Chasing River (Burying Water #3) (19 page)

Instead, there’s a neatly made bed with crisp white sheets and a plush blanket. It may as well have a red carpet to go along with it, because I know that if this continues, I’m going to forget who I am very soon.

And I’m not this girl.

Suddenly I’m more nervous than I should be. More nervous than I’ve ever been with a guy. A hundred times more nervous than the night I lost my virginity. That night wasn’t even about nerves, really. Neil and I were at Tory Masters’s seventeenth birthday party—an epic outdoor bash in the summer, the field behind her house scattered with tents and illuminated by a blazing bonfire. Neil and I had been dating about eight months by then, the progress to that final intimate step slow and steady. Slow enough that I was more than ready. I’d had enough time to consider my feelings, my motivations, and what the “after” might mean. I was confident that I’d spent enough time weighing everything out and that it wasn’t a rash decision. Neil and I knew each other well enough that I didn’t worry about being “good” at it. Neil wouldn’t be comparing me to anyone else because it was new to him, too.

Then there was Brody, and the progress in the physical part of our relationship was reached in stages as well, though faster. Aaron and I had sex a month after that first impromptu cafeteria lunch date, after four dates and at least a dozen meals at work.

I’ve slept with three guys in my life and all of them were planned-out occurrences, decisions I made when I was sure that I would have no regrets. Spontaneity and I have never been fast friends, especially when it comes to big decisions like intimacy.

And yet, here I am, standing in a bedroom with a guy I met mere days ago, shared our first coherent words with a little more than twenty-four hours ago, and just kissed for the first time less than an hour ago. Whose hands are now dangerously close to finding out exactly how attracted I am to him.

“It’s too fast. I can’t do this,” escapes me between kisses.

Just like that, as if he were waiting for the words, River breaks free, his hands leaving my skin cold as they slide up to settle on either side of my waist, an intimate but respectable touch. Giving me a light squeeze as his breath skates over my face through a tight smile.

And then his hands drop abruptly and he’s moving past the door and down the stairs. “I need to get back to work. Rowen’s had a long day. I shouldn’t make him deal with closing alone.”

“Oh, okay,” I hear myself mumble, trying to process exactly what just happened. Thirty seconds ago, his brother and the pub seemed to be the farthest thing from his mind.

It’s not that I don’t want him. That’s far from the case. My body is still wire-tight and humming from his touch. But does he understand that?

I reach the landing in a haze as he’s tugging his shoes on, moving pretty quickly to get out. “So, how often do you get locked on Jameson?”

The unexpected question throws me off. “Uh . . . what does that even mean? Get ‘locked’? You said that earlier.”

He smiles, one hand on the doorknob. “It means get drunk.”

“Oh . . .” Weird Irish slang. I can’t wait to use that on my dad. “Never.” I usually drink wine. Beer, on occasion. “And I’m not really drunk anymore.”

“Either way, make sure you drink lots of water.”

“River, it’s not that I don’t want to . . .” I convey with my eyes what I can’t seem to do with words. I didn’t ask him to drive me home. I didn’t invite him in. I didn’t lead him into my bedroom. If anything, I should be annoyed with him for running so abruptly. And yet all I’m worried about right now is if I’m going to see him again.

“I know,” he says with a cute, crooked smile. “You’re just not like that.” He hesitates and then leans in to place a chaste peck on my cheek. I don’t let him off with just that, though, my hand capturing the rough edge of his jaw to pull his mouth into mine. Afraid this may be the last chance I get. He complies, deepening it for three . . . four . . . five seconds before pulling back, my ears catching his hard swallow. “No more kissing tonight. That lip looks angry. And drink your water. Please.” He turns to leave and my stomach clenches, the familiar sight of his back, the fear that this is goodbye, unpleasant and unwanted. “Hey, I keep meaning to ask you . . . did you by any chance take a piece of paper from my wallet the other day?”

“A piece of paper?” He pauses, a deep frown touching his brow. “No, I don’t think so.”

He’s a good liar. I know for a fact that he did. “Are you sure?”

He smooths my hair back off my forehead, studying my entire face. “Why? Was it important?”

I play along. “No, not really. Just a list of things to do while I’m traveling.”

