Page 49 of An Irish Hope

He drained the rest of his pint, her words—note perfect as ever—fusing with his emotions and the dare that Grady had left him with on Monday. The dare he’d reiterated this morning.

So when the plaintive strains of the squeezebox closed the song, he was feeling plenty of pressure. Pressure that only compounded as the room erupted into cheers, and more calls for Andy to “Take the lass up on her offer!”

“I’ll kiss her if you won’t,” someone else yelled.

Aisling’s eyes widened, and he realised he didn’t want anyone else taking his place. Something that she’d clearly asked for.

She was drawing closer, closer…

He stood.

Her smile was tentative. “How was that?”

“Go on, lad!” someone called.

So he moved into her space, cupped her face in his hands, and bent and kissed her.

He’d intended it as just a simple peck, a way of shutting up the bar’s inhabitants, and giving her what she’d asked for. But it seemed that his lips didn’t get the memo as they softened and melded with hers.

He was faintly aware that the cheers around them had doubled, but he was far more aware of how sweet she tasted, how much he loved to kiss her, how perfectly she fitted, her body close to his.

He drew back, and she released a shaky laugh. “So, you liked that song, then?”

“I liked it a lot.”

She smiled. “Do you want to stay here?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think any song could top that one.”

Her gaze was dark, intense, and made him long to pick right back up on what they’d just been doing.

“Let’s get out of here,” he murmured.

“Okay,” she whispered.

They exited, and he caught her blush and small smile as catcalls chased them from the room. They reached outside, and she shrugged on her coat, then turned to him, tentatively.

Suddenly he didn’t care that they were on the main street of Derryloughlin. He needed to kiss her again. Once was not enough. “Hey, Ash. Would you mind—?”

“Not at all,” she murmured, moving closer and meeting his mouth with hers.

The stars she’d just sung about seemed to twinkle through his soul as a kind of headiness made him lose concerns about what others must be thinking. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, pressing against her. He needed this woman’s kiss in his life. He needed her. He wanted her. And while he and Greta had never reached the stage of their relationship where that problematic line in “Islands in the Stream” was true for them, they’d sailed awfully close. And after two years of not touching a woman in a romantic way, it was obvious his body had zero problem remembering just where this kind of kiss could go.

He startled, and drew back.

Aisling’s eyelids were heavy. “Is everything okay?”

How could everything be okay? How could anything be okay? Not when he was leaving tomorrow, and she was staying. Not when he’d vowed to God that he wouldn’t stir up feelings for anyone, not for the next five years, and he’d just done this.

He stared at her, unable to formulate an answer. How could he say any of this to her?

“It’s getting late,” he said instead.

“Yes, but—”

He released her. “I have a long trip tomorrow.”

“You do? I thought you lived near Cork.”