That’s where I belonged.
I did not belong on a sunny hillside in New Hampshire. I did not belong with a tart, odd-haired, magnificently arsed pixie who wore her heart on her sleeve.
My distain for Ronan Fitzpatrick hadn’t waned, but my interest in using or abusing his sister to exact my revenge had entirely fled. And I was abruptly tired.
Tired and cold.
While I packed up, Lucy had stood from the blanket and was hovering at its perimeter, watching me. I bent to retrieve it. She bent in unison, tugging it toward her.
“Let me help,” she said.
“No need.” Distractedly, I surveyed the ground, ensuring I would leave nothing behind.
She tugged harder. “I can fold it.”
“I’ve got it.” I noted the ground was free of debris.
“Let go of the blanket, Sean.”
With what can only be described as an angry yank, Lucy wrenched the blanket from my grip and began to fold it with brutal violence.
I studied her and her vicious blanket folding for two seconds, then hazarded to ask, “Are you quite all right?”
“This was a stupid idea.”
“The picnic?”
“All of it.” She sliced a hand through the air, gesturing to the world, then added, “And talking to you, specifically.”
Her movements were still forceful and jerky. I took a step closer, intent on grabbing the blanket before she ripped it.
I kept my tone purposefully soft, hoping to disarm her before she detonated. “Don’t worry, I won’t bother you again.”
Her hands stilled, the blanket now a tight, twisted ball nowhere near folded, and her pale eyes cut to mine.
Something decidedly female was going on in her head, something of the mystery-to-men variety. I had no idea what she was thinking, but she looked both aggrieved and remorseful. I held very still because it seemed like the safest thing to do.
We stared at each other.
She dropped the blanket.
She took a step away and pushed her wild hair from her face.
She charged, closing the distance between us, her hands reaching for and fisting in the neck of my shirt.
Then she kissed me.
Chapter Seven
@LucyFitz Life is like a bottle of champers: expensive, bitter and often gives you indigestion.
@Anniecat to @LucyFitz Agree. When given the choice between champagne and cake, it’s cake every time.
@LucyFitz to @Anniecat This is why I love you.
Lucy
Sean Cassidy had his tongue down my throat.
Or maybe it was me who had my tongue down his. I knew I’d been the one to initiate the kiss, but I couldn’t remember who started the tongue action. Sean was kissing me in a way that made my toes curl, my skin prickle, and my ladies parts clench with need.
His big, warm hands travelled slowly from the back of my neck, down my spine, before unceremoniously cupping my arse. He squeezed hard and I whimpered against his lips.
“I want you,” he breathed and his mouth moved to my neck, planting wet kisses along my sensitive skin. A rumbly groan escaped him as my hands went to his muscular shoulders, gripping tightly. His fingertips dug into my flesh with need, and unexpectedly, I discovered I liked how rough he was.
Nipping lightly at the underside of my jaw, he murmured, “Are you wet?”
As I fuzzy-headedly prepared to answer, his phone began ringing loudly, the melodic tone disrupting the quiet. I broke away from him, my breathing heavy because, well, I was aroused.
“Um,” I said, trying to catch my breath while proper brain function continued to evade me.
“Lucy,” he groaned and reached for me, completely ignoring the call as he tried to pull my mouth back to his. I placed my hands on his chest to keep him at bay.
“You should answer that,” I told him in a shaky voice. It was still ringing inside his pocket, and he sighed irritably as he pulled it out as though to press ignore. When he glanced at the screen he did a double take, and I followed his gaze to find the caller ID displaying the name Mother Fitzpatrick, my brother’s reluctant nickname. Why on earth was Ronan calling him?
I almost felt like laughing. Was this some sort of spooky brotherly sixth sense on his part? Like Sean would answer and Ronan would start barking down the line, “Get your hands off my sister!”
Sean appeared just as curious to know why Ronan was calling him as I was. He hit accept and answered, “Hello?”
“Hey, is this Sean?” a female voice replied. It was so quiet out here that I could hear her clear as day. It was Annie. What the hell?
“It is, and who may I ask is speaking?” he queried, like he didn’t already know. He sounded calm and at ease, not half as frazzled as I was.
“This is Annie. Ronan Fitzpatrick’s fiancée. We’ve met on a number of occasions,” she explained.
“Yes, I remember,” Sean purred. “I never forget a face as pretty as yours.”