Wild Irish Christmas (Wild Irish, Book Eight) (2 page)

He hadn’t intended to share so much. Most young men he knew dreamed of moving away from this small Irish town, dreaming of a better life somewhere else. Very few of them ever managed to make it more than a mile away from their birth home. They continued to toil all day on the farms while drinking away their wages at the pubs each night. What if Sunday thought he was one of those wishy-washy dreamers?

She smiled. “I think that sounds wonderful.”

He studied her face, trying to decide if she was humoring him, but he saw no deceit. Quite the opposite. She appeared impressed.

“You do?”

She nodded. “I suppose everyone dreams of going somewhere else, doing something special with their lives. You’ve set your goal and you’re working hard to achieve it. That’s admirable.”

Patrick had never received such a compliment. It touched and humbled him. “Thank you.” Her kindness encouraged him and he found all his private thoughts flowing out in a rush of words. He described his ideal pub, as well as pictures he’d seen of Baltimore and the Inner Harbor. At one point, Sunday closed her eyes as he spoke and he imagined she was letting him draw a picture of the place in her mind.

Finally, he paused, realizing he’d kept her sitting at the bar for nearly an hour. He picked up a glass and hung it from the rack above his head. “I suppose you have some big dreams as well. I mean, a woman with your singing talent could go far.”

She rested her chin on her hand. “I do love singing.”

“You’re one of the best I’ve ever heard. You’ll be famous one day. Mark my words.”

Sunday laughed softly. “Maybe. Maybe not. You and I share a dream, Patrick. I hope to go to America one day too.”

“Well, of course you do. I’m not surprised to hear it,” he said. “Best place for a truly talented singer to catch a break.”

Sunday took one last sip of her ale and glanced at her watch. “I suppose I should head home. My aunt wasn’t too keen on me taking this job since it would mean staying out so late.”

“If you give me a minute, I’ll walk you. Not that Killarney is dangerous, but maybe it would set your aunt’s mind at ease.”

“Wouldn’t that be out of your way?”

He shrugged. “I like walking in the moonlight. Gives a man some quiet time with his thoughts.”

“And you have a lot of those?”

“A million,” he confessed, enjoying their lighthearted banter.

“I think I’d like to hear a few.”

“Well,” he said, lifting the end of the bar and walking toward her. “You’re in luck. Since I’m escorting you home tonight, you’ll be privy to all my silly dreams and schemes.” He pulled off his apron and placed it on the bar.

She picked up her guitar case. Patrick took it from her then reached out his free hand.

He struggled to contain his grin when Sunday placed her hand in his, allowing him to hold it during the entire trip to her aunt’s house.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“I escorted Sunday home from that pub every night for three months, holding her hand as we shared our thoughts and dreams with each other.”

Teagan sighed. “What a romantic story.”

“Romantic?” Sean said. “What the hell? Where was the part about the Conall Brannagh guy? You sure you didn’t leave something out, Pop? A lot of somethings?”

Patrick chuckled. “Well now, I didn’t say that was the end of the story. I was just laying down some background for you, letting you see how your mother and I met.”

Riley rolled her eyes. “We’ve all heard about you meeting her in the pub, taking one look at her and falling head over heels. You’ve told us that a thousand times before. Get to the good part. Did this Conall shithead try to break you two up? Did you get into a fistfight over Mom? I bet you kicked his ass, didn’t you?”

“Oh Riley,” Patrick said. “You are so much like your mother. Sunday always loved a good story, lots of drama, action, maybe even a wee scene to make her cry.”

Riley raised her hands as if he’d proven her point. “Well, if that’s true, then you need to step it up a notch. So far there’s been no drama, no action and I haven’t sniffled once.”

Killian lightly tugged Riley’s hair. “Maybe if you’d stop yapping he could get to the good part. So you and Mom were dating when this Conall guy comes on to the scene?”

Patrick shook his head. “Actually, I don’t know if you could call it dating. Apart from walking her home after work each night, we didn’t see each other or go out. I’d never even tried to steal a kiss from her.”

“Really? After three months? Why not?” Tris asked.

