The Problem with Paddy (Shrew & Company) (6 page)

She blinked.

“Well, just like you can see beyond the ordinary, I can smell you lying, Dana. This isn’t a question of
if
or even
when
. This is about how.”

Her forehead furrowed. “How?”

“Top or bottom, sweetheart? Your choice.”

Is this guy for real?

Certainly felt like it to Dana, because Patrick’s hands seemed to be everywhere all at once. The waistband of her slacks. Her sweater’s hem. Stroking her cheeks. Raking fingers through her hair.

Part of her wanted to swat him away—especially from the hair that’d taken her nearly an hour to style that morning—but the other part said, “Who’s going to know? Why not indulge?”

The truth was, the last truly pleasurable thing she’d done for herself was replacing that bra she’d kept too long which had an underwire that stabbed her ribs. That had been three months prior. Since then, her life had been work, doctor’s appointments, and babysitting her staff. Her girls were ballsy, but they were needy as hell. Was
she
that needy?

Patrick pushed himself onto his arms and stared down at her face with his forehead furrowed. “You just got this really faraway look on your face, sweetheart. I don’t know whether I should be insulted or if I should dial 911.”

“Neither. I just started thinking about real-life stuff.”

“This doesn’t count as real life in your book?”

“Not what I mean.”

“Tell me what I can do to take that worried expression off your face,” he said.

“Why do you even care?”

Now he sat all the way up, putting some space between her supine body and his cushion. “What kind of man do you think I am?”

She opened her mouth to tell him just what kind, but before she could get the words out he interrupted.

“No, don’t tell me. I’ll tell
you
. I’m good at that, remember? You probably think I go through women like I do paper towels. Endless supply of them coming into my pub, right?”

She shrugged. “The thought had crossed my mind.”

“And you’d be wrong. Dead wrong. I’m very picky.”

“You don’t look like the kind of man who has a type.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I’m too picky to even specify what my type would be. I just know when a woman is right, I act.”

He’s nuts
. She gave him a long blink. He had to be nuts. Every man she’d ever dated had tried to change her in some way. Her hair was too short, so she grew out it. It was too long, so she cut it. She wasn’t fit enough, so she worked out more. She was too muscular, so she let her gym membership expire. She was too quiet. Too opinionated. Too reserved. Too voracious.

Too bitchy.

Never good enough.

“Patrick, I do believe you’re full of shit.”

“Sweetheart, I shoot straight, and I don’t just mean with that Ruger. I don’t waste words. I don’t lead people on. Who has the energy for those kind of games?”

She could think of a few people, but still… “If you’re so straight, why’d you hire an incompetent drunk to manage your bar?”

She felt like a bitch for even asking, especially after his face fell. She’d managed to put her foot in her mouth yet another time. To be so damned observant, she sure fucked up a lot when it came to assessing motives.

“That’s…personal,” he said.

She watched the set of his jaw tighten as he pushed himself to standing position, and had no words for him. She’d never been good at apologizing.

He walked to one of the front windows and pushed the curtain aside, standing there for a while, staring out at the rapidly-darkening woods.

Good job, Dana
. Usually when she managed to bruise someone’s feelings, she’d shrug it off, thinking perhaps the fault was on their end—that they were too sensitive. She wouldn’t give it more than thirty seconds of mental expenditure, so why was this different? Why did she care what Patrick O’Dwyer felt?

Perhaps it was because he cared about what she was feeling? That was new.

“Okay.” She rubbed sweating palms against the thighs of her pants and worried at her lip. It would have been so easy to just let the conversation drop—to move on to other topics. Hell, she could even get her shit and head down the mountain to her hotel for the night and let Sarah take it from there. This case, which wasn’t even a case anymore, was becoming far too complicated, and not in a way she was good at untangling.

It must have been the masochist in her, though, because she forced the words up from her gut and locked her gaze on his back as she said them. “Patrick, I’m sorry.”

Did he hear me?
He was so still there at the window, she couldn’t be sure.

Finally, his head turned and those wise green eyes fixed on her.

“I was out of line. That’s typical for me,” she explained, wringing her hands.

“Only child, I bet.”

“Close, but not quite. I’ve got an older brother. Much older. By the time I came around, he was in high school. My parents were older by then. Tired. Too gentle, I guess.”

He raised his shoulders into that elegant shrug again, and slipped his hands into his jeans pockets. “Sometimes we can’t help the way we are. It’s ingrained. Innate. Nature. The nurturing bit just fosters what’s already there.”

“So you’re saying I’m doomed to be an insufferable bitch?”

“Quit it.”

And she did. She pressed her lips into a tight line and watched him pace.

He didn’t say anything for a while, and just stared at the floor, watching his socked feet make their passage back and forth across the wood planks. He wasn’t looking, so she took that opportunity to study his tall, lean form—her eyes lingering where his sleeves were rolled up his forearms to reveal the very bottom fringes of some intricate ink work. She liked a little ink, especially when it was hidden away and meant to be discovered when clothes came off.

“Patrick, how big are your tattoos?”

He quirked up a brow and looked down at one arm as if he’d forgotten they were there. “Oh. They go up and over to my shoulder blades in the back and to just above here…” He drew an imaginary line with his finger across his chest just above his pecs. “…in the front.”

“Is it done?”

“I don’t know. I started it before I left Ireland and have been adding bits and pieces here and there when inspiration strikes. I guess I’m fresh out of inspiration.” He managed a grin as he rolled one sleeve up a bit more and studied the artwork on that span of flesh. “Do you have any ink?”

