Love and Shenanigans (Ballybeg, Book 1) (The Ballybeg Series) (29 page)

Fiona bit back a laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“It’s kind of Gavin to offer to give up his Stephen’s Day to help you box books, not to mention him helping you paint the shop.”

She slathered ointment on her injury. “Guilt is a great motivator. He feels responsible for trusting that drunken eejit in Vegas to remember not to register our marriage.”

“Harrumph,” Bridie said. “Who’s making him feel guilty? You are, missy. Why didn’t you make sure the man wouldn’t register the papers?”

Fiona looked up in exasperation. “Because I assumed Gavin had taken care of it.”

“In other words, you both messed up, and you’re equally to blame for the consequences.”

“Bridie—”

“No.” Her aunt grabbed wine glasses from the cupboard and set them on the table. “You’re an adult, Fiona. You, and you alone, are responsible for sorting out your life. If you don’t want that nincompoop Philip here for Christmas dinner, why didn’t you turf him out of the Book Mark weeks ago? You clearly
do
want Gavin in your life, so why on earth are you sabotaging your one shot to put things right?”

“It’s… complicated.”

Her aunt rolled her eyes and threw her arms heavenward. “Life’s complicated. Get used to it.”

Fiona flicked on the kettle and made another cup of tea. Bridie was exasperating. And the most exasperating part was how right her aunt was. Why hadn’t she told Philip to feck off the moment he walked into the Book Mark? She should have made sure Drew Draper shredded the marriage papers that morning in Vegas. As for Gavin, she never should have kissed him in the cave, let alone slept with him. She knew how she felt about him, and she should have known better than to think she could keep their relationship a casual fling.

She sipped her hot tea and stared out at the weak winter sun. Christmas was a difficult time of year for her. The forced cheer and festivities acted as a sharp reminder of the family she’d lost. Clearly, she’d let the stress of the season cloud her judgment.

In a few days, the New Year would begin, bringing with it the chance of a fresh start for all of them. By the end of January, she’d make her belated escape from Ballybeg and head to Australia for the adventure of a lifetime. It was what she’d always dreamed of. So why did the prospect leave her feeling hollow inside?

At one o’clock on Christmas Day, Gavin pressed the doorbell of Bridie’s cottage. Wiggly Poo danced at his feet, tail wagging, tongue lolling.

Fiona opened the door. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. She was wearing a knee-length black corduroy skirt and a formfitting green roll-neck pullover and was absolutely gorgeous.

“Come in.” She stood to the side to let them pass. He brushed against her on his way in and saw her intake of breath. They stared at one another in awkward silence, neither sure how they should proceed.

Wiggly Poo had no such reservations. He launched himself at Fiona.

“Hey,” Gavin said. “Down, boy.”

Fiona laughed and bent to pet the little dog, giving him an excellent view of how nicely her skirt accentuated her curves. If only it were just her curves that had such an affect on him. In the days since their talk outside the Book Mark, he’d missed her like crazy.

“As you can see, we failed obedience school,” he said. “Or rather, he did. We’ve to retake the class next month.”

“You don’t say?” She grinned at him, and his heart skipped a beat. “Come through to the kitchen. The Major’s already here.”

“Merry Christmas, Gavin,” Bridie said. “Will you have a glass of mulled wine?” She was already sloshing a generous amount of the potent red liquid into four mugs.

“Hello, Major,” he said, taking a mug from Bridie.

“Fancy one of these scrumptious mince pies?” The Major asked, handing him a tray. “I believe Fiona made them.”

Fiona laughed. “Under your granddaughter’s strict instructions. I wasn’t born with Olivia’s knack for pastry, alas.”

“Nonsense,” The Major said. “You’ve done splendidly. If the smell wafting from the oven is any indication, your roast turkey will also turn out a treat.”

The doorbell rang, and Fiona excused herself to answer it. A minute later, she returned to the kitchen, her posture tense.

“Hello, folks.” Philip sloped into the room behind her, standing closer to Fiona than Gavin liked. He’d made zero effort with his outfit—ripped jeans and an ancient pullover. His hair looked as though it had seen neither shampoo nor a brush in the last few days. His gaze roamed over Fiona’s body in lewd appreciation. “Nice outfit, FeeFee.”

