Page 127 of Inflict

“Evelyn.”

“It’s pretty,” she whined, waving at it.

“It is—it’s great. You should let me copy it over and tattoo it up your hip and side. It’d look grand, love. It’ll even match the wings on your back. But not on the walls.”

Evelyn frowned. “I thought you would like it.”

“I said I do.”

“Not enough.”

All right.

Now this was getting rather dumb.

Connor was all for indulging Evelyn at times, even some of her more … eccentric moods, when they came on. Which he was learning could be at any point, as she’d spent so much time being forced to do the bidding of a man. This was too far.

“Don’t go acting like a right wagon about all of this,” Connor said, turning to walk out of the kitchen and go find something else to do. “I’m not asking for something feckin’ crazy here, just that you don’t draw on my goddamn walls, Evelyn.”

“What does that even mean?”

Connor, more exasperated than he was willing to admit, didn’t bother to turn around as he asked, “What?”

“Wagon. What does that even mean?”

If there was a God above, He was laughing at Connor. Laughing at his foolish arse.

The Irish had a terrible way of taking the English language and mutilating it for their own benefit, however they saw fit. Sometimes shite didn’t make sense, not that it had to, outside of the person using it or the person being insulted, but none of that mattered in the grand scheme of things. It was not as simple as saying the phrase meant one thing, when in fact, it could mean a lot of things.

This happened to be one of those times, but he figured it was self-explanatory.

But even as he had used the insult, he knew he would have done better to explain it in a different way to Evelyn at first. All of the Irish couples he had seen growing up had used those very same mannerisms as a form of affection, the same way they might outright tell their significant other that they loved them. Evelyn didn’t catch on to Connor’s nuances as easily or as quickly, and this had gone right over her head.

At the same time, Connor figured he might do both himself and Evelyn a major favor by letting her work this one out on her own. Especially after he explained exactly what the word meant, and saw how it made her feel. She was doing better at times—speaking up, demanding what she wanted, rather than keeping quiet, and even doing for herself instead of waiting. Sometimes, though, Connor still had to push her toward it.

He saw the growth.

It could be more.

This could be one of those moments, he decided.

Evelyn had enough Irish in her to look the part, with her green eyes, pale skin, reddish-blonde curls, and freckles every which way he looked. The sad thing was, life had practically stripped her of the nuances and culture, which was a feckin’ shame.

“Means you’re being trite, grumpy, or bitchy—take your pick. Whichever one fits, Evelyn.”

Connor only heard the clang of metal in just enough time to turn around and watch something fly at his feckin’ head. Sweet Jesus, she had one hell of an aim on her. He ducked, and the frying pan practically skimmed the top of his hair before it crashed into the floor just outside of the kitchen.

It took him all of three seconds to stare at Evelyn, check behind him where the frying pan was now laying, and then back at the crazy woman standing behind the island to realize what had even just happened. As shocked as he was, he was also pissed, and amused.

All five feet, four inches of Evelyn stared him down from across the kitchen like she was daring him to say something or move an inch. He swore he saw her hand twitch, too, like she was considering reaching for another one of the hanging pans to whip at him.

No, the wee thing didn’t sound Irish at all. She didn’t understand him sometimes, and he got a chuckle out of it more often than not. She was a wee bit insane—he sort of liked that, too. But standing there like she was, pink-cheeked, huffing, and ready to whip his arse even if she had to use a frying pan to do it, she was every inch an Irish lass.

Every feckin’ inch.

It turned him on like nothing ever had.

He wasn’t even sure how to deal with that.