Page 8 of Wild Irish

He gets out of the car, then pulls my luggage from the back and starts carting it to the small stone cottage. It looks archaic, the walls covered in some kind of ivy, the roof green with moss. The windows and doors look new, and with a bit of gardening it would actually be charming.

But right now, it looks more like the scene from Misery.

Still exhausted, my body trembling with fatigue, I get out of the car, anxiety pitting in my stomach.

What do I even know about this guy? Nothing.

He glances over his shoulder, then stops walking when he sees me still standing by the car. “What?”

“I was just thinking, I don’t really know anything about you.”

With his back to me, I can’t see his face, but by his tone, I’m pretty sure he just rolled his eyes. “What do ye want to know?”

“Your name would be good.”

He turns and gives me a bland stare. “Cillian.”

Cillian. Of course, the man has a sexy Irish name.Kill-e-an. I almost say it aloud to feel it roll off my tongue.

“Cillian what?”

He exhales loudly. “Gallagher.”

“Do you have family around here?”

His eyes narrow. “A brother.”

I nod. That’s a good sign.

“Anything else, or do ye want to stay out here talking all night?”

I shiver as a cool gust of wind whips around me, as if making his point. I nod and start walking towards him.

He grunts, something he seems to do a lot of, then turns back to the door, opening it.

“My name’s Delaney, in case you were wondering.”

“Delaney?” There’s a spark of curiosity when he glances back at me. “Ye’ve got Irish in ye then?”

“My grandmother was born here. Delaney was her maiden name.”

Ignoring me, he sets my luggage in the center of the foyer, then walks down the narrow hall. I follow him, not knowing what else to do.

The house isn’t big, but it’s clean, and despite the medieval-looking stonework on the outside of the building, everything inside is modern. But it looks like he hasn’t been here in a while, and it’s almost as cold inside as it was outside.

I rub my hands over my arms.

“I’ll start a fire.” He adjusts something on the thermostat. “It’ll take a bit for the furnace to kick on.”

“Were you on vacation?” I follow him into the kitchen.

“There won’t be any food.” He tosses his keys and phone on the counter, then opens the fridge. As predicted, it’s empty. Slamming it shut, he lets out an uneven breath.

I can’t tell if the man is mad at me or just mad at life in general. I’m leaning more towards the second one. I’ve seen hints of a softer side, but mostly he’s just snarly.

He disappears down the hall, and returns a few minutes later wearing a dark hoodie and a new pair of jeans.

“I’ll go to the grocery store.” He grabs his keys again.

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