Lucky Neighbor Page 2

  That’s something that could capture the imaginations of kids and adults alike.

  Even though I’m busy with this massive illustrating contract right now, that’s a book I could draw and write.

  I could start sketching out ideas during my spare time here—especially since I no longer have a husband to occupy so much of it.

  I left that Dickhead back in LA.

  Yes, that’s his name now. Dickhead.

  I feel like even that is better than he deserves, but I’m willing to be magnanimous.

  The ink’s barely dry on the divorce papers, but a few thousand miles between us should help kickstart the process of exorcising every bit of his memory from my heart, mind, and soul.

  A good creative project—I mean, besides the one I’m doing for work—wouldn’t hurt either, I bet.

  Especially if it turns out to be a popular kid’s book in its own right.

  Upcoming…urn…in…ters.

  “Shut up, phone, unless you want to help me brainstorm.”

  I don’t understand this…brainstorm.

  I think my phone’s AI virtual assistant app is getting smart with me.

  “Come on, phone. Help me think of some ideas. Here’s the basic premise: it’s a children’s book, about this kind of other world, a land if you will, but you can get there easily—maybe magically after a family argument—and these magnificent sort of creatures live there. These…things. And they…”

  Showing results for Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak—

  “Fuck, you just had to choose the worst possible moment to—”

  First published in nineteen sixty-three—

  “Stop telling me about it! Since when do you even do that? Just please tell me how to get to my fucking cottage so I can sleep.”

  The enormously popular children’s book—

  “Ahhhh! Why are you emphasizing certain words now? Just be quiet!”

  Unable to take it anymore, I grab the phone, still keeping one hand on the wheel and both eyes on the empty road.

  Squeezing the sides of the phone with my hand and jabbing the front of it with my thumb, I try desperately to silence the jerk-face of a device.

  To no fucking avail.

  One of the most successful such books of all time!

  “Ahhhhhh!”

  Finally turning my head to see my asshole smartphone, I only get a brief glimpse before I decide I’m too mad to even look at it, so I just throw it behind me, into the backseat, as hard as I can.

  The phone finally shuts the fuck up at the moment of impact.

  Twisting back towards the windshield, I have a moment of panic as my foot slips on the accelerator.

  The vehicle starts to weave forward with the mildest bit of unsteadiness, and I have a split second of pure panic getting my foot back in its normal position on the pedal.

  I’m still going plenty fast, but that’s by choice now, I’m just about ready to—

  Is that finally a fucking street sign of some kind ahead?

  I’m not sure yet, but I remember I’m going to need my phone to find my way around no matter what.

  I glance into the back of the SUV to see if my phone is within reach—it’s not—before looking right back at the road like a responsible driver.

  Hmm. That’s not a street sign, and it’s moving slowly.

  Oh, shit—that’s a person, right in front of the headlights.

  I slam on the brakes.

  As the giant vehicle screeches to a halt, I no longer see anything through the windshield that looks like a person, or even a street sign.

  However, I do hear a distinctive thump.

  Chapter 3

  Killian

  Bam!

  By the time I realize I’ve been hit by a car, I’m already lying on the ground.

  I’m more surprised than hurt, really.

  I’ve walked this road countless times—I can’t even fathom a number high enough to be accurate—and I know that this road gets maybe two or three cars a day.

  At most.

  And never at night.

  Ever.

  And as sloshed as I am, I still know to walk on the side of the road. I may enjoy a drink every now and again, but that doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I know to walk on the side of the road in order to avoid ending up in the exact situation I’m now in.

  It seems as though my precautions were all for naught, though.

  Especially when faced with a giant monstrosity of a vehicle that takes up the entire fucking road.

  A cool night breeze sweeps over the field, and I feel the grass—no, not grass—clovers tickle the side of my face.

  Maybe the luck of the Irish is on my side after all. It’s not every day that you get hit by a fucking car and not get hurt.

  I try to push myself back up—seeing as I have no intention of sleeping in a clover patch tonight—and that’s when I feel it.

  This yell of pain peals out of me and echoes over the countryside. I’m pretty sure I just woke the people of Dublin from their slumber with that yell.

  The pain that shoots through my arm is intense. It’s broken, or partially fractured, at the very least.

  Not even all the Guinness in the world could numb that pain. It doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t test the theory, though.

  “Oh, my god. Are you okay?”

  I hear a voice—a familiar voice—from the road.

  There’s no way that it could be…

  I must be far more hammered than I thought. I tell myself that I’m just imagining things—that the booze is playing tricks on me.

  But hearing her voice is one hell of a trick.

  Because this is no trick at all. This is as real as the clovers surrounding me, or the waning moon in the night sky, or the pain that just finished coursing through my fucking arm.

  But that pain is gone now.

  Rebecca Doyle.

  I’m dumbfounded. Out of anyone who’d be out here, she’s the last person I expected to see.

  And then I’m taken by the sight of her.

  She’s the definition of the picture-perfect Irish lass. I don’t care where she grew up.

  Her hair is red, like a smoldering fire. Her eyes are this pale blue that reminds you of the lake on a summer morning.

