Soaring (25 page)

My legs were bare but I’d used this oil/lotion stuff on them that Robin had bought me for Christmas the year before that I’d never had a reason to use. But I found the results were
divine
as it gave a sheen to my skin that seemed natural, was absolutely not, but it
was
utterly fabulous.

On my feet I had black pointed-toed, slingbacks with pencil-thin heels, these covered in lace so the rim of the shoe was scalloped delicately…and amazingly.

I’d also spent a huge amount of time on my hair, arranging it in a messy side bun that took ages to pull off but I thought looked great.

Why I’d gone gung-ho, I didn’t know. The outfit didn’t say, “I’m ending it.” It said something else entirely.

Except perhaps that night, I was using my clothes as armor.

My mind still consumed with what would happen at the end of the evening (as well as uselessly contemplating the pros and cons of my outfit, something I should have done two hours ago), it came as a surprise when I heard Cillian cry, “Amy!”

I was studying my toes in my amazing shoes moving across the carpet, so at my name, my head shot up, and at what I saw, my whole body jolted.

Seated at a table were Cillian in a white dress shirt, Aisling in a pretty pink dress, and Mickey in his own white dress shirt under a well-cut, navy blue sports jacket.

They were perusing menus.

Oh God.

Why?

Why me?

Cillian circled his hand to me as Aisling turned and looked over her shoulder, the timid smile on her face dying the instant she saw Bradley.

That troubled me but I had no time for it because Mickey looked our way.

When he did, his eyes dropped the length of me and shot up, cut to Bradley briefly, then back to me, his face turning to stone.

Seeing that, how my daughter could think he was into me, I had no idea. He obviously disliked me and I knew this because he didn’t bother to hide it.

“Do you know them?” Bradley murmured, pulling me closer to him.

“They’re my neighbors,” I answered.

“Put the menus at our table, please. We’ll be there shortly,” Bradley ordered the hostess.

She nodded and swept away.

Bradley pulled me to the Donovan table.

“Hey!” Cillian cried when we got close and then announced upon our arrival, “It’s my birthday.”

Shit.

I didn’t know.

I controlled the accusatory look I wanted to throw Mickey’s way and instead smiled big at Cillian.

“First, happy birthday,” I said. “And second, please assure me that you accept late gifts.”

His smile got bigger. “Totally.”

“Also, assure me that you provide late wish lists,” I went on.

He beamed. “
Totally.
”

“Good,” I said, still smiling at him. “I expect that list to be in my mailbox by noon tomorrow.”

“You got it!” Cillian cried.

Bradley squeezed my hand and I quickly looked up at him, realizing I was being rude.

“Sorry,” I murmured then looked to the table. “Let me make the introductions. Bradley, this is the Donovan family. Aisling, Mickey and Cillian, the birthday boy. Donovan family, this is Bradley Tinsdale.”

Mickey stood and offered a hand wordlessly.

Bradley took it.

They both looked into each other’s eyes and held their grip two shades too long.

I fought squirming.

“Nice to meet you,” Bradley said to the table when he and Mickey finally disconnected.

Mickey seated himself, his eyes coming to me, and when they did, it felt like they were skewering me.

He was angry, plain to see.

But I couldn’t imagine how that could be.

“What?” I mouthed silently, gaze on Mickey.

His eyes dipped, came up to catch mine and they narrowed.

He was communicating, I just didn’t know what he was saying.

“
What?
” I mouthed again, leaning forward a little to put emphasis on my soundless word.

“Amelia?” Bradley called.

My body gave another jolt and I looked up at him to see him watching me closely.

“Yes?” I asked, trying to pretend he hadn’t just caught me mouthing to Mickey.

“Would you like to go to our table or chat with the Donovans?” he asked politely, but a little stiffly.

“We should probably go to our table,” I replied and looked to Mickey’s family, concerned to see Aisling had righted in her seat, this meaning she had her back to Bradley and me, which was impolite for a girl who was never that way. “Wish list, kiddo. Tomorrow. Noon,” I said Cillian.