She shook her head. “I like it on other people, though. It’s one of those things like having pink hair or wearing leather pants. I can appreciate it on other folks, but it wouldn’t suit me.”

“Ah. I don’t know if I agree with you on the leather pants bit, though.”

He started pacing again. Was he still annoyed at her for that tactless insinuation about his staffing choices? She probably would be if someone had made a snide remark about one of her girls. They were a rough crew, but they were hers. A peace offering was in order, perhaps?

“Hey, what do you have here to drink besides whiskey?”

He stopped pacing. The tension he’d been holding in his jaw relaxed as he looked up at her. “What do you have against whiskey?”

“It’s a bit rough going down for me. I’m more of a wine kind of girl.”

“Like to curl up with a glass in a bubble bath, huh?”

“Don’t go getting any ideas,” she said, even as her lips peeled back into a broad smile. Actually, a bubble bath right around then didn’t sound like that bad of an idea. Something to slake off the chill she’d picked up outside and relax the tense muscles she’d acquired over the past few soggy, wintery weeks. Maybe a nice backrub while she sipped a nice dry white. At home, she never wanted to spend the time. It seemed wasteful when she could be getting in her half hour of cardio or completing some of the never-ending pile of paperwork she brought home.

Maybe at the hotel, if the tub is clean…

“I don’t have any wine here, but I have beer. I could drive down to the store if you want. I think they’re still open. If not, I can go into—”

“No, that’s okay. Beer’s fine, as long as it’s not green.”

“What do you have against green beer? That’s my biggest money-maker for the year.”

She made an
Ugh
face. “I just like the things I consume to be the color God intended.”

“Tattooed men excluded, huh?”

Her cheeks burned as he strode to the kitchen and she was glad he couldn’t see it.

What is this man doing to me?

She dragged her sweater sleeve across her forehead and blew out a breath as she stood. Distraction seemed like a good idea—to think about anything besides the way Patrick O’Dwyer’s lips curved when he spoke or how good his ass looked in a pair of loose jeans.

She walked the perimeter of the living room, and memorized the floor plan of the cabin. It was a basic square—living room comprising the front, the small kitchen in the back right corner, and a second closed-off room in the back left. She imagined that door would lead to the bedroom and bathroom.

She’d never been one to let her imagination do all the work, so she found her hand on the doorknob, and was turning it as Patrick’s crackling energy filled the room. Ashamed, she dropped her hand from the knob.

He held out the de-capped beer. “Go on. You won’t find anything scandalizing. I haven’t had a chance to move much stuff in because I thought I was going to sell the place.”

She wrapped her fingers around the neck of the bottle and drew it close, narrowing her eyes at him as she took the first sip.

He grinned. “Well, go on. I know you’re just dying to.”

I hate how easily he pegs me.

Normally, she would have walked away as if the idea had been the furthest thing from her mind, but who was she kidding? She opened the door and stepped into the dark room.

He followed her in and flicked on the overhead light.

He was right. It was spartan—just a heavy pine bed covered in a patchwork quilt in green tones, a wide dresser against the front wall, one battered nightstand, and a chair in the corner that had an open duffel bag dangling precariously over the edge.

“What do you think?” he asked as he leaned against the doorframe.

“It could certainly use a woman’s touch.”

“You available for the job? I can pay you either in booze or carnal favors.”

Carnal favors sounded nice. She perched on the edge of the surprisingly comfortable bed and brought the beer to her lips again. The cold, strong brew made her chest tighten on the way down and she could tell the resulting effects would show in the thighs she spent so many hours exercising. Alcohol wasn’t a match for her enhanced metabolism, but carbs certainly were.

He laughed from the doorway, shaking his head as she scraped her tongue against her top teeth’s edges. “Robust, huh? It’s kind of like drinking oatmeal.”

“Yeah, I was just sitting here thinking about all the calories I’m going to have to run off. You really like this stuff? I’d rather drink cod liver oil.” She brought it to her lips again and tried another sip. Nope. Still gross.

“Watch it, woman. That’s my favorite beer.” He pushed away from the wall he’d been holding up and strode to her in four easy lopes, hand extended.

She gave him the beer. “Be my guest.”

“There’s a huge variety of beer out there for you to try if stouts don’t do it for you.” He sat close at the bed’s edge so their thighs touched and brought the bottle to his lips.

Suddenly very tired, she leaned back against the mattress and fixed her stare on the wood paneled ceiling. It made the room seem very dark. If she had her druthers, that’d be the first thing to go during renovations. A nice coat of white paint would do wonders, as would getting rid of that god-awful wicker ceiling fan. “Why does it sound like you’re trying to convert me?” she asked.

He leaned on his right elbow, and stared at her face while sipping the remaining beer with his left hand. He was close enough that she could feel the gentle exhales from his nose tickling her forehead. “I’m good at my job. My job’s to keep people drinking. If they give up after the first beer that doesn’t do it for them, I won’t be able to keep them on their stool long enough to order one of my expensive hamburgers.”

“Savvy.”

“A guy’s gotta earn a living.”

“Maybe you can give me some tips. My business is in the black, but I’d like to buy a house at some point. I’m barely paying myself, and if I keep taking jobs for free…” She gave him a nudge. “I’ll be stuck in Apartmentland forevermore.”

“Dana, you’ve only been in business a couple of years. The fact you’ve got a staff of…how many?”

“Five, including myself.”

“A staff of five, yet you’re managing to turn a profit only two years in? You don’t need my help, sweetheart.”

She shrugged, or at least tried to. It was hard with her being horizontal. “I had a lot of start-up capital, though, from the class action suit and my unemployment claim after the police department canned me.”