Running Back (New York Leopards 2)
I tugged my arm away and beamed at him. “You only win once your feet are in the water. Rule of the beach.” I launched backward.
Exhilaration jolted through me as I fell, my stomach swooping out, Mike cursing above me. I landed with bent knees, stumbling as the pressure rushed through my bones. Mike, yelping, followed, but I splashed into the ocean before him, letting out a scream as the cold water hit my calves.
Mike landed beside me, hopping up and down in an unsuccessful attempt to keep out of the cold. I kicked water at him and splashes spotted his shorts. Outraged, he splashed back, and then leaned down and cupped a small wave my way in retaliation. I danced back. But the sea floor deepened and I stumbled, wheeling my arms as I tried to stop from falling into the freezing water.
And then Mike’s arm wrapped around me and hauled me forward until I pressed against his chest. My hands automatically wrapped around his biceps for balance, my face nestling into his throat. He smelled like salt and earth and I could feel his heart beating against mine. My feet and calves were numb, but the rest of me flushed with heat and headiness.
Heart pounding, I leaned my head back. The bright blue sky surrounded his head, his hair bright red in the afternoon sun, his face shadowed. His body breathed in and out with mine, each breath pushing me close against him. His arms dropped down to encircle the small of my back, and my hands slid up over his shoulders almost of their own accord. If I pulled up just the smallest bit, if I pushed up on my toes...
I kissed him.
His mouth moved against mine with the ease of long familiarity, as though we’d been kissing for years, as though this was a kiss that had been and would always be part of who we were. I could have stayed there forever, with the wind, the waves, the sun, Mike’s lips moving against mine.
But something caught my attention, some flicker of movement or color on the shore, and I looked over. Paul stood on the small cliff, watching us with crossed arms.
I pulled away and shoved heavy strands of hair out of my face. The wind had whipped it everywhere. “We better go. Paul is waiting.”
Chapter Nine
The next morning, I headed downstairs just past dawn. Kate O’Connor sat alone at a wicker table, her hand loosely clasped around a wide brimmed mug. She stared steadfastly through the alcove windows. The orange glow beat back the slate and coal, gradually lightening the sky behind the clouds and giving color back to the fields.
I wondered if she saw the sunrise or the past.
Eileen entered through another door, carrying a tray of white and blue porcelain dishes. “Here you go, love.” She set an omelet and hash browns before Kate, and then caught sight of me. “Ah, Natalie! What can I get you?”
“Good morning,” I said, sort of at both of them. Kate angled her body my way. “Um, just a cup of coffee, please. And maybe some shortbread?”
“How about a fresh scone now?”
My stomach rumbled at the thought of clotted cream and jam. “That would be wonderful.”
“Did you have trouble sleeping?” Kate asked after Eileen departed. “I know the time adjustment can be tricky.”
“Oh, I slept fine.” I’d actually slept perfectly, and woken with lingering dream fragments that featured her son. I tried to banish the memory and drum up something else to say. “Is this your first time in Ireland? Or did you meet—Mr. O’Connor—here?”
Kate smiled and took a long sip of her coffee. “No, I met him after he moved to Boston.”
“Why did he move there?”
“A lot of people did, then. More jobs. More opportunity.” The cup’s steam formed a veil before her face, gentling her features like a camera’s soft focus. “But Brian always said, ‘I’m going to die in Kilkarten.’ Like it was a foregone conclusion he’d come back.”
Yet he hadn’t spoken to his brother for twenty years after he left. “He must have really loved it.”
“More than anything.” She finally turned to look at me, her ethereal features firming up with attention. “We’re going to see Patrick’s widow today. You’re welcome to come, but don’t feel obligated.”
I didn’t; I felt awkward. “Oh. Thank you, but I actually saw her yesterday.”
Her brows rose and the silence lasted just long enough to feel strained. “And how was she?”
“Um.” Honestly, you’d think I’d never written ethnographic papers for cultural anthropology classes describing all sorts of relationships and behaviors. “She was—not very talkative.”
Kate nodded and pursed her lips like she was about to say something, but she changed her mind and stared back out the window. “Did you like her?”
The question struck me as peculiar. “We didn’t spend enough time together for me to form an opinion.”
She nodded again, and let out a deep sigh. Then Eileen reentered with my scone, and Kate switched the topic to my schoolwork and interests and other parental inquiries, and the odd moment passed.
After breakfast, I walked to the village while the sun finished rising, through floating sheets of mist and the spray of the sea and long, sharp calls of birds. I caught an extremely bumpy bus that carried me to Cork, and chatted easily with eighty-year-old Mrs. Buckley, who insisted that Mike’s grandfather had never really meant to marry Mike’s grandma or been interested in Eileen from the inn, but that he’d really loved her.