Page 23 of Tempting Irish

Chapter 6

Bree

Iwaketo a heaviness pressing down on my chest. My heart beats wildly until I remember where I am, and whose hulking arm is draped over me like deadweight.

Owen.

He’s lying on his stomach, and has somehow managed to position himself in the middle of the bed, arms and legs sprawled like a starfish. If I shift even one inch, I’ll be rolling onto thefloor.

I don’t want to move. I just want to continue to lay here, and breathe in his male scent, revel in the heat of his body, let my imagination roam for just a few minuteslonger.

Until I remember that he doesn’t know who Iam.

Maybe he doesn’t haveto.

I can still leave. My cousins don’t even know I’m here. I can still avoid the humiliation, the anger I know he’ll have when he realizes who Iam.

But I didn’t just come here for him. For this.Whatever the hell thiswas.

My body still aches in disappointed need from his abruptdeparture.

Damn. I messed things up good, and I’ve been here for less than twenty-fourhours.

I need to run. Maybe not out of Ireland, but at least away from the man beside me. One kiss, and he’s already got me feeling things I have no rightfeeling.

Adrenaline is my drug of choice. That, and caffeine. A brisk jog always clears my head. Followed by a Starbucks double espresso with half a sugar. It’s my daily routine. Helps me start my day, see things more clearly. Not that my brain has ever been in this type of mental, desire-induced fogbefore.

Removing his arm from my chest, I slink out of bed, then stand there for a moment, taking himin.

I’m pretty sure he came to bed fully dressed, but at some point, in the middle of the night, his shirt came off. Unlike the ink that marks his arms, his back is clean of tattoos, a blank canvas of tightmuscle.

Rock godperfection.

I sigh, then let the hundredwhat ifsfloat around in my brain for a few dangerousseconds.

Not going to happen, I remind myself. He’s Owen Gallagher, and I’m…well, I’m me. It’s not that I’m one of those self-deprecating women who can’t see her own beauty and talents. Sure, I had a bit of an ugly duck syndrome during high school, but I got over it pretty quickly when boys started to showinterest.

I know exactly what I am. And what I’m not. And I also know when I’m clearly over myhead.

Like rightnow.

But I have no one but myself to blame, since I’m the one who took theplunge.

I unzip my suitcase, and pull out a pair of sneakers, hoodie, and shorts, then change quickly, and sneak one last glance back at Owen, who’s still fast asleep, beforeleaving.

The streets of Dublin are quiet,peaceful.

Home.

The feel of the uneven cobblestone under my feet brings back memories of an uncomplicated life. I zig zag through the narrow walkways in the Temple Bar area, crossing Wellington Quay so that I’m jogging east along the LiffeyRiver.

The city is clean, the buildings a mix of old and new. So different from cookie-cutter-shaped homes I’ve become used to. The city is vibrant, even when it’s asleep. Colorful buildings, mixed with modern, unique designs that anywhere else would look out ofplace.

It’s the bridges that fascinate me. Scattered every few blocks down the Liffey, each one is different. Some allow vehicles to pass across, others are just walkways, but each one isunique.

I stop at a white, cast iron bridge to stretch my aching calves, frowning when I see a man with a bucket and a pair of bolt cutters walking towards me. He gives a small nod in my direction before crouching and starting to cut through one of the hundreds of locks that are attached to the bridge’s iron bars. He tosses it into the bucket, then moves on to the nextone.

“What are you doing?” Iask.

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