Page 1 of Naughty Irish Fate
Chapter One
Bronwyn
Gold flickers in the air.
A coin flipping end over end.
As it lands, spinning for just a second before it falls flat, I smirk, peering down at what my fate will be. Heads up. Just like I called it—like I always call it.
Whether it be heads or tails, I always call it right.
“Every. Single. Time.How?” Bryan slams his hand on the bar as his buddies taunt him for making the bet.
“Fate loves me. What can I say?” I smirk as I snatch the coin up, tossing it once more before catching it to tuck it away in my apron pocket.
Bryan grumbles some more about it being a lucky chance and pays for the round he and his buddies ordered. As I take the extra twenty he tosses on top—my tip and part of our wager—he smiles and winks at me before heading to their table.
They ought to know by now I never lose a bet when I rely on that coin. Bryan—and plenty of other regulars—have wagered the same bet a dozen times. If they call the coin toss, I give them a free round of drinks. Free rounds never happen around here. It always falls the way I call it.
Patting the pocket holding the coin, my smile widens.
A lifetime ago my Pap—who along with Grams raised me after my mother died—put that coin in my hand and closed my fist over it. Told me it was his lucky coin. Earned it working his first job. Took it to the pier to spend it but instead he met my Grams.
As they say, the rest is history.
Shore Ridge is full of tales like the one my Pap always told me. Romance and fate working together to start families and build the town. It’s a small fishing town on the shores of Rhode Island just a few hours outside of Boston.
Being a few hours away from Boston is about all most people remember about Shore Ridge. With a tiny population of families that go back generations—mostly fishermen too—it has little going for itself.
People come and go from the shores. Lives start and stop around fishing season while the rest of the year most people barely get by. Besides the shops by the docks, boat shops, and fish markets, there is little here to be excited about.
There are no movie theatres or book stores. The stories told around here are older than the pub that’s been here since the town formed. Sad thing is most those stories are the same. And I don’t want my story to be like the ones I hear.
Because the sea brings more than fish and boats. It brings men and women on those fishing boats. Most come to town long enough to get drunk, get laid, and break hearts. None stay even if they promise they will.
It’s the ones who come back that weave the worst tales. The ones who come back season after season and pick their way through women hoping they’ll be the one to make them stay this time. Those women are usually wrong and sadly, they often pay the price for their hopes.
It is the price their children pay that is too high if you ask me.
My father washed ashore in a boat twenty-six years ago. Washed back out five days later and never returned. My mother waited at the docks for years. Waited to find him there. Coming back to us.
But he never came back to at all. Or if he did, he didn’t come back for us.
“He will be here one day, Bronwyn. I know he will. He promised he would come back to me.”My mother swore those words every single time we left the docks alone.
Eventually those words turned bitter. Soon after, she did too. Instead of slinging beers in the pub, she drank with the men who filled the seats. And often went home with whoever would have her.
Before I should have, I knew what my mother was. Hard not to when everyone around you reminds you constantly.Whore. Barfly. Slut. Drunk.Words that fit her, sure. I knew it. But that didn’t give other people the right to paint her with those words.
“Gotta stop this, Bronwyn. Look at your pretty face.”At ten years old I was defiantly protective of her. Coming home with a black eye and a split lip was proof of that.
Fighting was worth the price of a busted lip though.
After, Mother would fuss over me long enough to remind me I had a mother. I craved those times. Mother always smelled like whiskey and Irish soap. Because I knew her embraces never lasted, I would hold on tight and breathe her deep.
Time and again I told hershehad to stop. Stop waiting at the docks. Drinking herself numb or spreading her legs every single time he didn’t show up. Forgetting she may not have the man she loved, but she still had me.
I was still a child when I realized I would never be enough for her.
