“Get your face out of your phone,” Amy snapped back.
I'd known that Eamon was coming to New York. I'd have to be living under a rock to not notice his handsome face on one of the big screens in Times Square, or the way some of the women in my office had chattered about it. In fact, I'd been keenly aware of every time Eamon had played in the city over the last decade, ever since he became big enough to sell out concert halls all over the world. But I'd never gone to see him. It would've been too painful.
“What is going on?” Amy asked. “I thought you would be excited. Remember how you told me you met him in Ireland? We've never gone to see him together. I thought it would be cool.”
“I thought we were eating.”
“I’ve heard he puts on an incredible show. And he's so damn sexy. The Irish accent? Oh, my God. I could sit around and listen to him read the phone book.”
“There's no such thing as a phone book. Not anymore.”
“You know what I mean.” She tugged on my arm again, but I didn't budge. “Come on.”
I did not make a habit of keeping details from my sister. She was the one person I could tell anything, without judgment. I hadn't told her about Eamon when I returned from Ireland because she'd been stuck at home dealing with Dad while I was gallivanting in Europe. It wasn't until Eamon's first record came out that I casually mentioned I'd met him. Amy hadn't pushed me for more at the time, and I wasn't sure I could talk about him without crying. The more famous Eamon became over the years, the idea of suddenly sharing everything became exponentially more absurd.
I didn't just meet Eamon MacWard. We had a fling. A stupid hot romance where we almost never got out of bed, and when we did it wasn't for long. He made my toes curl. He wrote a song about me. Saying goodbye to him was one of the hardest things I've ever done.
“I need to tell you something,” I mumbled.
“Can you tell me along the way? It's a good twenty blocks to the theater.”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “The closer we get to the theater, the dumber it's going to sound.”
Amy dropped her head back out of exasperation. "You are officially making me insane."
“I didn't just meet him. I know him. I know him, know him.”
Her eyes became so huge they threatened to swallow her button nose. “Likesex, know him?”
“It was a long time ago. Nobody knows. I meannobody.”
Amy squealed like a piglet. People turned around. “Oh, my God.” She huddled up next to me and muttered in my ear. “My sister had sex with Eamon MacWard?”
The first time we did it, we were so hot for each other we didn't even use a condom. We were half-naked in his front hall.I was out of my mind.
“It'sAim-un. NotEem-un. And shush. People will hear you.”
“Sorry.Aim-un. And now you have to tell me everything.”
I was in no way prepared to tell her this story right now—this was the sort of thing that required a comfy place to sit and at least one bottle of wine. Per person. “It was sweet and romantic. I was a kid.”Way to undersell it.
“I want to hear everything later. Every juicy little detail.” Gleeful, she hooked her arm in mine and started walking with such force that I had no choice but to stumble along. She began to prattle on about the wedding, but I couldn't focus, not when I knew what—and who—was waiting when we arrived at the theater. Could I do this? I'd never even bothered with the question. I'd assumed the answer was no. If my vision was a one-in-a-billion fluke, Eamon MacWard was an even more rare kind of guy.
The first time I laid eyes on him, he was setting up to perform in a pub in the small town where I lived with my host family. It was a Friday. The place was packed, smoky, and loud. I managed to grab a stool at the end of the bar, with a direct view of the tiny stage in the corner. Eamon was plugging in an amp, tuning his guitar, and wrestling with a microphone cord in earnest. His thick, wavy hair, the color of warm, black coffee, fell to his shoulders. He was lanky, his legs a mile long in dark jeans. He wore scuffed work boots and a charcoal thermal, sleeves bunched at his elbows. Scruff peppered the fair skin of his square jaw. His brows were just as dark, but heavy. He was rough-hewn perfection. And I was transfixed.
I sat there sipping Guinness, unable to tear my sight from him while he nervously double-checked every little thing. I could tell he was talking to himself, which I found adorable. The tables in front of the stage were filled with people drinking and talking. They didn't notice a thing he did, which I couldn't comprehend. He was right there. And he was so worth watching. When he finished his preparations, he straightened to his full height, raised his arms and stretched, revealing a narrow sliver of his stomach. I had never been more turned on in my entire life. He caught me looking and peered back with his steely-gray eyes. Heat and embarrassment crept over me. It was like he could see inside my brain and knew exactly what I was thinking. He smiled. My whole world changed. For the first time ever, I had been glad I hadn't been prepared for something. I never would've believed it in the first place.
“Ma'am, your purse.”
I looked up. The theater marquis flashed.An evening with Eamon MacWard.
Amy grumbled. “Katherine. She needs to inspect your bag.”
The security woman radiated impatience.
“Oh, right.” I scrambled to open the flap of my black leather cross-body bag, and let her rifle through my things. “Sorry.”
“Next,” the woman said.
