Knockout: The Doyles A Boston Irish Mafia Romance Page 5

  But there’s no real bite in my words. I’ve had a long day – and I’d wager he’s had an even longer one.

  His face immediately clears, and he looks a little embarrassed. The tips of his ears go red, which makes me fight back a smile. I don’t give him a chance to explain.

  “So my question is, are you spending the evening here so I can watch you, and thus have to feed you?”

  Sharp blue eyes stare into mine for a beat or two longer than is strictly comfortable. “You’re inviting me to spend the night?”

  “Yep.”

  “Molly, I thought I’d come here and you’d chew me out. I thought…”

  “Well, you thought wrong. Now pad Thai and beer with some good TV, or do I need to keep my pants on to drive you to the hospital?”

  His eyes are on my pants, like he’s imagining me without them. It would be hot, if I wouldn’t give anything to get out of these gross scrubs right now.

  He surprises me. “Hell, yeah, I’ll stay. What can I do to help?”

  I throw him a menu. “Call and order. My card’s on file. Order me a chicken pad Thai and whatever you want. Dinner should be here by the time I get out of the shower.”

  I walk into my bedroom, and slide off my clogs. Every layer from my scrubs down peels off and goes directly into the laundry basket. I’m going to have to deal with it tomorrow. But tonight, the cool air on my naked skin feels amazing.

  Looping a towel around myself, I grab a silky camisole and shorts set with a matching wrap and head for the bathroom. It’s both the nicest and most modest thing I own to sleep in, if you don’t count a nana-worthy housedress. Steamy intentions or not, my pride couldn’t survive wearing a flannel bathrobe in front of a man like Owen.

  “Help yourself. Beer, soda, water, all in the fridge. Ice right above it. You want whiskey, bourbon, and the like, check the drink cabinet. It’s got the whole collection. Crystal glasses are there too. Ma’s Waterford.”

  My feet shift from fuzzy carpet to the cool, clean tile of my bathroom floor when I realize he hasn’t said anything. I turn to see Owen just staring at me. He looks a little shocked, but in a purely appreciative way. Our eyes meet, as the heat that sparks between us sends waves of desire rocketing to places it shouldn’t.

  My face is turning bright red. Great.

  “Molly, I don’t think I’ve seen you out of scrubs in years. And never in, uh, just a towel.”

  “Welcome to Molly, in her natural habitat. Be right back.” Then I flee to the bathroom.

  Locking the bathroom door behind me – I had brothers and know they loved to torture me – I turn on the shower and step in. Water as hot as I can stand beats down against my shoulders and pours down my body. I try to relax.

  What have I done?

  I shampoo and condition my hair, taking a few minutes for a protein pack that’s supposed to make it shiny. While I’m here, I put a mask on my face, and after shaving everything, run over my skin with oil and silky-skin moisturizer. Subtle, O’Brien.

  Then for good measure, I do an “invited to the royal wedding” dental routine, splash on my favorite blackberry and bay perfume, slide on deodorant and look at my face. Nothing that my best serum and moisturizer, some coverup, mascara, and a thin layer of pink buttery lip gloss won’t fix. After products and scrunching, my hair is an explosion of red ringlets that will take hours to dry.

  I’d like to say that I do this after every shift, but that’s bullshit. Usually I look like a drowned rat in an old Patriots jersey.

  Pulling on the pajamas and not quite covering it with the wrap, I look in the mirror. Refreshed, pretty, and not like I’m trying too hard.

  Snort. He’d have to be blind to not think that some of this is for him.

  There’s a fine line between sin and temptation. I’ll try to stay on the right side tonight.

  Stepping out into the living room, I see Owen grabbing dinner from the delivery guy. I cross to the cabinets, and pull down glasses, plates, and flatware. Everything’s set up lightning quick, and I’ve got water glasses and fresh beer on the table.

  “Owen, sit, I’ll get dinner on the table.” In seconds, our plates are heaping and I’m sitting down, ready to dive in.

  Owen hasn’t taken his eyes off my face. I squint at him in concern.

  “You feeling all right there, bruiser?”

  “Yeah.”

  And then he rushes out with, “Do you always walk around like that, Molly?”

  I instinctively get ready to shoot back a sassy reply, but I don’t want any trouble tonight. This is why a man like Owen isn’t a good life choice for me. Not just because he’s always getting into trouble and putting himself in danger. It’s because I’m tinder and he’s flame. No matter how much I’m drawn to him. He brings out every bit of Irish temper and fire I have, without even trying.

  “Yes, Owen, I like to be comfortable.”

  “But you have to know how stunning you are?” He sounds so earnest, although I can instantly tell from the look that flashes across his face that he’s surprised he said it out loud. My breath catches and my cheeks flame. Again.

  He’s a big guy, a tough guy. But it’s easy to forget that for all his physical power and easygoing ways, that he’s not always the most sophisticated.

  I like that about Owen. I’ve dated enough jerks to know how much artifice and bullshit most guys bring to the table.

  There’s this mix of desire and honest appreciation in his eyes that hits me like a kick to the gut. If this man wasn’t who he was, wasn’t a fighter, wasn’t my brother’s fucking best friend. How many “if onlys” pave the road to hell, though.

  “Thank you. Let’s eat.”

  We dig in, in silence. I wrap pad Thai around my chopsticks, taking big bites of the noodles that flash with flavors of ginger, garlic and lime. I love this food. I look over to see what Owen ordered. It looks like simple fried rice.

  “Not a pad Thai fan?”

  He’s watching my hands as I eat. “Never had it.”

  Raising my eyes to his, I lean across the table. “That’s a tragedy. A wrong perpetrated against you that we can fix right now.”

