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“Ach, put on some clothes.”
“I have to agree with the limey here,” Marty said.
“Limey is for the British, ye Yankee bastard.”
Marty lifted his brows. “Paddy?”
“That’s Irish, ye no-account fool.”
“Jock?”
“There ye go.”
“Jock is an insult?” Kris asked.
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“Aye.”
“Why?”
“I’ve no idea. It’s what the bloody English say. Something about there being a lot of Scots named John or Jack or some such nonsense.”
“That makes no sense,” Kris said.
“What does?” Liam asked, still standing too close to Marty, staring at him like a wolf trembling for a fight. “Clothes, lass, if ye please.”
“Can you two manage not to strangle each other while I’m gone?”
“Maybe,” Marty muttered.
“Doubtful,” Liam returned.
“Then I’ll just stay right here.”
The two sighed and backed away from each other a few paces.
“Go,” Liam ordered. “I willnae touch him unless he touches me first.”
“Me, either,” Marty said, but he was staring at the couch and his face kept getting redder; the bruising beneath his eyes seemed to pulse.
Kris followed his gaze. Her bra lay on the arm, her underwear across the back. She snatched up both as she went into the bedroom, then closed the door.
The murmur of voices from the living room had her throwing on clothes faster than she ever had before. For those two, talking was bad, as evidenced by the steady increase in volume during the short time it took her to don sweatpants and a T-shirt before bursting back out.
“You can leave,” Marty was saying.
“I willnae.”
“What do you think I’m going to do? She’s my sister.”
“Ye’ve hurt her enough already, Yank.”
“Why do foreigners,” Marty considered, then continued, “and southerners, too, for some reason, think that’s an insult? Maybe if you’re a Red Sox fan, but I’m not.”
“I dinnae ken anything about yer American football.”
Marty glanced at Kris. “Are you serious with this guy? He doesn’t even know the difference between football and baseball.”
