“How old were you when you lost your virginity?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Twenty. I was in college. So, no, not my parents’ house.”
He leans in and kisses my nose, then tucks my hair behind my ear and smiles gently. I shift back and forth on my bare feet, suddenly uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
There’s nothing wrong with a woman waiting until she’s twenty to lose her virginity.
Shawn shifts closer and presses his lips close to my ear. “I’m going to spend plenty of time inside of you this weekend, Lex. This is a big house, with lots of space for privacy.”
He kisses my cheek and walks away, and I have to press my hands to my face and take a deep breath.
Why is he so damn hot?
“Tell me about Shawn as a child,” I say later in the evening. We’re all in the living room, playing Canasta. His parents picked the game up quickly.
“What would you like to know?” Fiona asks.
“Did he ever get into mischief?”
Shawn’s green eyes narrow on me from across the coffee table. I shrug a shoulder innocently.
“It was Shawn’s lot in life to test my patience,” Fiona says, smiling fondly at her son. “But there was one incident that almost got us slapped with a lawsuit.”
“She really doesn’t want to hear this,” Shawn says, shaking his head and wiping his hand down his face.
“Oh, I think I do.”
“She does,” Tom agrees with a grin. “Keep going, mo chroí. It’s a great story, twenty years later.”
“Perhaps Shawn should tell it,” Fiona suggests.
“Spill it.”
He sighs and then tosses his cards on the table and sits back.
This is going to be good.
“Okay, so I was about…I don’t know, eight? And I was hanging out in the back yard with my childhood friend, Lance. We were just goofing off, playing. And I was eating baby carrots.”
“This seems pretty harmless so far,” I comment.
“You would think, wouldn’t you?” He sighs and keeps going. “So, there we were, eating carrots, and two houses down was this little girl—I forget her name.”
“Delaney,” Fiona says. “I’ll never forget her name, I’ll tell you that.”
“So, Delaney was like six, and she was a huge pain in the ass. She was whiny and a total crybaby.” Shawn swallows hard at his mother’s stern look, and I can’t help but laugh. “Anyway, she was in her back yard, on the swings. And she was yelling things over at us. I don’t even know what she was saying. So, I say to Lance, ‘I bet you five bucks I can hit her with a carrot.’
“And Lance says, ‘No way. She’s moving on the swing, and she’s two yards over.’ So, of course, I take that as a dare. And throw the carrot. Much to all of our shock, I actually hit her.”
“Oh, no.”
“In the head.”
“Oh, God.” I’m laughing now, covering my mouth with my hand.
“It gets better,” Shawn says. “Lance and I run to his house and hurry down into his basement and start to play with Legos like we’ve been there the whole time.”
Tom’s laughing in earnest now, with tears in the corners of his eyes.
“About fifteen minutes later, we hear Lance’s phone ring, and his mom answers, and then she yells down the stairs. ‘Shawn! Are you down there?’
“I yelled back that I was, and she says, ‘Your mom just called. You have to go home right now. Right this minute.’”
“I was so bloody mad,” Fiona mutters.
“I walked home and right into the kitchen where Ma was, as if nothing at all had happened. I just said, ‘What’s up, Ma?’ And then she explained to me that Delaney’s mother had called her, and that’s when all hell broke loose.”
“Mrs. Evans was so cross. And she had every right to be, truth be told,” Fiona says, picking up the story. “Her poor baby girl was just enjoying her swing, not bothering another soul, and a carrot comes out of nowhere and pings her right on the head.”
We’re all laughing now, giggling with delight.
“And then her father came over to talk to me. He actually threatened to sue me,” Tom continues. “Of course, I knew that he couldn’t really sue me, but he was my neighbor, and I didn’t want things to be bad in the neighborhood. So, we sat down and had a talk. I suggested that I’d have Shawn apologize to Delaney, just as he should, and that Mr. Evans could have his fill of Guinness at the pub for the next year.”
“I take it he was okay with that arrangement?” I ask.
“He drank his weight in the Black Stuff every Saturday night for a bloody year,” Tom says, shaking his head. “It more than paid for a wee carrot to the head of his precious daughter.”
“If someone had done that to Maeve or Mary Margaret, you would have cleaned that father’s clock, and you know it, Tom O’Callaghan.”
“And that’s the truth of it,” Tom agrees with a nod. “It was good times, having babies around the house. But they grow up so bloody fast and leave the nest.”
“None of your chicks went far,” Shawn reminds him. “We’re all still on the island.”
“Your father is a sentimental man,” Fiona says. “And we should be getting to bed. It was a long flight, and I’m knackered. Have a good sleep, you two.”
Tom joins her and winks at both of us before he and his wife walk into the kitchen to put dirty dishes in the sink and then turn in for the evening.
“I like them,” I say quietly. “You and your siblings are wonderful because they are.”
“Agreed,” Shawn replies and kisses the back of my hand. “I’m glad you got to meet and spend a little time with them.”
“Me, too.”
It’s early morning when I wake up. The sun is just barely starting to cast a glow across the sky, but it hasn’t peeked out over the mountains yet.
Shawn is still snoring softly beside me, so I gingerly ease out of bed and pad into the bathroom, and then the closet where I tug on some yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt.
I don’t want to run into either of Shawn’s parents wearing next to nothing ever again. I’ll never forget the embarrassment of that moment.
I pad down to the kitchen and am surprised to see Tom already there, seated at the island, drinking a cup of coffee.
“Good morning,” I say softly. “I’m surprised you’re up.”
“Jet lag is a bugger,” he says with a smile. “I’ve been up for a couple of hours. Fiona, God bless her, is still sleeping.”
“Shawn is, too.” I wince before pouring myself a cup of coffee. “I feel uncomfortable saying that to his dad.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re his father.”
“Shawn’s a grown man of nearly thirty years, lass. He can do as he pleases.”
“True.” I lean my hip against the counter and take a sip of my coffee. “I like your son.”
“I’m glad. I do, as well.”
“I’m not here for a long time.” I don’t know why I feel like I should admit that to Tom, but I suddenly do. “I’m supposed to go back to Minneapolis this week. We’re pretty much done with the project.”