“Things to do . . . huh.” His expression reveals nothing.

“Yeah. My friend and I wrote it one night when we were drinking, as a joke.”

“A joke.” He bats those long lashes at me. “All of it?”

I stifle the smile threatening. “Not all of it.”

“Well . . .” His scruff tickles my neck as he leans to whisper into my ear, “I hope you’ll give proper consideration to some of them, at least.”

He slides out the front door as my mouth drops open, as I watch him jog to his car. “Am I going to see you again?” I blurt out just before he ducks into the driver’s side.

He grins back at me. “If you want to.” Then he disappears into his car, the low rumble of the engine igniting into the night.

If I want to?

The problem is, I can’t tell exactly what it is I want anymore.

“What are you doing back here?” Rowen stares at me like I’ve sprouted two extra heads in front of him.

“Same thing I do every Saturday night.”

“I don’t remember ya being
that
quick,” Nuala chirps from the customer side of the bar, sweetening the insult with a wink while she wipes down the computer.

I ignore the two of them, grabbing a rack of dirty glasses and carrying it to the dishwasher in the back. Reminding myself for the tenth time that I did the right thing by running when I did.

I didn’t have to leave. Rowen wouldn’t have cared if I didn’t come back to the pub tonight.

But I
had
to leave.

Rowen trails behind me, undeterred. “So she realized that she was too good for you and kicked you out?”

“She hasn’t. Yet,” I mutter, adjusting glasses to make sure they don’t crack in the cycle. “Have you called last call yet?” There were no more than ten people left out there. Even Collin had packed up his things and staggered home already.

Rowen glances at his watch. “We have another—”

“Just call it. I’m bloody tired.” And I need to get away from Nuala before she grabs my cock, like she will when she notices the hard-on tucked into my jeans. It’s been a while since I’ve had to deal with this situation.

“Fine. Fuck.” He disappears back outside and I hear the telltale cowbell, followed by a chorus of grumbles and jeers. “Go home, ya muppets,” I mutter. They’ve all had more than enough to drink and I’m in no mood to talk to anyone.

Leaving Amber tonight was hard. Painfully so. If I’m being honest, when I stepped into that house, into that bedroom, a part of me was hoping that I was completely wrong about her. But then I stepped out of her bathroom and saw her standing in that window, the streetlight shining over her face—her nervous face, her delicate hands clasping each other—and I knew that I wasn’t.

And I’m glad.

But that still didn’t stop me from giving it one last try for the night.

I kill a bit of time in the office, tidying up, before I venture back outside. All but three drunks have left, and Nuala’s working on them.

“So?” Rowen asks, watching the printer run with the night’s closing reports. “What happened?”

“Nothing. She was drunk.”

“Drunk and she turned you down?”

“Not exactly.” I know that if I stayed longer, kissed her more, eased her into it, her body would have ignored her doubts eventually. I could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she instantly gravitated toward me when I touched her. But I don’t want that. I don’t want Amber waking up in the morning, her head throbbing from drink, her body sore from use, her stomach curling with countless screams of regret while I lie naked next to her, oblivious and sated. I don’t want to be that memory for her.

“
You
turned
her
down because she was drunk?”

“Yes . . . No . . . Just shut up.”

Nuala snorts from her spot across the bar. “That’s not how she’s goin’ to see it.” The bird’s got ears like a bloody bat and opinions that she shouldn’t share most times.

“She sees it just fine.” We left things on a good note. She knows I like her.

“Did you make plans to see each other again?”

“I’ll call her tomorrow.”

Nuala drops the last tray of dirty glasses on the bar counter. “I’m only saying this for your own good, River. Because you can be a bit daft sometimes. The bird is smitten with ya. Why, I don’t understand. I mean, you’re a charmer, but you’re not of her league. And yet she sat in this filthy kip all night, waiting for ya to bat an eyelash at her.”

“So?”

“So, she’s not going to spend her entire holiday here, especially if her pride’s bruised. Tomorrow it could be another place, another Irish fella behind the bar; something to satisfy that itch she wants to scratch while she’s here. I know. I’ve been on holiday too.”

I level her with a look. “She’s not like you.” I’m sure Nuala’s never taken a fella home and not fucked him senseless.