Gavin’s free hand balled into a fist.

“Wish I could return the compliment,” she said, taking a step away from Philip.

Wiggly Poo growled at the new visitor and bared his teeth.

Philip backed into a chair. “I’m not exactly a dog person.”

“Apparently, neither is he.” Fiona crossed her arms across her chest. “How come you didn’t go home to Dublin for Christmas?”

The guy shrugged. “I’m performing in the matinees over the next couple of days. There’s no time to make it to Dublin and back.”

“Your family won’t come to Cork?”

He flushed. “Actually, we’re not on speaking terms at the moment.”

“Fiona!” called Bridie. “Can you help me with the turkey? I think it’s done.”

The guests trooped into the tiny dining room and took their seats. The Major’s prediction about the turkey proved accurate. It was delicious, as were the various side dishes.

Gavin was having seconds when Bernard Byrne barged into the house. His face was red, his eyes were bloodshot, and the whiskey fumes were evident to everyone.

“Bernard?” Bridie asked, getting to her feet. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you ring the doorbell?”

Bernard stubbed a sausage finger on the festive tablecloth. “You!” he snarled and lunged at Gavin.

He held Bernard at arm’s length, the smaller man going wild from his efforts to get in a punch. Seeing his owner under attack, Wiggly Poo raced to the rescue. He launched himself at Bernard and sank his teeth into his ankle.

“Argh!” Bernard roared “Get that animal off me.”

Fiona grabbed a piece of turkey from the table and waved it at Wiggly Poo. “Come on, boy. Look what I’ve got for you.”

Not releasing his grip on Bernard’s ankle, Wiggly Poo considered his options. Continue to gnaw the nasty’s man’s leg, or eat some yummy turkey? He let Bernard go and bounded toward the meat.

“Traitor,” Gavin said.

“My foot.” Bernard was scarlet with rage. “I’ll get gangrene.”

“What the feck is wrong with you?” Bridie demanded. “Why did you come barging into my house on Christmas Day?”

Bernard opened his thick lips to speak, panting through the pain. “Muireann’s pregnant.”

“MUIREANN IS PREGNANT?” The floor shifted under Gavin’s feet like a rocking vessel. He swayed before righting himself. “That’s not possible.”

His words were as much a prayer as a statement. A wave of panic crested in his chest. She couldn’t be pregnant. He couldn’t be the father. Why the hell did this have to happen now?

Bernard’s beady eyes narrowed to slits. “I’ll expect you to pay up, you blaggard. I’ll bleed you dry, so help me God.”

“You’re already bleeding me dry,” he said wearily. “You and Gant have seen to that. Where’s Muireann now?”

“I don’t know,” the man muttered. “She told us she was pregnant, then took off in her car.”

“Probably couldn’t take your roaring,” snapped Bridie.

Bernard glared at her. “How’s a father supposed to react when his daughter tells him she’s pregnant by a someone who can’t marry her for another four years?”

“You could have listened to her.” Gavin tasted bile but swallowed past it. “Did she actually say I’m the father, or did you make an assumption? Because if I am the father, she must be around five months pregnant. I’m no expert, but she doesn’t look over halfway through a pregnancy to me.”

“She didn’t need to say you were the father. Sure, who else would it be?”

Fiona exchanged a significant glance with Gavin. “Muireann was abroad for weeks. Why couldn’t she have gotten pregnant while she was away? Like Gavin said, she certainly doesn’t look anywhere near five months pregnant.”

Bernard’s face went from scarlet to purple. “Are you calling my daughter a slut? That’s rich coming from you.”

“That’s enough.” Bridie moved toward her brother. “I won’t have anyone slut shamed in my house. Not Fiona and not your daughter. If Muireann slept with someone on holiday, she was free and single and entitled to do so.”

Bernard opened his mouth to let out another roar, but Bridie checked him. “I said that’s enough. Come on, I’ll drive you home. There’s no use in fighting with Gavin until we find Muireann and know more about the situation.”

