Page 1 of Tempting Irish

Prologue

Bree

12 YearsOld

Bruisedknees pulled to my chest, I sit high in the old oak tree and watch my cousins and their friends laugh and splash around in the shallow waters of thelough.

“Hey, Baby Bee,” a deep voice says below me, making my belly twist the way it always does whenever Owen Gallagher talks to me. He looks up at me now, his intense, gray eyes filled with concern. “What’re ye doing upthere?”

“I hate when ye call me that. I’m not a baby,” I sulk, even though I know the six years that separate us makes me a child in his eyes.And I hateit.

“Ye’re right,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. “Why aren’t ye swimming,Beatrice?”

He over-enunciates my name, which I hate almost as much as the childish nickname his brother, Cillian, tagged mewith.

I shrug, watching him as he pulls himself up onto one large branch, swinging a long leg over and straddling it, resting his back against the trunk. He runs a hand over the coarse stubble on his jaw, which is just as dark as the hair on hishead.

“I hate swimming,” I lie, not wanting to admit that his brother, Cillian, had teased me about wearing my t-shirt and shorts in the water, instead of a bathing suit, then telling everyone it’s because I was really a boy and didn’t want people toknow.

“Cillian, again?” Owen asks as if reading mythoughts.

I shrug. “I hateboys.”

“Hey.” His soft, full lips curve, humor shining in his gray eyes. “We’re not allbad.”

“Yer not a boy,” I say before clamping my lips shut, fire burning up my neck to mycheeks.

Owen chuckles. “Last I checked, Iwas.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I mumble, picking a leaf and fidgeting with it. Owen’s different. He’s nice. And good. And he doesn’t tease me like the others. He’s not a boy. He’s a man. And one day, he’ll bemine.

Owen’s smile doesn’t falter, not until I start to move down the branches towards him. “Careful,Bee.”

I roll my eyes at him. He’s always so serious. So careful. And so concerned abouteveryone.

“Ye don’t have to worry about me.” I balance myself on a large branch a few feet above his head, and say proudly, “I’mbrave.”

“I know ye are. That’s what worriesme.”

“Are ye going swimming?” I ask when he glances towards the lough, where my cousin, Emer, lets out a hoot of laughter as the boys swarm around her, vying for herattention.

“No.” Owen’s gaze stays focused on the group of teenagers, dark brows drawn down over stormy eyes as he fidgets with a folded piece of paper in hishand.

“What’sthat?”

“Just some song lyrics I’ve been working on.” The way he shoves it in his pocket, and looks away, cheeks filling with color, I think he’slying.

“Can I readthem?”

His smile returns. “Maybe one day ye’ll hear them playing over theradio.”

Despite our age difference, music is one thing that connects me to Owen. Like him, I can pick up almost any instrument and play it. The piano is my favorite, though, mostly because I have to go to my Aunt Agnus’ house to play it. And since Owen is friends with my cousin, Shane, he’s often there. But recently, I’m starting to wonder if he isn’t going over there more to see Emer thanShane.

A knot of jealousy forms in my stomach at the thought. Even though I know my cousin is secretly in love with Aiden Callahan, I don’t like the way Owen looks ather.

I’d do anything to have him look at me the way he does her -justonce.

Owen pulls out a pen from his back pocket, then starts scribbling something on his arm, which is already marked with ink andpatterns.

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