Page 15 of Tempting Irish

He chuckles. “Maybe.”

I rub the back of my neck and sigh, a mix of emotions flooding through me. I know they care about me. Hell, they love my sorry ass. We’re family. All of us. Even Cillian, with his often fucked-up way of showingit.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe I do need to make somechanges.

I glance over at Bree, who’s standing by the window now, back half turned so that I can see herprofile.

Maybe it’s time I made an exception to my cardinal rule – no emotions, no promises, notomorrows.

AndmaybeEmer is right, and I need to make an appointment with Dr. Bishop to get my headreexamined.

I walk back into the living room, and start tossing the pillows off the couch, then pull out the metal box spring, frowning at the lumpy mattress. “Fuckingperfect.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Imutter.

A deep sigh echoes on the other end. “Everyone’s worried aboutye.”

I sit on the edge of the make-shift bed, wincing when it squeaks with my weight, knowing I won’t sleep a minutetonight.

“Everyone can mind their own damn business. I told ye, I’mfine.”

Aiden grunts, and I hear Emer’s soft voice in the background, telling him to ask me about myheadaches.

“And tell yer wife I’d have less headaches if she’d stop nagging atme.”

He coughs, then says lower than before, “Ye know I’m not going to saythat.”

“Pussy.”

“Asshole.”

Silence.

“Now, if ye don’t mind, I’m actuallybusyat themoment.”

“Pizza and porn don’t trump heart to heart talks with yer bestfriend.”

“Shit, ye really are turning into a girl. And yeah, the three Ps always trumpfriends.”

“I only saidtwo.”

“But ye forgot the best one.” I say with a grin, despite the fact that I’m most likely not getting anytonight.

“Like yer sorry ass is getting any,” he says as if reading mythoughts.

There’s a knock on the door, and I hang up on Aiden’s deep, rumblinglaugh.

The kid delivering the pizza looks like he’s going to have a coronary when he seesme.

“Shit, ye’re Wild Irish. I was at yer concert last night. Bloody epic,man.”

“Thanks.” I force asmile.

“Would ye sign this for me?” He fumbles through his pockets and pulls out a scrap piece of paper that looks like an old receipt. “My girlfriend is not going to believe this. She loves yeguys.”

I don’t mind the fans. Sometimes, I actually enjoy the attention. But I could live without it. Live without everyone knowing my face. To be able to walk down the street and not be swarmed by a drove ofgroupies.

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