  Her skin is as fair and flawless as the rarest, most precious diamond. She’s slender, but not frail or petite-looking.

  But perhaps my favorite of her many attributes are her legs. You could wrap yourself up between her thighs and find no happier place on God’s green earth.

  And—judging from the look on her face—she’s just as surprised to see me as I am to see her.

  “Killian? Killian Walsh?” she asks as if she’s seen a ghost.

  And maybe she has.

  “Rebecca Doyle,” I groan and shift my weight. “It’s good to see you again.”

  The clovers dance in another fresh breeze.

  Luck of the Irish my ass.

  The irony of it all isn’t lost on me. Ending up in a clover patch after getting hit by Rebecca Doyle of all people isn’t just ironic—it’s a bit poetic.

  “Are you okay?”

  She’s more concerned about my well-being at this point than I am.

  She’s here, and that’s more than enough for me to forget that she just hit me with her car. My focus still is trapped and bound by just how amazing she looks. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, and she looks every bit as stunning—perhaps even more so—than I remember.

  “Killian? Are you okay?” she asks again.

  “Oh, nothing to worry about, lass. Just a minor bump.”

  I try to get up again, but the shooting pain in my arm puts a stop to that. My face winces with the horrid sensation.

  I’m going to need some whiskey for this one, I think.

  “Minor bump my ass,” she deadpans. “Let’s get you up.”

  She grabs my good arm and wraps it around her neck.

  She smells like wild cherries an
d forget-me-nots on a pleasant spring morning. Of course she smells so soothing. What else would I expect from this woman?

  A small chuckle leaves my lips.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Everything.

  “Nothing at all. They just say laughter is the best medicine and all, so I figured I’d give it a try.”

  She gives me this side-eye look, like she doesn’t believe me. And she’s right not to—I wouldn’t believe me either.

  “And?”

  “So far, I’d say that it’s utter shite.”

  A faint smile sneaks around the corner of her lips. It’s not a big grin or anything, but it’s a start.

  It’s nice to see that my Irish charm still works on her.

  “I’m sorry for hitting you.”

  There we go—I was wondering when she was going to get around to apologizing.

  “Think nothing of it. Truth be told, I’m sure I probably had it coming for something I’ve done. I’m sure there’s someone out there somewhere who’d love to buy you a pint right now.”

  “I’m sure.” She gives me another look that matches her straight-faced tone. “What are you doing walking out here in the middle of the road at this time at night, anyway?”

  “What are you doing out here driving like you’re in one of those horrible Fast and Furious movies?”

  Rebecca gives me a look as if to say Touché.

  “It’s a bit of a long story.”

  There’s a pained look on her face. It’s as if she’s recalling some unpleasant memories or having some less-than-pleasing thoughts.

  It’s not a look I like seeing upon her face.

  Don’t feel too bad for the lass. She did just hit you with her monster of a fucking SUV and probably broke your arm.

  “Fair enough,” I tell her with a shrug of my good shoulder. “My story’s rather short. I was out having a pint at the pub and decided to head home. Next thing I know, I see some bright headlights, and I get hit by that.”

  I point to her rental.

  My thoughts again linger on her presence and beauty—it’d be a challenge to stop them.

  And I can’t help but wonder why she’s here. Ireland isn’t all that big, I’ll admit, but why this county specifically?

  When people visit Ireland, they want to see places like Dublin or Cork. Neither of those are my neck of the woods.

  And why this road? It isn’t exactly well-traveled or used. There isn’t all that much out this way at all.

  Given her surprise, she certainly wasn’t here for me. Would be nice if she was, though.

  And then she still has that same effect on me now that she had years ago.

  When I look at her, the pain in my arm doesn’t matter at all. I’m one-part thankful for it, because broken bones are not enjoyable. But I’m also one-part wishing she wasn’t here.

  The last time we met, I had my favorite whiskey ruined for me. I don’t want to go through that again.

  The breakup between an Irishman and his whiskey is a tragedy that outshines any Shakespearean play.

  But if I’m being completely honest, I’m more concerned about whether or not her lips taste as good as I remember.

  And if the rest of her tastes just as good, too.

  It’s not exactly what I should be thinking about, but she did just hit me with her car. I’m allowed to indulge in some nice memories of our past.

  It helps with pain management.

  Chapter 4

  Rebecca

  Girl Scout training, don’t fail me now.

  So, I hit a man with a car. That’s not exactly the perfect way to start off my Irish adventure.

  Scratch that—it’s probably one of the worst ways to start off any adventure whatsoever. Vehicular manslaughter isn’t really something I want on my permanent record. Somehow, I imagine there are fewer art supplies available to children’s book illustrators when they’re in jail.

  “Look, love,” Killian Walsh says through his teeth. “If you bind me any tighter, this won’t be a splint—it’ll be an amputation.”

  I looked down at my handiwork and wince.

  Killian’s fingertips are starting to turn white—not a good sign.

  “Sorry, sorry.” I start unwrapping him immediately, revealing more and more of his hairy, muscular forearm.

