Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
It’s a requirement if we want anything more than a fling.
And we both do.
We’ve expressed it on more than one occasion, the most important being in front of my parents about a month back. They didn’t love the idea of me dating a woman who has already done the marriage thing, fear being that she’s tainted to the notion of doing it again, but when she reassured them – as much as me – that what we have is more than a one-off everything smoothed back out.
They actually want to call her family too.
They will.
I have no doubt about it.
And not having that doubt is one of the most amazing things I have going on in my life.
The server Colin had been eye-shagging from across the room finally arrives, and the second he’s finished introducing himself Harper swiftly hands over her credit card. “Please ignore all of their boo-hooing and put everything, everyone at this table orders, on that card, starting with a round of Shamrock Shooters.”
I offer her a toothy grin while Uncle Rory playfully roars, “What in the bloody hell is that?”
“It’s a shot,” she cheerfully replies prior to waggling her eyebrows. “You’re not afraid, are ye?”
“Of that terrible accent, yes.” Laughter escapes all of us as he tugs his menu closer. “How about we make those doubles?”
“Doubles it is,” Harper concurs to the young man who is now doing his best not to blush under my cousin’s hungry gaze. “And a round of fried pickles.”
“And onion rings,” I add on her heels, thumb softly stroking her shoulder.
“Those too.”
Bryan, our server, nods his understanding and saunters off to place the order as well as swipe her card to start a tab prompting me to press my lips to my girlfriend’s ear, “I will pay you back later for every penny my family spends tonight.”
Harper shifts her face just enough to whisper back. “No, you won’t.”
The challenged eyebrow lift she’s presented is met by the same.
She can’t be bloody serious about this. I assumed she was just trying to show she cares about me in front of people she knows I love not that she was actually planning to pay for their drinking shenanigans.
Denial is out of me a little sharper than expected, “You cannot pay for all this alcohol alone.”
“I can and am going to and you, birthday boy, are simply going to smile, enjoy, and say ‘thank you’ at the end of it all.”
“The four of us could drink double your bloody car note.”
“My SUV’s paid for.”
There’s a twitch of a smirk at the corner of my lips.
“You’re not changing my mind about this.” Her hand slides across my athletic shorts covered thigh. “And no story they tell – drunk or sober – will change my mind about how much I love you.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I still can hardly believe she says that shite to me.
It’s insane to think, but she could say just those words all day, and they still wouldn’t be said enough. I love that she loves me to the point it teeters on obsession. I re-read those texts to lift myself out of a foul moment. I admire those captions on her posted photos when my insecurities regarding her late night working with attractive nurses and doctors and surgeons spirals out of control. Hearing those words in a saved twenty-five second voicemail she left while I was working or reading about how to run a business are like a bloody beacon to keep going. For her. For us. Maybe the obsession exists because love with her is so fucking empty out the entire bar intoxicating or maybe it’s because after wondering for far too long would I ever be worthy of the type of love that not only brought me into this world but taught me how to appreciate it I finally got it.
My hand gently cups her face, so that my calloused thumb can lightly feather her light pink painted lip. “Te Amo, bella.”
She hums in happiness, a sound that has easily become my favorite. “And now in Irish.”
The small chuckle out of me causes her to smile wider. “Is breá liom tú.”
“Lastly, in boring old English.”
“I love you.”
Our lips are barely allowed to brush together for a small kiss before Uncle Rory is griping, “We get it, lad. She’s off the market. You can unhook your face.”
Laughter leaks from us both as I turn to meet his mirth-filled stare. “You say that now, but I remember the story of the woman on holiday from Doctenn who went to sleep in Uncle Reagan’s bed yet woke in yours.”
His arrogant smirk starts to widen.
“That was the reason you had to move out of his flat and couldn’t move in with Uncle Rían.”
“No,” Uncle Rory playfully points, “the reason neither wanted to live with me was because that was the fourth time, I had done it.”