Page 11 of Taming Irish

Chapter 3

Makena

My thumb hoversover the Delete button, but even though I know I’ll never call him, I can’t bring myself to erase Shane’s number. I hate that I allowed him to get under my skin the way he did. That I let him stir something inside of me – an ache, a desire that I know would only end in disappointment, orworse.

But damn, the man isgorgeous.

Andcocky.

“Tea or coffee?” The stewardess who’d been flirting with Shane earlier asks the questionicily.

“Coffee, please.” I watch her as she pours the dark liquid into the mug, taking in her slim figure, long legs, and perfect, model-likefeatures.

And I despise the jealousy that presses against my chest. It’s not just that Shane had been flirting back, but that I know I’ll never live up to the standard of beauty that women like her possess. Or theconfidence.

“Thank you,” I say when she hands me thecoffee.

She gives a forced smile, then moves on to the nextpassenger.

Maybe Shane was right about her. About her self-assurance and conviction to take what she wants. Maybethat’swhat I’m really jealous about. And I wonder what it would be like to be that free. To have no inhibitions. Not to worry about tomorrow, but just live in themoment.

Could I doit?

Funny, I’m moving to Ireland for six months, but the thought of taking a stranger to my bed seemsterrifying.

Lost in my thoughts, which admittedly revolve around the hot Irishman up in first class, the rest of the flight goes by quickly. And, thankfully, turbulencefree.

Shane is gone by the time I manage to get my carry-on dislodged from the overhead compartment and make my way down to the luggage claim. Which, despite the disappointment that stirs in my belly, I know is for thebest.

After fighting to get my oversized suitcase off the spinning carousel, I lug it to the nearest restroom, needing a moment to regroup before I make my way to the pickup where my ride is probably alreadywaiting.

I try to ignore my reflection in the mirror as I splash cold water on my face, because I barely recognize the mess of brown curls that tangle around my pale skin, and the tired, hollow eyes that stare back atme.

“New dreams,” I whisper, breathing through the panic attack that claws at my chest. “New life. Newme.”

It’s a stupid mantra Quinn suggested I repeat whenever mynew realityhitme.

Bitterness burns a path up my throat, and I swallow it down. I’d had a life. A good one. The kind of life I’d dreamed about since I was a littlegirl.

It wasn’t perfect. Neither was my marriage. But it was…good. And we were content. Or, at least, I thought we were - until it all came crumbling down around me. My happy-ever-after shattered into a million pieces because I naively trusted that when Chad said “I do,” he meant itforever.

A year ago, no one knew who Chad Hollister was. Just a lowly B-list actor who spent more time playing World of Warcraft than working or going to auditions, while I worked a nine-to-five job to pay for the designer clothes heneeded, and the overpriced salon visits to have his hair perfectly highlighted. Not to mention the hotel rooms for his secret rendezvous with whatever Barbie clone he’d been screwing at thetime.

God, I’d been blind.Andstupid.

But the sucker punch had come a week after our divorce was finalized when he landed his first big role beside Hollywood’s most overrated and over-payed actress, Tess Remington, followed by the most recent announcement that they were expecting their firstchild.

A child I could never givehim.

Karma was a bitch. Just not the kind I’d hopedfor.

My cousins had offered to teach Chad a lesson. The offer was tempting. You don’t mess with the Savage men, or the people they care about. And even after I told them not to bother, that he wasn’t worth it, I knew they’d taken matters into their own hands. Because, a week later, Chad admitted publicly about his indiscretions, and offered an apology to me during one of hisinterviews.

But it was too late to repair the damage he’d already done to my reputation. He swore it had been his agent that put the spin on our divorce being about my unstable mental health, but I knew Chad well enough to know he’d do anything to protect his own self-image, including throwing me under thebus.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, and start living,” Quinn had said those words to me less than twenty-four hours ago when she’d driven me to the airport. “You’re a beautiful woman. You’ll find loveagain.”

I’m not even sure it’s what Iwant.

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