Patrick considered his son’s question. “I’m not sure. I was very smitten with Sunday, but I wasn’t sure of her feelings for me. Much as it pains me to say it, I was terribly inexperienced when it came to relationships and maybe even a bit of a coward. I was afraid to try to kiss her in case she rejected me.”

“How could you think she wasn’t crazy about you?” Teagan asked. “I’ve seen pictures of you when you were younger, Pop. You definitely fit the dreamy category.”

He nodded, grinning at her compliment. “Well, there’s dreamy and then there’s Conall Brannagh.”

Ewan rubbed his hands together happily. “Something tells me we’re about to get to the good part of this story.”

Chapter Two

“You’re in fine voice tonight, Sunday.”

“Thanks, Pat. Could I have a glass of water? I have a tickle in my throat.”

“Sure thing.” Patrick poured a glass of cool water and handed it to her across the bar. He’d been trying to work up the courage to ask her out for several weeks, but something had always prevented him from making the request. Tonight, he vowed he’d extend an invitation to the Christmas dance next weekend. “Listen, Sunday, I—”

A loud ruckus near the door of the pub distracted them. They turned to see who had entered.

“Conall,” Patrick muttered.

“Conall?” Sunday asked. “Who is he?”

Patrick wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or jealousy that suggested Sunday’s question was piqued by more than mere curiosity. She was definitely checking out the man who’d been Patrick’s nemesis throughout his younger years.

When they were growing up, no matter what Patrick did, Conall found a way to best him—be it in grades, hurling, or by stealing the girls Patrick fancied. Conall’s family was the most prosperous in Killarney, owning and operating most of the town’s businesses.

“Brannagh,” Patrick added begrudgingly.

“Brannagh? As in Brannagh Grocery?”

“And Brannagh Boutique, Brannagh Bakery, Brannagh—”

Sunday laughed. “Okay. I get it. He’s the crown prince of Killarney.”

Sadly, she’d summed up Conall in one sentence. “Yeah. That would be him.”

“Where’s he been?”

“He was attending university in Dublin, last I heard. Studying finance. He didn’t come home after graduation, so I assumed he’d taken a job in the city rather than return here to run the family’s businesses.”

“You don’t like him?” she asked.

He’d tried to hide the disgust in his voice, but obviously he’d failed. He purposely avoided any gossip surrounding Conall, not giving a shit what the hell he was doing. The man had left town and that suited Patrick just fine.

There wasn’t anything outwardly offensive about Conall. Watching him work his way through the pub was a bit like observing a greasy politician as he greeted his constituents—projecting a false friendliness in order to secure votes. Conall reminded Patrick of a shiny red apple that was perfect on the outside, while inside lurked a thick, ugly worm. Unfortunately, he was the only person in town who seemed to sense the man’s lack of character.

“Patrick Collins,” Conall said jovially as he approached the bar. “Holding court at the pub. I should have known I’d find you here.”

Conall’s words were clearly meant as an insult. A way to remind Patrick that while Conall had escaped the bonds of their small town, traveling all over the country, Patrick was stuck in the same damn place.

Well, not for long, if I have my way.

Patrick had worked his ass off for nearly four years, ever since leaving school at sixteen. He’d stashed away every penny he had earned. His nest egg had grown quite a bit and he anticipated being able to make his journey across the sea very soon. Lately, he’d been wondering if he could convince Sunday to make the leap with him. He knew she was anxious to leave this small-town life behind as well.

“Brannagh,” he said. “It’s a small town with precious little to do for recreation. I view my job tending bar as an important one. I lend an ear to the downtrodden and provide a bit of joy and relaxation for the men seeking an escape from their everyday lives…and their wives.”

Sunday laughed at Patrick’s joke, but Conall didn’t appear amused. “Sounds like dreary work to me.”

“Not at all.”

Conall shrugged. “Well, I suppose
someone
needs to sling the drinks.”

Patrick’s jaw clenched. Taking a deep breath, he silently counted in his head until he was able to control his temper. “What brings you back to town?”

“The holidays. I’m off to New York at the beginning of the year. I’ve accepted a job with a large American corporation. My father roomed with the president of the company back in the day. I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s just say they made an offer I couldn’t refuse. Thought I’d take this opportunity to visit the folks because I don’t know when I’ll manage a trip back to Ireland in the future.”

