Page 13 of My Puckin' Luck
Before getting to know Saint’s family situation a little more tonight, I never realized how much we have in common. Only our lives are at opposite ends of the spectrum.
“My mother was a waitress at a five-star Hollywood restaurant. My father was an actor who would come in and charm the pants off of her every chance he could. When she ended up pregnant with me, he refused to acknowledge me, being married and a celebrity. It took years before he would meet me, while Mom struggled as a single mother to make ends meet.” I pause and draw in a deep breath, staring straight ahead out the window, the neon light of the pub flickering. “I have no real relationship with him. He probably has a dozen other children like me. I wouldn’t know. We’ve never had a serious conversation. Seeing him tonight just took me aback.”
“I can only imagine. Some men weren’t meant to be fathers. Others wish they could be,” he mutters so sadly, I wonder if it has anything to do with what Misty told me Big D found in Saint’s dresser drawer. The sonogram image of a baby. I want to ask him about it, but I’ve already shared my sad story, bringing us down. Two might be too much in one night.
“I’m fine.” I brush away the last of the tears and pull down the visor to peek at the mirror, all in the name of proving, other than a quick cry from the shock of seeing him again, that I have learned to rise above the disappointment. “While I grew up with a father not wanting to be a part of my life whatsoever, at least Esme had your father. She’s lucky.”
He blows out hot air and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’m certain you’re making a point in there somewhere, but it’s been a helluva night, so excuse me if all I can think about is the whiskey calling to me from the pub. I need that drink.”
“Yeah. Me, too. Let’s go in. What is this place, anyway?”
“Just an Irish pub owned by one of my cousins, Jimmy. Hey, hold on,” he says as we exit the car and he removes his mask.
“Good idea.” I slip off the white gloves, and carefully take off my mask, too. We lay them down in the back seat next to the pairs of wings. Saint removes his suit jacket and tie, and rolls uphis sleeves, tossing the cufflinks into the cup holder. We’re still way overdressed by the looks of the pub.
“Do you mind if I borrow your jacket?” I ask. On his nod, I peel off the lacy layer of my costume above my head, leaving only my satin mini-dress. As I do, I feel the weight of Saint’s eyes travel up and down my body, sending a quiver through my thighs.
This may be a friendly outing, but the entire night, every time we touch, has sent me to the edge and back. I’m so ready to take a bath and use one of my special bath toys the minute I return home tonight.
His oversized black suit jacket covers all of me and is the perfect accompaniment to the minidress, with the sleeves rolled up of course. And the best part is, it smells of him. My nose has been teased all night with this scent and now I’m bathing in it. A sinful mix of spicy and sweet, pepper, nutmeg, citrus, a hint of salty air. All California cool and devilish musk.
I might nix the bath later now, only so I can hold on to a part of him a little longer before washing it all away.
We barely get inside when Saint is immediately attacked by the red-bearded man who comes out from behind the bar. “Hey, if it isn’t my cousin. Been a while, bro.”
On his green polo shirt is the name Jimmy embroidered in white, and of course, a shamrock appears there too. The two men are almost the same brawny, tall size and do a bro hug, slapping backs. For once, Saint appears relaxed, a natural smile on his lips.
“What are you doing here? And who is this pretty lady with you?” Jimmy asks.
“My date tonight. Anastasia,” Saint gestures, winking at me. My insides flutter, even if I’m only his date for one night.
“Anastasia… Nice.” Jimmy’s eyes tour my body up and down.
“Hey. Quit looking at my girl.” Saint jabs his arm.
My girl…?I suck in a breath at the way Saint just casually puts that out there. But I have to remember, I’m one of many the playboy probably has.
The two laugh and play at fighting, dancing around, talking smack, and tossing out jabs until finally Jimmy knocks him away and takes my hand as if he’s the victor. They have me giggling, at least, a marked improvement from my earlier mood in the car.
“What will the lady drink tonight?” He’s a huge flirt, I can tell. He leads me to a barstool clad in red leather. Only after he makes quite the show of taking a bar towel out of his back pocket and wiping the seat down for me do I sit down.
“Such a gentleman,” I praise.
“Oh honey, Irishmen aren’t gentlemen unless we want something.”
“Back off, Jimmy. She’s mine.” Saint growls and settles on the stool beside me.
Flutters, shivers, thrills. You name it. Saint using the wordmineimpacts my entire system like I’ve let my guard down and sent my entire army of guards on vacation.
“Cheap Irish whiskey for you, puck face. But, pretty Lady Anastasia,youget whatever you want. On the house.”
Saint rolls his eyes.
“How about an Old Fashioned?” I ask.
“Excellent taste, my dear. And I’ll bring a sample platter of our appetizers as well.” Jimmy knocks his knuckles on the bar top and heads for the kitchen.
“A couple pints of Guinness, too,” Saint yells after him, but his cousin flips him the bird as he disappears through the swinging doors.