“You got it,” Cillian replied, still smiling.

“Aisling,” I said softly, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

She glanced up at me swiftly and then away, muttering, “Good to see you, Amy.”

I braced and looked at her father. “Mickey.”

“Amy,” he replied, drawing his brows together and again dipping his eyes before they came back to mine.

I had no opportunity to make a further fool of myself by soundlessly demanding to know what Mickey was saying because Bradley drew me away.

When we got to our table, he pulled my chair out and I sat in it. Then he sat. And thankfully we did this, ordered drinks and received them, all without incident.

We were perusing our menus when I looked across the three tables that separated us and saw Bradley’s back was to the Donovans, but Mickey’s side was to me and his head was turned my way, his complete attention on me.

And I could tell he was still angry.

Very
angry.

That was when I had my first inkling I was in trouble.

He jerked his head in an aggressive manner that irked me.

Chancing a glance at Bradley, who was studying his menu, I looked back to Mickey, tipped my head to the side and flipped out a hand in my non-verbal, “what?”

He lifted a hand and jabbed a finger my way, tipping it slightly down, then up, then moving it to touch it to his chest.

Oh God.

Did I have something on my dress?

I looked down instantly and saw all was clear.

I lifted my head, snapped my brows together, and after another click glance at Bradley, who was still examining his menu, I looked back at Mickey and again flipped my hand out.

Her jerked his head in that aggressive way again but not toward me, in another direction.

I looked in that direction and saw there was a door to a hallway, above which it had a sign that read “Restrooms.”

I looked back to Mickey’s table to see he was no longer there. He was up and prowling infuriatedly toward that door, looking insanely hot doing this in his sports jacket.

God, he was killing me.

“What looks good to you?” Bradley asked.

Mickey Donovan
, I did not answer.

“I need a moment,” I said and his head came up, his eyes to me. “Just need to freshen up a bit. Do you mind?” I asked.

“No, Amelia,” he replied, his face getting soft. “Take all the time you need.”

He was a nice man.

And I was an idiot.

Even knowing that, it didn’t stop me from grabbing my clutch and shooting out of my chair perhaps a wee bit too swiftly for someone who’d just insinuated she might need to use the restroom but mostly she wanted to fix her lipstick.

Then I stormed across the restaurant to the hall and down it.

It was a long hall and at the end of it, another hall led off at a T with a sign that said “Restrooms” with an arrow pointing right, “Staff Only” with an arrow pointing left.

I went right, passing the men’s (why was the men’s room always first? irritating) and then the ladies’, heading to the very end of the hall where Mickey was standing, arms crossed on his chest, scowling at me.

I shoved my clutch under my arm, again lifted both hands, stomping his way, but this time I asked a verbal, “What?”

I arrived at him.

Then I was not in the hall but shoved into an alcove off the side, which was quite possibly a place where they put racks to hang coats during winter months but right then was a dark space totally removed from
everything
.

“Mickey,” I whispered, half in shock, half something else entirely.

“Uh…no,” he said infuriatedly and bafflingly.

“No, what?” I asked, staring up at him, not believing I was in a dark area removed from a restaurant where my date was, his kids were, and I was pressed against a wall by an aggressive, inexplicably angry Mickey Donovan.

“No,” he repeated but he did this shocking me to my bones by lifting a finger and gliding it from the very start of the cleft of my cleavage
over
that cleft, dipping slightly
into
my cleavage.

Even though his touch made my nipples harden instantly, I lifted my hand and snatched his finger away, keeping hold of it.

“What are you doing?” I hissed under my breath.

“Pull your goddamned dress up,” he clipped under his.

“Are you
crazy
?” I kept hissing.

“That guy, fuckin’
Bradley
, is that a joke?” he asked.

I didn’t know what that meant.

That didn’t stop me from snapping, “No.”

“Amy, even your ex, who’s a dick, is not as big of a douche as that douche at your table.”

Oh my God!

“Bradley is not
a douche
,” I retorted.

