Page 62 of An Irish Summer

He laughed, which only made me more embarrassed. “Like hell,” he said. “At the very least not until you stop sounding like you have marbles in your mouth.”

“You’re the one with marbles in your mouth,” I said, trying my hardest not to slur.

I wasn’t looking at him, but I practically heard him roll his eyes.

“Sit on the ground,” he said, grabbing my hands and pulling me up from the chair despite my weak protests. “I’m doing this for your benefit. Sit.” He pointed to the ground right in front of us, and I obeyed.

What I didn’t expect was for him to then sit in the chair right behind me. “Are you serious?” I asked. “You made me sit on the ground so you could sit in the chair? Even for you, Collin, this is—”

“Lean back,” he said. I groaned like a child but ultimately did as I was told. I had no idea what he was getting at, but I was too drunk to care.

I nestled my shoulder blades between his knees, relieved I no longer had to look at his face in the moonlight. The distant thump of the bass was the only sound save for the animals in the garden, and I hoped the silence would make my ears stop ringing. I focused on the feeling of Collin at my back, his warm hands brushing my hair off my forehead, trailing down the sides of my neck.

“Is this another weird Irish old wives’ tale?” I asked. “Are you casting a spell?”

He didn’t answer; instead, he gathered my hair off my shoulders and split it through the center, working his fingersthrough the knots. It was impossible to ignore the gentle way he untangled them, especially compared to the way he pulled my hair in the kitchen the other night. How anyone could be both so soft and so rough was beyond me, and my stomach twisted at the thought. Eventually, he dropped one side of my hair back over my shoulder and began dividing the other into parts, and it was only then that I realized he was braiding.

“Coll, are you—”

“Just let me,” he said. Of all the things I secretly wanted Collin Finegan to do to me, this hadn’t even crossed my mind. For the first time in my life, a man French-braided my hair.

I watched the stars form in the clear sky as he turned lock over lock, winding my waves into two tight braids with expert fingers. He stopped periodically to run a hand through whatever hair was still loose, despite having already gotten the knots out, and I wasn’t sure which of us was enjoying it more.

“How’d you learn to do this?” I whispered eventually, trying not to break the spell.

“Sisters,” he said, and the silence returned for a while until he continued. “Our mam wasn’t around much, and Da didn’t have the foggiest how to do this stuff. They begged me to learn, and it’s hard to say no to ’em.”

I wasn’t sure what answer I expected, but it wasn’t that. I suspected Collin Finegan had a soft side, but not the braiding-your-sisters’-hair-because-mom-isn’t-around kind.

“Is it working?” he asked.

“If I say yes, will it go straight to your ego?”

“You sound better already.”

We both let out a gentle laugh that quickly disappeared into the night.

“Thank you,” I said as he wound a rubber band around thebottom of the second braid, letting his fingers linger against my back. “You didn’t have to do this.” I spun around to face him for the first time since we got outside. The heaviness of his gaze settled into my bones, and I wore it like a weighted blanket.

“Not doing it ’cause I have to, Chelsea,” he said, pulling me to my feet. “Doing it ’cause I want to. ’Cause I wantyou, more specifically. And if you haven’t already realized, there’s very little I wouldn’t do for ya.”

His eyes were clear as day, even in the dark. Bright and honest and pleading, and I owed him the truth in return.

“Me too.” I exhaled, and he raised his eyebrows. “I want you too.” My voice was soft and small and hardly my own, but there was no mistaking my honesty. Especially because it was probably also written all over my face. Still, he looked surprised to hear me admit it. Hell, I was surprised to hear myself admit it.

He ran his fingers down my arms until they reached my hands, shaking them a little so I’d look up at him. “Is that why you looked so terrified when I was telling that story?” he asked, and I was both embarrassed he could see right through me and grateful I didn’t have to confess anything on my own.

“It wasn’t part of the plan.” I laughed, and he did too. “And then you were telling such an emotional story, and I’d been trying to ignore my feelings for you all day, and it just felt like a lot all at once.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It was just a story.”

“You know better than I do that the fairy stories are never ‘just stories,’” I whispered.

“Andyouknow now they have a different meaning for everyone. It doesn’t have to be so extreme as love and death. It canjust be about inspiration, feeling, time.” His tone slipped back into the hypnotic, lyrical voice he used onstage.

“What does it mean to you?” I asked.

“Right now, it’s about cherishing the time I have with a beautiful woman before she’s gone. It’s about letting her in now, no matter what might happen later.”

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