strained breath towards the sky.

Already, I know the woman is one thing –trouble. Beautiful, sexy, American trouble, but still trouble. It’s the last thing I need right now.

Thirty seconds home and I crash straight into it.

Guilt, and a sense of morality I didn’t know still lingered in my stone-cold heart, are the only things stopping me from leaving her here.

It’s not like I caused her to drive off the road. Not really. I drag my hand through my hair and wince. Sure, I was driving too fast, and I’d taken the corner wider than I should have. But the woman had more than enough room. It’s not my bleedin’ problem she doesn’t know how to drive. I grunt, because for tonight, it’s going to have to be.

I end the call and trek back down the hill, keeping my gaze on her face and not letting it trail down to the curves she’s hiding under a baggy hoodie and ripped jeans.

Dark hair is tossed on top of her head in a messy bun, and she wears little, if any, makeup. Not that she needs it. Her skin is that flawless, with a faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. But it’s her eyes that unnerve me. Hazel with flecks of gold and green. But it’s more what I see when I look into them that rattles me.

Pain, anger, fear, mixed with strength, passion, and lust.

A chaos of emotions trapped behind a mask of self-inflicted rules. But I see it, something wild just waiting to be set free.

And she’s gorgeous.

I don’t know why it irritates the hell out of me. But it does.

“Give it to me,” I growl, reaching for the suitcase.

“I can do it myself.”

I grunt and let her try for another few steps, but when she loses her footing and slips back down the hill a few feet, I ignore her protests and take the bag from her.

“Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph, what do ye have in here?” It must weigh over fifty kilos.

“If it’s too heavy for you–”

I narrow my eyes at her, and she clamps her mouth shut.

When I toss her bag in the backseat of the car, I catch her watching me.

I can see the uncertainty in her eyes. Like she doesn’t know if she can trust me. It’s not a look I’m used to. Even before Wild Irish hit the charts with the singleMeet Me in Sligo, I’d never been starved for a woman’s attention.

I could have had a different woman each night, but I’d played the part of the faithful fool. Unaware that the woman I cared about was fucking half of Ireland, including my own damn brother.

It gutted me. Not just the betrayal. Hers, I could get over. His, I never would. But it was what came after – more bleedin’ lies – that sent me into a three-month drunken tailspin.

My friends, my goddamn band members, guys who were like family to me; they sided with Owen, believing the bullshit he was spouting.

He swore on our father’s grave that he hadn’t slept with Molly, but I’d seen her in his bed, her naked body draped over his. Hard to argue with the evidence.

So, I left. Holed myself up in an apartment in Dublin for the last three months. Drinking. Fucking. Ignored everyone’s calls. Even when they threatened legal action against me after I told them to cancel our upcoming tour.

Let them sue me. Because there’s no chance in hell I’ll ever play on the same stage again as my cheating, lying, bastard of a brother.

“Get in,” I growl out, agitation making my voice gruffer than before.

Her brows draw down. “Maybe I should wait here. If you could just call a tow truck.”

“I already did.” I have to take a deep breath and grit my back teeth to stop the agitation from seeping into my words. But I’m pretty sure I still fail. “I’m not in the habit of kidnapping women, if that’s what yer afraid of.”

---