Kiss Me, I'm Irish: The Sins of His Past / Tangling With Ty / Whatever Reilly Wants...

“You want kids, Kendra?”

Her jaw stopped moving and her whole being froze. Slowly, she wiped the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin and swallowed. “What brought that question on?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re about thirty, right?”

“As of last November.”

“Well, don’t most women your age want kids? Tick-tock and all that?”

She didn’t answer, but that little vein jumped in her neck. She took a drink of water and he watched her throat rise and fall.

“I’m so involved with the café, I don’t really think about it,” she finally said.

He opened another water bottle for himself. “I want kids,” he announced, surprising himself with the sudden candor. By the look on her face, he’d surprised her, too. “I do,” he continued. “Nine boys so I could have my own little team.”

She leaned back and let out that pretty laugh that sounded like music. “I pity the poor woman who has to give you nine children.”

“Adoption.” He could have sworn she sucked in a tiny breath at the word. “Seriously. Adopt a couple of sets of twins and bam, you got an infield.”

“You’re nuts.” She folded up the white paper carefully, her fingers quivering a little.

“Are you cold?” he asked, reaching over to touch her hands. “We can go back to the car.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

God, he loved holding her hand, touching her skin. He squeezed her fingers.

“Listen to me,” he said softly. “It wasn’t as if that night didn’t leave an impression,” he said slowly. “Because it did.”

She whipped her hand out from his grip. “What part of I don’t want to talk about it anymore don’t you understand, Deuce?”

“Why don’t you want to talk about it?”

She blew out a disgusted breath. “Maybe because it embarrasses me.”

“Why are you embarrassed? It was…” Incredible. Amazing. Mind-boggling. He got hard just thinking about it. “Great.”

“I doubt you remember the details.”

Oh but he did. “You’re wrong.”

She folded the deli paper into a tiny square and held a pickle to him. “Want this?”

“Don’t change the subject again.”

“I’m not changing the subject. I’m offering you a pickle.”

“I’m offering you an apology.”

“You did that already. Apology accepted. But you’re going to owe me another one if you don’t drop the subject.”

He took the pickle and her deli wrap, stuffed them into the bag, and carried it all to a trash can about twenty feet away. She stayed on the bench, sipping her water.

When he returned, he held out his hand. “Let’s take a walk.”

She just looked up at him, a half smile tipping her lips, deepening her dimples. “Aren’t you a little overdressed for a walk on the beach?”

He reached down and slid off his Docksiders and socks and tucked them under the bench next to her loafers. “Let’s go.”

For a moment, he thought she was about to refuse, but then she slipped her hand in his and stayed by his side as they walked down to the sand still packed solid by the morning tide.

“I wisely carried a blanket around in those days,” he said. “Came in handy that night, didn’t it?”

She playfully punched his arm with her free hand. “You won’t let go, will you?” Before he could answer, she slowed her step, shaking her head. “Actually, as I recall, I grabbed the blanket from the bar before we left because it was chilly and you had your dad’s car.”

He frowned. “I thought I had a blanket in the trunk.”

“See?” she said, her voice rich with both humor and accusation. “You don’t remember a thing.”

“Not true. I remember kissing you outside Monroe’s, by that side wall.” She’d tasted like oranges and cherries, as if she’d been sampling the bar garnishes.

“We were in the car the first time we kissed.”

He closed his eyes for a minute. He could remember the taste of her, the need to pull her closer, but he didn’t remember if they were standing or sitting. “Maybe. But I remember the kiss.”

“Me too.” She whispered the words into the wind, but he caught them.

Deuce let go of her hand and put his arm around her shoulders. “You were wearing a little pink top.”

“Blue.”

“Your hair was shorter.”

“In a ponytail.”

He tightened his grip and lowered his voice. “You had a snap-in-front bra.”

“Finally, he gets something right.”

“I bet I remember more details than you do,” he insisted.

“You’d lose that bet.”

“I would not.”

“Cocky and arrogant as always.” She dipped out of his touch and slowed her step. Deliberately, she pushed her sunglasses over her forehead and the look in her eyes hit him like a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball to the chest. “There is nothing, no detail, no minor, incidental facet of that night I have forgotten. Don’t bet me, Deuce Monroe, because you’ll lose.”

He never lost. Didn’t she know that? He took his own sunglasses off so she could see the seriousness in his eyes. “I’ll bet you a reenactment.”