Page 9 of Fighting for Irish
Since then, he’d been trying his best to be the exact opposite. He’d managed to keep his temper locked down, and now he hoped he didn’t totally fuck up the calm and gentle thing.
Channeling Mary Catherine with the kitten, Aiden eased up behind her, hoping to coax her out of her metaphorical corner. Hesitantly, he reached out to stroke the length of her back. As soon as his palm flattened between her shoulder blades, she gasped as though breaking through the surface of the Boston harbor in February.
She spun around and hissed. “Don’t touch me.”
Seeing her now, with her back plastered against the car and her eyes wide with fear, Aiden wanted to crush Mullineaux’s windpipe with his bare hands something fierce. It had been years since he felt the urge to pull a woman into his arms for reasons other than satisfying the basest of sexual needs, but in the past several months, he found himself wanting to just hold Kat and offer her comfort for whatever she might need.
Now was no exception. But he couldn’t give in to the urge for multiple reasons, not the least of which was his refusal to get too close to her.
So instead, he held his hands up with palms facing out and prayed the talking part of Mary Catherine’s method worked better than the petting had.
…
“I’m not gonna hurt you, I swear.”
The deep voice slid into Kat’s ears and brought the world around her into focus once more.
Ahm naht gonna huhrt you, I swea-uh.
The Bostonian accent registered in her brain as belonging to only one man. A man who, despite his reserved personality, always seemed to be at her side whenever a customer got grabby or even too bitchy—whether she wanted him to be there or not.
A man whose blue eyes could make her feel naked and protected all at the same time from a single glance across a crowded bar.
“Irish?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
Relief started in her toes and worked its way up her body, reawakening her nerves and chasing away the subconscious paralysis she hated more than anything. She started feeling somewhat normal…until she noticed Rick sprawled on the ground behind Irish, and her pulse spiked again.
“Hey, don’t worry about him.” Irish stepped to the side, his palms still held out in a nonthreatening gesture, and blocked her view. He pointed two fingers at his own eyes and said, “Stay right here with me, kitten.”
Stay with him? What did he mean by that? Before she could do something stupid like swoon over what was most likely a meaningless phrase, the last part registered in her brain.
“Kitten?” Oh, no. Had he discovered her real name? Was this his way of letting her know? Then a thought crossed her mind that made her blood run cold. Maybe he’s one of Sicoli’s men. “Why would you call me that?”
The right corner of his mouth curled up. “What, are you kidding? One minute you’re cowering in the corner, the next, hissing and scratching.” He shrugged one heavily muscled shoulder. “Sorry, it just slipped out. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Kat relaxed a few degrees again and offered a weak smile. “That’s okay. It’s better than Sydney anyway,” she muttered.
He slowly dropped his hands to his sides and took a small step forward. “You don’t like your name?”
Dropping her chin to her chest, she said honestly, “I hate that name.” Not that it wasn’t a nice name, but since she was forced to answer to it instead of her own, it put a bad taste in her mouth.
Because she was looking at the ground, she saw his hand coming and didn’t startle when she felt a finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. Less than a foot separated them, and at this proximity she was reminded of just how massive he was. Broad shoulders and a thick chest tapered to a narrow waist somewhere way below her line of sight. He towered over her five-foot-seven-inches frame and the bad lighting off to their side made his features all harsh lines and hollowed shadows.
“You got a last name, then?”
She arched a single brow. “Do you, Irish?”
Of course, she knew he did. Everyone had a last name. It was more a question of whether or not they chose to use it, and around here, a lot of people went the way of Madonna and Cher.
A slight twist up at the corner of his lips. “Guess I’ll stick with ‘kitten,’ then.”
Kat tried to ignore the fluttering in her stomach. The idea of any man using an affectionate name with her—especially the man whose deep, raspy voice gave her goose bumps every time he spoke—was so foreign that a short, nervous laugh burst out before she could bite it back.
He canted his head slightly and raised a curious eyebrow at her reaction. Clearing her throat, she tried to sound aloof. “Whatever trips your trigger.”
“You wanna come in for a drink and let your nerves settle for a bit?”