Without waiting for him to protest, Bridie dragged her brother out of the cottage.

Silence descended upon the assembled company. Fiona was green with worry. Philip looked smug. The Major’s aged eyes were more sunken than usual.

Gavin took a ragged breath. What if he was the one making assumptions? What if Muireann truly was expecting his child? It wasn’t as if he knew anything about pregnant women.

Fiona put a hand on his arm. “I’ll go next door with you.”

“Ah, there’s no need,” he said, still shocked but rallying. “I’m grand. Stay here with your guests.”

“Bollocks. You’re far from grand. You’re in need of a stiff drink. And frankly, so am I.” She grabbed a bottle of vodka from her aunt’s drinks cabinet and turned to the remaining dinner guests. “I won’t be long. In the meantime, help yourselves to sherry trifle.”

“No problem, dear,” The Major said. “Take all the time you need. We can let ourselves out if necessary.”

Philip wore an insouciant smirk. “If I’d known your family get-togethers were this entertaining, FeeFee, I’d have come down with you to Ballybeg years ago.”

Her expression went from rigid to enraged in the space of a millisecond. “By the time I get back, I want you gone, Philip. And don’t bloody call me FeeFee.”

“Ah, now, I was only having a laugh. You’re overreacting.”

“If Fiona wants you gone by the time she comes back,” said The Major smoothly, “you will be gone. I’ll make certain of it.”

“And if you need any help getting rid of him, I’m more than willing to assist.” Gavin whistled for Wiggly Poo to come. For once, the puppy obeyed. He’d give him a doggy treat when they got home. Fiona looped her arm through his, and they stepped out into the bitter December cold.

Back in his cottage, Wiggly Poo made a dash for his basket and was snoring within seconds.

Gavin slid into a kitchen chair and stared at his hands.

“You okay?” Fiona sloshed vodka into shot glasses and placed one before him. “You’ve gone so white you’re rivaling me for the crown of palest person in Ballybeg.”

He could barely get the words out, had to clear his throat a couple of times. “It can’t be my baby.”

“You sure about that?” Her hands shook around her glass, but her voice was steady.

“I won’t know until I speak to Muireann, but we haven’t had sex since a couple of weeks before our non-wedding.” He downed his shot in one, relishing the burn of the harsh liquor as it snaked its way to his stomach.

Fiona clasped her trembling hands. A smorgasbord of emotions flitted across her face: shock, disbelief, hurt. “Did you know this was a possibility before we slept together? Luca made that comment about Muireann and pregnancy when you guys came by the Book Mark. I didn’t place much emphasis on it at the time.”

“No, of course I didn’t know she was pregnant. I’d never have let things get this far with you if I’d had any suspicion she might be carrying my baby. We weren’t planning on trying for a family for a while after the wedding—or at least I wasn’t.”

“But?” Her green eyes were filled with tears. “Luca’s comment wasn’t a coincidence, was it?”

“Not exactly. The morning of the wedding, Muireann mentioned her period was late. I was less than thrilled, to be honest, but we’d planned to have kids eventually, and I know I would have gotten used to the idea.”

Fury flashed across Fiona’s face. “So you did know she might be expecting.”

“No. Please hear me out. The day I collected my stuff from Clonmore Lodge—the day she trashed my stuff—she told me I didn’t need to worry because she wasn’t pregnant after all.”

“And you believed her?”

“Well, yeah. I had no reason to doubt her word.”

Fiona finished her shot and then refilled their glasses. “What a mess.”

“Yeah. The understatement of the decade.” He stood and began to pace his small kitchen. “My relationship with Muireann is over, and there’s no going back. But if I did get her pregnant, I can’t abandon my child. I won’t be like my father.”

“Your father?” She looked up. “You’ve never talked about him to me before.”

He stared out the kitchen window at the starry sky. “I don’t mention him because I try to forget he ever existed. Long story short, he took off when my mother was eight months pregnant. By all accounts, he was a loser. Given my mother’s subsequent taste in boyfriends, I’m not surprised. We were probably better off without him in our lives, but it didn’t feel like that when I was growing up.”