Kiss Me, I'm Irish. Jill Shalvis

“Correct again.”

       She opened her eyes to find his gaze locked on her. “It did happen, Kendra. And I want to talk about it.”

       “Watch the road,” she warned. “And I don’t.”

       A truck rumbled by in the other direction, forcing blessed silence. Did he really want to do this? To what end?

       “You’re mad because I never called.”

       She snorted softly. “Ya think?”

       His hand slid from the gearshift to her leg, his powerful palm and fingers covering half of her thigh and sending a wicked shot of excitement straight through her. She eased right out of his touch, earning a look from him.

       “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

       She brushed her leg as though she could erase the impact of his fingertips. Yeah, right. “It’s okay.”

       The wind off the waters of Nantucket Sound whipped her hair across her face, and she left it there, letting it hide the expressions that might give away her real feelings.

       Wanting Deuce was so fundamental to her. It was like breathing.

       Damn it all, nothing had changed. It was as if nearly a decade hadn’t passed. As if he’d come home a month after they’d shared every intimacy, and picked up without missing a beat. And her stupid, foolish girl’s heart was ready to just open up again.

       “Are you sure it’s okay?” he asked, breaking the quiet of her thoughts.

       “You’re forgiven for not calling,” she said quietly. Maybe if she let him off the hook, he’d back away.

       “You’re not lying?”

       She shook her head. “I would never lie.” But she didn’t exactly want the whole truth out there for discussion, either.

       For what seemed like an eternity, he didn’t speak. Eventually, she flipped the lock of hair off her face, using it as an excuse to glance his way. His jaw was locked tight, his eyes, behind his own sunglasses, were narrowed in deep thought.

       “Then I’ll tell you the truth,” he said.

       She waited while he collected his thoughts, and passed a pickup truck.

       “I had to cut off everything that was Rockingham,” he finally said, so softly she almost didn’t hear him over the wind and the engine of the Ford F-150 he’d just blown around.

       “Why?”

       “Because…” he shook his head and ran his tongue over his lips. No act of nature could get her to look away as she studied his serious expression. Serious…and beautiful. It still hurt to look at him.

       He barreled the car forward right up to the rear bumper of a minivan, then ripped into the other lane, floored it, and whizzed by the poor young woman in the driver’s seat. He lowered his speed back to the limit and sucked in a breath.

       “Without my mother to run interference…” He spoke slowly, candor softening his voice. “I couldn’t handle my dad. Without my mother… I just missed her too much. I couldn’t come back.”

       Seamus could be overbearing. Way beyond overbearing where Deuce was concerned. “I understand that.” But why the hell didn’t you call to tell me? Years of training herself not to reveal her true feelings to Deuce kept her from asking the question. Maybe that was foolish, maybe that was just chicken. But that was the only way she knew how to handle him.

       The one time she had admitted her feelings…

       “And if I couldn’t come back…” he continued, “what was the use of calling you?”

       She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Common decency? A lifelong acquaintance? Acknowledgement of…” The baby I carried. “…my feelings?”

       “I’m really sorry, Kendra.” He swallowed hard enough for his voice to crack. Her heart did the same. “It was a shitty thing to do.”

       This time she patted his leg. “Forget about it, Deuce. I forgot about it a long time ago.” Liar, liar, liar.

       “So why’d you leave Harvard?”

       The question was so unexpected it practically took her breath away. “I lost my scholarship and couldn’t afford to finish.” That was the God’s truth.

       He shot her a look of pure disbelief. “You had almost a full ride. How’d you lose it?”

       “My grades went in the toilet.” Along with most breakfasts those few months.

       Traffic forced his gaze back to the road. “What happened? You were an A student. A genius. I remember that.”

       Yeah, a genius who didn’t use birth control. She repositioned herself in the bucket seat. “I screwed up, Deuce. It happens all the time. Or did you forget about the racing incident that landed you here?”

       He gave her a wry smile. “Not that you’d let me.”

       She’d have to keep the conversation on him. Otherwise, he’d probe too deeply. “So, what was your thought right before you hit the wall in that car?”

       “My dad’s gonna kill me.”

       “He was furious,” she acknowledged. “The language was colorful, I can tell you.”

       He glanced at her. “How did you screw up?”

       “Let it go, Deuce.” Please.

       “Was there a guy involved?”

       “Yes.” The truth.

       “Did you love him?”

       “Yes.” More truth.

       “Do you still?”

       Oh Lord. “Once in a while, I think about him,” she managed to say, despite the real estate her heart was taking up in her throat.

       “Did he…hurt you?”

       She thought of the blood and the pain and the insane trip to the hospital. All the guilt and disappointment, and, the worst part, the relief. “They were dark days.” She’d lost the baby, Harvard and Deuce. “But I survived.”

       She pulled the seatbelt away from her chest, sucked in a breath of sea-salted air and smiled at him, aware that for the whole conversation, his hand had stayed firmly planted on her leg. “So what kind of pizza oven did you want to get?”

       He shot her another disbelieving look at her sudden segue.

       “You know, the more I think about it,” she added before he could answer, “the more I think pizza would be a big hit at the café. I did a little research and Baker’s Pride, Blodgett and Lincoln seem to be the best options.” They stopped at a light, but she let the words roll out and fill the air. “The best price would be Blodgett, which is truly commercial grade, and I think we might even be able to get a refurbished—”

       His fingers squeezed her thigh. “We were talking about your love life.”

       She put her hand over his, instantly loving the power she felt in those fingers, the hint of masculine hair tickling her skin, the sinewy muscles that baseball had formed. “Now we’re talking about pizza ovens. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

       “One of the reasons,” he said, turning his hand so they were palm to palm and threading his fingers through hers. “The other reason is because I’ve been trying to get you alone for a week and it’s impossible.”

       “I’m busy.” She congratulated herself on yet another half truth that could not technically be called a lie. Why didn’t she extricate her hand from his?

       Because she couldn’t. Any more than she could look away as he leaned closer to her face. His mouth was a breath away. His eyes locked on hers and his