Chasing River (Burying Water 3)

“A piece of paper?” He pauses, a deep frown touching his brow. “No, I don’t think so.”

He’s a good liar. I know for a fact that he did. “Are you sure?”

He smooths my hair back off my forehead, studying my entire face. “Why? Was it important?”

I play along. “No, not really. Just a list of things to do while I’m traveling.”

“Things to do . . . huh.” His expression reveals nothing.

“Yeah. My friend and I wrote it one night when we were drinking, as a joke.”

“A joke.” He bats those long lashes at me. “All of it?”

I stifle the smile threatening. “Not all of it.”

“Well . . .” His scruff tickles my neck as he leans to whisper into my ear, “I hope you’ll give proper consideration to some of them, at least.”

He slides out the front door as my mouth drops open, as I watch him jog to his car. “Am I going to see you again?” I blurt out just before he ducks into the driver’s side.

He grins back at me. “If you want to.” Then he disappears into his car, the low rumble of the engine igniting into the night.

If I want to?

The problem is, I can’t tell exactly what it is I want anymore.

FIFTEEN

River

“What are you doing back here?” Rowen stares at me like I’ve sprouted two extra heads in front of him.

“Same thing I do every Saturday night.”

“I don’t remember ya being that quick,” Nuala chirps from the customer side of the bar, sweetening the insult with a wink while she wipes down the computer.

I ignore the two of them, grabbing a rack of dirty glasses and carrying it to the dishwasher in the back. Reminding myself for the tenth time that I did the right thing by running when I did.

I didn’t have to leave. Rowen wouldn’t have cared if I didn’t come back to the pub tonight.

But I had to leave.

Rowen trails behind me, undeterred. “So she realized that she was too good for you and kicked you out?”

“She hasn’t. Yet,” I mutter¸ adjusting glasses to make sure they don’t crack in the cycle. “Have you called last call yet?” There were no more than ten people left out there. Even Collin had packed up his things and staggered home already.

Rowen glances at his watch. “We have another—”

“Just call it. I’m bloody tired.” And I need to get away from Nuala before she grabs my cock, like she will when she notices the hard-on tucked into my jeans. It’s been a while since I’ve had to deal with this situation.

“Fine. Fuck.” He disappears back outside and I hear the telltale cowbell, followed by a chorus of grumbles and jeers. “Go home, ya muppets,” I mutter. They’ve all had more than enough to drink and I’m in no mood to talk to anyone.

Leaving Amber tonight was hard. Painfully so. If I’m being honest, when I stepped into that house, into that bedroom, a part of me was hoping that I was completely wrong about her. But then I stepped out of her bathroom and saw her standing in that window, the streetlight shining over her face—her nervous face, her delicate hands clasping each other—and I knew that I wasn’t.

And I’m glad.

But that still didn’t stop me from giving it one last try for the night.

I kill a bit of time in the office, tidying up, before I venture back outside. All but three drunks have left, and Nuala’s working on them.

“So?” Rowen asks, watching the printer run with the night’s closing reports. “What happened?”

“Nothing. She was drunk.”

“Drunk and she turned you down?”

“Not exactly.” I know that if I stayed longer, kissed her more, eased her into it, her body would have ignored her doubts eventually. I could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she instantly gravitated toward me when I touched her. But I don’t want that. I don’t want Amber waking up in the morning, her head throbbing from drink, her body sore from use, her stomach curling with countless screams of regret while I lie naked next to her, oblivious and sated. I don’t want to be that memory for her.

“You turned her down because she was drunk?”

“Yes . . . No . . . Just shut up.”

Nuala snorts from her spot across the bar. “That’s not how she’s goin’ to see it.” The bird’s got ears like a bloody bat and opinions that she shouldn’t share most times.

“She sees it just fine.” We left things on a good note. She knows I like her.

“Did you make plans to see each other again?”

“I’ll call her tomorrow.”

Nuala drops the last tray of dirty glasses on the bar counter. “I’m only saying this for your own good, River. Because you can be a bit daft sometimes. The bird is smitten with ya. Why, I don’t understand. I mean, you’re a charmer, but you’re not of her league. And yet she sat in this filthy kip all night, waiting for ya to bat an eyelash at her.”

“So?”

“So, she’s not going to spend her entire holiday here, especially if her pride’s bruised. Tomorrow it could be another place, another Irish fella behind the bar; something to satisfy that itch she wants to scratch while she’s here. I know. I’ve been on holiday too.”

I level her with a look. “She’s not like you.” I’m sure Nuala’s never taken a fella home and not fucked him senseless.

“She’s got a cunt, doesn’t she?” Nuala snips, strolling away to begin lifting stools and chairs so the floors can be washed, dropping them loudly onto tables. I know I’ve pissed her off. Nuala doesn’t take too kindly to being compared to girls of Amber’s pedigree, which is staggeringly higher. I’ll bet Amber would never even use a word like that.

Still, Nuala’s words linger in my mind. I think Amber understood why I left. I hope she did. What does she have going on for tomorrow? Will she come back here? Again? I did leave her hanging, a tease. Maybe she won’t appreciate that. Maybe that’ll piss her off. How long will a girl like that chase when she’s only here for another week? That she’s even chasing after me at all is a shock.

I consider calling her. Driving drive back there tonight and letting her know exactly how I feel, that I don’t want her scratching any itches with anyone but me.

But when I leave Delaney’s for the night and see the street up ahead, where I should turn left toward her place . . . I go straight instead, toward home.

SIXTEEN

Amber

The shrill ring of my phone is ten times worse than normal.

“Hello?” My voice crackles in the receiver, my eyes squinting against the dull morning light streaming through the kitchen window as I watch rain splatter over the patio table out back. This is the kind of weather Mary Coyne warned was common in Ireland.

“You’re up.”

As happy—and relieved—as I am to hear River’s voice, I can’t manage more than a light moan in response.

“Did you drink water?”

“Three glasses and counting.” I tip the tall glass—the only reason I crawled out of bed in the first place—to my lips, praying that the cool liquid will get rid of this dull ache. Clearly three glasses hasn’t been enough.