  “No need to be so nervous, darlin’.” Killian smiles lazily at me and takes a nip of whiskey from a dented flask he’s seemingly produced from thin air.

  “I’m not nervous.”

  “Then why are you shaking?”

  I run my trembling fingers over his skin, tracing the nice, straight lines his ulna and radius should make. I did medical illustration for a little extra cash in college—but by no means does this make me a doctor.

  I hope it’s not broken.

  “Give me that,” I say, snatching the flask from Killian. He doesn’t surrender it easily, which doesn’t surprise me.

  I tip the amber liquid down my throat, expecting the taste of Jameson on my tongue.

  It’s not Jameson, though.

  It’s brandy.

  I spit it out.

  Brandy is usually my favorite drink—but this stuff tastes foul, like he’s had it there for decades.

  “God, that’s awful,” I say, trying to get the taste out of my mouth.

  Killian rolls his eyes.

  “A fan at the pub gave that to me. They don’t always have the greatest of tastes.” He then puts his hand out, motioning for the flask.

  “Still seems like you’ve almost finished it. You look anxious to get what’s left in here back, as well.”

  The flask is empty—Killian barely left a drop behind, but I’m feeling slightly mischievous. Besides he nearly caused me to total my vehicle.

  I swiftly move it away from him.

  “What the hell?” he says, annoyance creeping into his voice.

  “You owe me,” I say, giving him a smile.

  “What are you—a goddamned law enforcement officer?”

  “You have no idea,” I reply, giving his arm a small jab.

  He lets out a groan.

  “I’m sorry, did that hurt?” I ask, a slight smile playing on the edge of my lips.

  He glares. “You bloody well know the answer,” he says, gritting his teeth together.

  “Yeah, well, maybe next time, you’ll watch where you’re going,” I reply.

  Killian looks at me incredulously, and then he laughs.

  “It’s been—what, three years?—and you still can’t drive for shit,” he says.

  “You know, I could just leave you here,” I say.

  “You wouldn’t,” he says.

  “If you’re lucky, maybe they’ll find your cold, dead body in the morning,” I shrug.

  Just then, a sharp pain seems to take him over. I watch his face contort with the most agonizing look.

  Despite all my remarks, I’m worried. A sprained hand is the least of our concerns. The SUV careened into him pretty hard.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket. It’s late afternoon. I can feel a slight chill creeping on me and I pull my jacket tightly against my body.

  Killian is shivering. His bloodstained shirt clings to his body. Truth be told, I’m afraid to touch him, and not just because of the injury.

  I fold my hands together, unsure of what to do.

  The car is just a few feet away. If I can get him there, then there’s a good chance I can at least help fix him up.

  “Can you walk?” I ask.

  “If I could walk, do you think I’d be lying here in this ditch?” he retorts.

  “Jeez, Killian, I’m just trying to help.”

  “Believe me, you’ve done more than enough,” he says sharply.

  “What the hell is your problem?” I retort.

  Killian gives me a wicked grin. “I think we both know the answer to that.”

  I ignore him. It’s obvious this banter is going nowhere, except around in circles.

  “Look,
we can sit here all day, or we can get you to the car. I need you to put your arm around me, and I’ll try to hold you up.”

  I bend down, placing myself close enough to his arms.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “Whenever you are,” he says.

  I gently lift his arm, and placing one hand on his back, I slowly pull him up. This is a struggle for me. Killian is a solid mass of muscle. He grunts slightly and tries not to betray his obvious discomfort.

  Even through his shirt, I can feel the rise and fall of his abs against my palm. I’m a tangled mass of nerves, and I secretly find myself praying to be anywhere else but here.

  Even from a distance, I could tell that Killian is heavy. In fact, I had counted on the struggle; what I hadn’t counted on was the warm sensation descending into the pit of my stomach.

  He’s so close to me, I can smell his cologne. If Killian is sexy from afar, he’s a god from up close.

  I can feel his eyes on me. His breath is labored and shallow. I’m trying to avoid his gaze.

  Keeping my face downcast, I attempt to speak.

  “We’re going to take it slow,” I say.

  Killian doesn’t answer me. It’s only then I feel his hand brush my cheek. He places his fingers under my chin, gently lifting my face towards him.

  His eyes are the deepest shade of blue. A piercing sea that seems to shift with the light, and I find myself drowning in them.

  His skin is warm and smooth. He feels soft to the touch.

  I want to break away from him, but I’m caught here. I try to play it cool, but I can feel my insides churning.

  “Nice and slow,” he says softly, echoing my words.

  He slips his arm around my shoulder. I shift slightly to give him room. Pressing his weight unto me, I manage to help him stand on his feet.

  His face looks pale and, although he won’t admit it, I can tell it hurts him to do so.

  He lets out a sharp breath.

  “Lead the way,” he says, gesturing towards the car. We step forward, our bodies moving in a singular forward motion. It isn’t long before we’re standing in front of the SUV.

  I struggle to get the door. Pulling it open with one hand, I shift slightly to give him some room. I was just about to help him get into the car when I feel something on my ass.

  I look at him, and the bastard looks right back at me, his devilish face feigning innocence.