“She’s got a cunt, doesn’t she?” Nuala snips, strolling away to begin lifting stools and chairs so the floors can be washed, dropping them loudly onto tables. I know I’ve pissed her off. Nuala doesn’t take too kindly to being compared to girls of Amber’s pedigree, which is staggeringly higher. I’ll bet Amber would never even use a word like that.

Still, Nuala’s words linger in my mind. I think Amber understood why I left. I hope she did. What does she have going on for tomorrow? Will she come back here? Again? I did leave her hanging, a tease. Maybe she won’t appreciate that. Maybe that’ll piss her off. How long will a girl like that chase when she’s only here for another week? That she’s even chasing after me at all is a shock.

I consider calling her. Driving back there tonight and letting her know exactly how I feel, that I don’t want her scratching any itches with anyone but me.

But when I leave Delaney’s for the night and see the street up ahead, where I should turn left toward her place . . . I go straight instead, toward home.

The shrill ring of my phone is ten times worse than normal.

“Hello?” My voice crackles in the receiver, my eyes squinting against the dull morning light streaming through the kitchen window as I watch rain splatter over the patio table out back. This is the kind of weather Mary Coyne warned was common in Ireland.

“You’re up.”

As happy—and relieved—as I am to hear River’s voice, I can’t manage more than a light moan in response.

“Did you drink water?”

“Three glasses and counting.” I tip the tall glass—the only reason I crawled out of bed in the first place—to my lips, praying that the cool liquid will get rid of this dull ache. Clearly three hasn’t been enough.

“Listen, I wanted to apologize for last night. I should never have come in like that.” He pauses. “And I’m sorry I ran.”

I smile. If he hadn’t, there was only one way last night was going, and I honestly can’t say how I’d feel about that this morning. As it was, my last thoughts before falling asleep were of him, and what he would feel like. My first thoughts this morning were of him, too.

In fact, all of my thoughts since I stepped into that pub two days ago have been of him.

“It’s okay. Really.”

“So, you’re not pissed at me, then?”

I chuckle. “Why would I be ‘pissed’?” If anything, the fact that he’s so concerned makes my knees weak with the thought of him.

“Nuala made it sound like . . . never mind.” A loud sigh fills my ear, making me wish he were here, in person. Just maybe not now, I accept as I steal a glance at the reflection in the hallway mirror. Smears of the residual black mascara that didn’t wash off circle my eyes, and my smooth curls from last night are now a rat’s nest.

“What are you doing today?”

“Probably sleeping this hangover off, as much as I hate wasting a day.” I begin to climb the stairs.

The doorbell rings. I freeze mid-step and turn, my brow furrowed at the door ahead.

There’s a long pause, and then, “Are you going to get that?”

“No. I’m not even dressed.”

“I don’t mind.”

“What do you . . .” I scamper down and to the living room window, my eyes widening when I see River’s forest-green MINI Cooper—a source of great surprise last night when he led me to it, seeing as I have a newer model, in red—parked next to Simon’s car. “Are you outside?”

“It’s really coming down now. Do you think you could let me in?”

This is not how I imagined our next meeting. But it’s pouring out there. I can’t leave him standing on my doorstep in the name of vanity. Spotting the long tunic sweater that I left draped across the chair yesterday, I quickly yank it on over my tank top. It just reaches past my underwear. It’ll have to be enough.

“Amber?”

I glance at my reflection again, this time in the hallway mirror. And groan. And then I open the door.

River’s eyes flash with surprise, grazing over me ever so quickly before lifting to settle on my face. He steps in, handing me a tall Starbucks cup on his way past, his T-shirt and track pants drenched, his hair plastered across his forehead. “I would have brought you a hearty Irish breakfast to go with those grapes but wasn’t sure if you could handle it.”

I take a step back, my breath likely as toxic as the taste swirling in my mouth right now. “And what’s in an Irish breakfast?”

He shrugs. “Bangers and beans . . . potatoes . . . eggs . . .” He reaches out, brushes away a stray hair from my cheek. “. . . black pudding.”

My stomach churns. “Maybe later.” Bonnie warned me not to eat that. It has something to do with actual blood.