Patrick swallowed hard against his growing anger. It was driven by sheer resentment and he felt like a small man for his bitterness. He’d worked his fingers to the bone for years for the chance that had fallen into Conall’s lap. Conall had never expressed an interest in America until Patrick did. They’d had to write an essay about what they wanted to be when they grew up during the first year of their junior cycle. Conall claimed he was going play fullback and win the All-Ireland Senior Hurling Championship.

Patrick had written about his dream to move to America to open his own business. He ached to leave the hard life of farming and small-town existence behind. After they’d shared their essays in class, Conall’s new goal had been to live in America. And once again, he’d beaten Patrick to the golden ring.

“Congratulations,” Patrick said, the word stinging as he spoke.

“And who is this beautiful lady?” Conall turned to Sunday.

Shit.
Patrick recognized that gleam in the man’s eyes. He’d seen Patrick talking to her, noticed his interest. Conall’s competitive nature had been sparked.

“I’m Sunday MacKenna,” she answered. A sudden roaring in Patrick’s head prevented him from hearing her tone. Had he mistaken the slight breathlessness in her voice?

Conall took her hand, but rather than shaking it, he lifted it to his lips for a kiss.

One day in town and Conall had already managed to kiss Sunday. A feat Patrick hadn’t accomplished in months.

“I need to get back on stage.” Sunday smiled at Conall then gave Patrick an odd frown. He must have looked murderous. Conall always brought out the worst in him.

Mercifully, new customers came in, quickly claiming Conall’s attention. Patrick slowly sludged through the evening, trying but failing to allow Sunday’s beautiful voice to calm him. At the end of the evening, Conall met Sunday as she exited the stage. Patrick tried to hear what they were saying, but he was too far away. Scully yammered in his ear, reading him the riot act for screwing up so many things tonight.

Sunday laughed at something Conall said. Patrick gritted his teeth, the action sending more pressure to his already pounding head.

“Are you listening to a word I’m saying, lad?”

Patrick turned to face his boss. He’d completely blocked out Scully’s voice. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“
Och
. You need to get your head out of your ass, and soon. Before some slick city boy steals your pretty gal right out from under your nose.”

Patrick should have known his too-alert boss would know the problem. “She’s not my gal.”

Scully threw his hands up in frustration. “She would be if you’d pull your thumb out! Lord knows she’s dropped enough hints about her interest in you.”

“She has?” Patrick asked.

Scully looked skyward. “Lord, grant me peace and give this idiot a brain.” He pierced Patrick with a steely glance. “I’ve had enough of this foolishness.”

Scully stormed away as Sunday and Conall walked over to the bar. “Hey mate. I’ve offered to walk Sunday home. She told me you usually escort her, but I figured since her aunt’s place is on my way, I’d give you a break tonight.”

Patrick looked at Sunday’s face, trying to determine if she was okay with Conall’s invitation. He thought for a moment she looked almost hopeful, but he couldn’t be sure.

To hell with it. Patrick was her escort. He wasn’t giving that up simply because Conall Asshole Brannagh expected him to step aside.

“Sunday,” Patrick started. “I—”

“Hell’s bells!”

Patrick turned around at Scully’s loud exclamation coming from the storeroom. He hesitated for a moment, afraid Sunday would leave with Conall before he could talk her out of it.

“Sounds like he needs you, Pat,” she said.

Patrick rushed to the storeroom and found Scully bent at an odd angle. His boss’ back wasn’t as strong as it used to be, but that didn’t stop him from trying to lift the heavy kegs of beer.

“Damn, lad.” Scully winced. “Afraid I twisted it bad this time.”

Patrick swallowed heavily before accepting the hand fate had dealt him tonight. “I’ll get you home, Scully. Don’t worry.”

He offered his boss a supportive arm, leading Scully slowly toward a table and helping him into a chair. “Rest there for a minute while I get everything settled for the night.”

Sunday and Conall joined them.

“Scully? Are you okay?” Sunday placed a comforting hand on the older man’s shoulder.