“Bradley is
a douche
and you do not give cleavage to a
douche
who you’re gonna let take you out for a couple of dinners and then dump his ass when you figure out he’s a
douche
.”

“For your information, I’m ending things with Bradley tonight, but not because he’s a
douche
, since he’s not. He’s nice. Because it just isn’t working for me.”

Mickey’s expression clouded over with sudden brotherly affront. “And you’re showin’ your tits to give him a look at what he’s not gonna get?”

I felt my face get pink and not in ways that Mickey normally made it pink.

Because I was
furious
.

“I have cleavage because my dress has cleavage, Mickey.”

“Pull up the dress, Amelia.”

I looked from side to side in mock panic before looking back to Mickey, letting his finger go, and grasping frantically at his lapels.

“Oh God!” I cried. “Did I enter a time machine and didn’t notice it? Are we back in 1818 where a man can drag a woman into an alcove at an eating establishment and demand she cover herself up?”

Mickey didn’t answer, and him not having a ready comeback surprised me enough to pay closer attention.

And what I saw was him looking down at me, his face thunderous, his jaw ticking, looking like he could easily murder someone, painfully and bloodily.

And the closest someone was me.

“Mickey,” I whispered, uncurling my fingers in order to smooth his jacket and then hopefully slide away and escape.

I didn’t get that far.

He muttered a terse, “
Fuck it
.”

And then he was kissing me.

Mickey Donovan was
kissing me
!

At first, I was suspended in utter disbelief.

Then his tongue touched my lips, I opened my mouth, it slid inside…

And I tasted Mickey.

He was the most beautiful taste to ever touch my tongue.

Because of that, I wanted more.

And I took it, in doing so receiving the best kiss I’d had
in my life
.

It was deep, wet,
blazing
.

So much of all that I forgot everything.

I forgot I was in a restaurant.

I forgot I was on a date.

I forgot my date was
in
said restaurant.

I forgot Mickey’s kids were there.

I forgot
everything
.

Everything, but Mickey.

It consumed us both in its blistering heat to the point mouths and tongues weren’t enough and we both started groping.

I was right.

He was hard and he was hot, everywhere I touched.

I
loved
it.

And his hands on me, over my clothes, did things to me I didn’t know I could feel.

I whimpered against his tongue and he tore his mouth free.

But he didn’t go far and I found myself pressed to a wall by the solid heat of Mickey, his fingers tangled in my hair, his other hand cupped on my behind. My arms were in his jacket, one hand clenched in the back of his shirt, the other one pressed tight against his rock-hard shoulder blade.

We were both breathing heavily.

“Two choices, Amelia,” he stated in a low, throaty voice that sped right between my legs, forcing the wet already gathering there from the kiss to become soaked. “You either go out there and tell that guy to take a hike, come and sit at our table and have Cillian’s birthday dinner with us or you go out there, get that guy outta here, end it with him and I’ll be over later.”

“It would be rude to tell him to take a hike,” my mouth said for me.

“Then get his ass outta here, end it and I’ll be over later.”

Oh God, what was happening?

“Mickey,” I whispered.

He pressed me into the wall and his fingers slid deeper into my hair, gripping my side bun as his hand at my behind clenched.

Sodden was history, now I feared I was dripping.

“Get him outta here, Amy,” he growled.

“Okay, Mickey,” I breathed.

His eyes dropped to my mouth and he muttered, “Right across the street,
fuck
.”

“Mickey, I think—” I began.

He interrupted me, “You think for the next three hours that you’re gonna think about anything but that kiss and ending it with that guy, I’m gonna kiss you again, Amy, so you won’t.”

He couldn’t kiss me again. If he did, I’d lose thought of everything and probably end up having sex against the wall in a dark alcove in a fancy restaurant with Mickey.

“I don’t think I’ll forget that kiss,” I told him breathily.

“Right,” he bit off, sounding angry.

“Are you angry?” I asked.

“Are you gonna walk out to that guy wearing that dress?” he asked back.

“Well…yes.”

“Then yeah, I’m angry.”