Chasing River (Burying Water 3)

“Not even close.”

“I’ll wait for you, then. If you think you can do a good job of this.”

“Oh, I can do a great job of that.”

River smiles, reaching out to pinch my elbow. “What about you? You want Ivy to mark that perfect skin of yours?”

“Are you kidding?” Now Ivy’s brows spike. “I’m not putting a tattoo on Miss Sheriff’s Daughter. She’ll have something to hang over my head until the day I die. I’ll never be able to go back to Oregon. Not that I’m missing much.”

I glare at her.

“I take it you two didn’t just meet yesterday.”

“You actually believed that?” Ivy snorts. “Alright, I’ve got to get back there now, before I kill myself.” She drags her feet as she turns to leave.

“So I guess you wouldn’t be interested in going out with us tonight, then?” River asks.

And my heart rate skips a few beats. This is new.

Ivy stops and turns, that owl-like gaze of hers shuttering between the two of us. “The three of us?”

“Four. My brother, Rowen, will come out, too. You remember him from last night?”

“The grinning Irishman. Yeah.”

I don’t even have to ask to know that Rowen isn’t her type, despite his being charming and hot. Her type is broody and dark. Basically, my brother.

“So you’ll come? We’d love for you to come.” He ropes an arm around my waist, pulling me to him. “Right, Amber?”

“Yeah, definitely. Just maybe no shots.” I’d like to be in control of myself this time around.

Ivy’s gaze hovers over River’s arm. I’d pay to know what’s going on inside that head of hers right now. “Sure. I’m in. If I’m not dead by then. Amber has my number.”

The second she disappears, he pulls me into him, our chests pressed against each other. It’s the first overt move on his part since he picked me up today. “You okay with spending tonight with me, Miss Sheriff’s Daughter?”

I groan but then laugh. “Don’t you start that now, too.”

“That’s the second time she’s called you that. I’m guessing your father’s a sheriff?”

I nod.

“And I take it Ivy doesn’t like paying taxes?”

Taxes? I frown. “Uh . . . I don’t know. It wouldn’t surprise me, though.” She seems like she could walk a fine line between right and wrong.

His one eye narrows in question. “Wait . . . What exactly does a sheriff do in America?”

“Arrests people? Keeps the peace?” Wreaks havoc on a teenage girl’s love life? “My dad was the county sheriff. He ran the entire police department. But he’s retired now.”

“Oh.” A strange look passes over his face that I can’t read. “That’s definitely different from sheriffs in Ireland. They just collect taxes from delinquents.”

“Like the Sheriff of Nottingham?”

He chuckles softly. “Kind of.” A pause. “So, what’s your father like?”

My gaze scans the black ceiling above as I ponder that question. How do I describe Gabe Welles? “Serious, more than he’s not. Difficult to please. A believer in the rule of law. Thrives on having control of the situation. Overprotective of his daughter.” It took him a while to warm up to Neil as my boyfriend, even though he knew him as Neil, the kid who ate sand at the playground, for fifteen-odd years before that. Neil was about as innocuous as a teenage boy can get, and the Sheriff still felt it was necessary to be cleaning his rifle on the front porch when the guy arrived to pick me up for our first date.

He was never a big fan of Brody, though he admitted the guy was decent as far as men go. And, even though my mom knew and could vouch for Aaron, I’m pretty sure my dad ran a background check on him before grunting his approval.

I don’t even have to wonder what he’d think of River. He wouldn’t like him at all, for the simple fact that he lives in Ireland.

“And what kind of daughter were you?” River plays with one of my gold hoop earrings. “The kind who listened to her serious, controlling, difficult-to-please father? Or the one who didn’t?”

“What do you think?”

His eyes glance over my mouth. “I’m thinking you made him very proud.”

Am I that obvious? By his suddenly serious expression, I’m beginning to think this is unpleasant news for River. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No.” He chuckles. “Not at all. Believe me.”

I smile. “I didn’t really have a choice. I had to balance out my troublemaker brother.”

“I know something about that.” He sighs. “I should head to the pub now. Do you want me to drop you off at home?”

I’m guessing he’s not talking about Rowen. It must be this mysterious older brother of his, who he mentioned the other day. The one whose very name made tension cord in his jaw and his back. “No. I can walk. It’s sunny out now. Bizarre Irish weather.”

“It’s bipolar,” he jokes. “Okay. I’ll pick you up at your house around eight?”

“Sounds good.” That’s five hours from now. Enough time to hit up the overpriced stores on Grafton Street because, suddenly, I don’t have anything in my suitcase suitable for a night out with River.

He simply smiles at me. Not moving closer. Not pulling away.

Waiting for me to make the first move, I think.

I do, leaning in to steal a kiss and elicit a soft groan from him. His grip around me tightens, his fist clenching the back of my shirt as he pulls me into his body, his erection pressing against my stomach.

Really? He wants me that much? Knowing that excites me.

And then he breaks free suddenly. “See ya.”

I grin, parroting him. “See ya.”

SEVENTEEN

River

“We’re going out tonight.”

Rowen peers up from the liquor inventory. “Can’t. I need to catch up from the work I missed last Wednesday, when I covered for you.”

“On our night off?” It’s customary that we arrange for Nuala and another bartender to cover the bar for us on Sunday nights so we can take off at seven and have a few hours to relax. “No. You’re coming out.”

He groans. “With who?”

“Amber and her friend, Ivy.”

That sparks his interest. “That hot, mean little one with all the ink?”

“That’s the one. She asked about you.” There was nothing about Ivy’s face today that said she’s interested in Rowen, but I still owe him for that gag with the work shirt yesterday.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Eight o’clock at Nosey Flynn’s.” I know he’s in.

I’ll never forget my first love. I was sixteen. Her name was Katie Byrne and she was a year younger than me. I’d known her and her family for years—they were members of the same small parish on the outskirts of Dundalk, and they lived about two minutes’ drive away, in a small cottage with tomato-red framing and a thatched roof—but I only really noticed her that September, after she and her family returned from a summer in Edinburgh. Her body was suddenly full of curves, her face missing the baby fat, and her innocent hazel doe eyes were soulful enough to entrap most any boy.