Scully nodded, but the action obviously caused him pain as he winced again. “
Och
. I’m fine, lass. Just a foolish old man who refuses to accept his limits. Pat will get me home and get me my pills. I’ll be right as rain in the mornin’, don’t you worry about that.”

“He was trying to lift a keg,” Patrick explained.

Sunday narrowed her eyes. “What on earth were you thinking, John Scully?” she exclaimed. “Why would you attempt something like that on your own?”

Patrick restrained a grin at seeing Sunday’s annoyed face. She had a slow fuse, he’d noticed that right off, but when she blew, she blew hard. She’d eviscerated one of the regulars a couple of weeks ago after the man continued to make risqué remarks to her during her performance. Patrick had headed over to kick the asshole out when Sunday stopped playing and set the man down with a string of words that stung more than a kick to the balls. The drunk had staggered away and shown up the next day, offering the most sincere apology Patrick had ever heard. He’d known then and there she was a force to be reckoned with, and he’d lost even more of his heart to her.

“Now, lass, you wouldn’t kick a dog when he’s down, would you?” Scully pleaded.

A sly smile replaced Sunday’s scowl. “No. I wouldn’t. However, I feel fairly certain your wife would be interested in hearing exactly how you injured yourself.”

Scully’s already pale face faded even more. Patrick fought back his laughter. He suspected the only reason his boss worked such long hours was so he didn’t have to go home to his overbearing wife. “Now there’s no need for that. It’s a mere twinge.”

“Promise you won’t lift any more kegs on your own?” Sunday asked.

Crafty woman.
Patrick smiled at her clever manipulation.

“If I give my word to stop, you won’t tell my wife?”

“I won’t tell,” Sunday assured him.

Scully sighed heavily. “Then you have my promise.”

Conall stepped forward and wrapped his arm around Sunday’s shoulders, the touch too familiar for Patrick’s liking.

“Do you need any help closing down for the night, Pat?” Sunday offered.

Patrick shook his head. “No, I’m almost finished here. You sang really good tonight, Sunday.”

Conall tightened his grip. “That she did. I fully intend to come in every night to hear that beautiful voice of yours. You know, Sunday, there’s an annual Christmas dance next weekend. Usually I don’t bother with such provincial traditions, but with you on my arm, it might actually be fun. What do you say?” Conall asked.

Sunday looked at Patrick. “Well, I hadn’t really made plans to go. Are you going, Pat?”

His mouth went dry. What did she expect him to say? He’d wanted to go with her, but his invitation was a bit too late now. One night back in town and Conall was making his life hell once more.

Patrick shrugged, uncertain how to respond. “I was thinking about—”

“We can go out for a fancy dinner beforehand.” Conall said, cutting him off. “Make a night of it. I’ll pick you up around six and we can take a drive in my Aston Martin.”

“You have an Aston Martin?” Sunday asked.

During their nightly treks, Patrick had discovered Sunday’s affinity for anything on four wheels. In fact, he’d been impressed by her knowledge of cars. She was also as big a fan of James Bond movies as Patrick was. Conall had just scored a double.

Conall must have sensed his advantage. “Saw it in a Bond movie and knew that was the car for me. Come out with me Saturday and I’ll let you drive it.”

Sunday didn’t answer. Instead she looked at Patrick. “I
would
like to go to the dance.”

Patrick studied her face. Had she just accepted Conall’s invitation? If so, why was she looking at
him
? He cleared his throat. He wasn’t willing to continue losing face in front of Conall. He’d spent too many years of his life playing second fiddle to the man.

He recalled Kathleen Murphy, the clerk at the local drugstore. She’d been dropping hints for weeks that she’d be more than willing to attending the dance with him. So far he’d skillfully dodged her, but now…

“Then I suppose I’ll see you there,” Patrick said. “I was thinking I might ask Kathleen.”

Scully groaned. Patrick suspected it wasn’t a moan of pain, but one of annoyance. Apparently he’d screwed up again.

Sunday frowned. “Oh.” For a brief moment, Patrick thought she seemed disappointed. She hadn’t
wanted
him to ask her, had she? Compared to Conall, what did he have to offer a woman as beautiful and intelligent as Sunday MacKenna? Certainly not an Aston Martin.