  Leaning further, I hold out the chopsticks for him to eat from. He regards the offering of noodles, chicken and vegetables for a minute and then bites the whole thing off the end of the chopstick in a determined, but inelegant way. It’s not wrong exactly, but it makes me giggle.

  His ears are bright red again and he looks quickly down at his plate. Now that I think about it, they used to do that when I’d talk to him, desperately trying to get his attention. But I can’t imagine what could be embarrassing him now.

  My curiosity is rewarded when he says, “Honestly, I eat at the Kildare, or places around my house. Most of my food I cook myself, because I have to hit pretty specific food goals for fighting.”

  At the mention of fighting, my stomach tightens. The space opens up for me to say something, and I can almost see the anticipation for it on Owen’s face. We’ve really gotten into some tough patterns over the years.

  It takes an effort, but I let it go. No fighting in any way tonight. “What’s your favorite thing to cook?”

  “Steak and eggs.” No hesitation. Somehow it seems right, like exactly what I’d imagine him cooking up.

  “Do you want some wine?” I ask, pouring myself a double. I’d only been sipping at the beer.

  His eyes are on my glass and his hand moves toward the bottle like he’s going to pull it away. Annoyance surges, and I fight down the frustration at always having to prove that I’m an adult. But maybe that’s more about me and my reactions in these situations than it is about him?

  “No, Owen. I’m at home in my apartment for the night. I’m enjoying my favorite shitty wine with my favorite shitty Thai dinner. Will you be enjoying some? If so, I’ll pour you some. If not,” I don’t finish.

  His eyes are on the fridge, maybe for the beer, but he nods and I splash a taster in his glass.

  “Where th
e hell did you learn about wine? Or how to use chopsticks?”

  He leans in and his eyes are intent like he’s seeing me for the first time. I feel it, that shift. Where he’s looking at me in a different way, not as Sean’s little sister or the girl that he’s known forever, but actually seeing me. Molly: a woman he wants to get to know.

  Maybe I’ve been limiting myself with my own assumptions about who this man is. Or could be.

  I’m trying to figure out how to answer, when he says softly, “I feel like there’s this whole piece to you – to your life – that I don’t even know.”

  I nod. He’s not wrong.

  “What do you want to know?”

  For all the time I’ve spent wishing to get to know Owen, I haven’t really taken that chance. I might not get it again, and sometimes you have to take a risk.

  He leans back in the rickety kitchen chair. Owen’s so big that I can’t see the chair under him. Will it even hold him? I swallow hard while I wait for his answer. My eyes are riveted as he crosses muscled, tattooed arms across his chest. Licking my lips, I ignore the other thoughts of where my tongue could be flashing through my imagination.

  He looks a little stricken at the revelation that comes next.

  “I’ve known you your whole life. Who picked on you in school. Just knocked ‘em right out. In high school, I kept track of who you dated, made sure they were on the up and up. When you hit college, Sean and I even went there once when he thought that professor was being too tough on you. Then you work, move out. I know the broad lines, but I don’t know anything about the spaces in between. About your actual life.”

  I’d expected some stupid questions, to keep it light, but he’s steering us into deeper waters. Dangerous waters.

  My gut tells me that I should turn on a movie and he’ll be passed out in an hour. But the way that he’s looking at me, with a mix of curiosity and openness and almost apology, moves something in even my hard heart.

  I want to dip a toe into the pool and see what it holds.

  “Look, when we think we know someone, we stop paying attention. We miss what matters and start to think they’re defined by just the few things we know about them. It happens.” I shrug.

  His ocean blue eyes intensely peer into mine. “Yes, it does.”

  My gut tightens again. That could go both ways, O’Brien. I’m more than Sean’s sister, and he’s obviously more than just a fighter you can write off because you don’t like his job.

  It’s hard to know where to go though, with so much history and so much possibility and so much tension. The conversation ebbs, and I decide to do a quick check of his eyes and head. Plans of Netflix are quickly fading, as I imagine crawling into bed. Wait, with Owen?

  My eyes shift to the tiny little couch.

  Finally, I stand and examine his cut and stitches, disinfecting things one more time, saying nonchalantly, “Owen, where do you want to sleep tonight?”

  Immediately his whole body hardens. His eyes snap up, and then over toward the couch.

  “Do you think you’re going to fit on that couch?”

  “Not strictly, no,” he finally concedes. “But it’ll be fine.”

  “Let me suggest an alternate plan: I have a king-sized bed that you will actually fit on. I can probably even manage to keep your honor intact. What do you say?” I keep my tone light, and quirk an eyebrow that dares him to even think I’m tempted.

  Jesus, I’m so tempted.

  I don’t even know what I’m playing at here. Something about this man always takes me straight to the doorstep of bad decisions.

  His eyes have taken on the Doyle smolder, as he looks at the bedroom door. He doesn’t know he’s doing it, but it’s going to be a long night.

  6

  Owen

  Molly’s shower is fucking tiny, and I hit my head twice while trying to clean up. But I need to wash off blood and pepper spray. If she’s letting me in her bed, I’m not stinking it up.

  Not mentioning the head though, or she’ll have me in traction.

  Christ, if Sean knew I was here he’d kill me. In fact, it’s not too late to call him, have him come get me, and drag me to his place. It’d be better, better for Molly. Better for my confused body, which thinks a whole different situation is about to happen.

  Tilting my head back, I’m careful not to whack it again as I exhale. This is a very bad idea – and a bad idea has never been this appealing.

  “Don’t use up all my hot water,” Molly calls through the door.

  I turn off the water and look around. Her bathroom is filled with all kinds of girly things, but my eyes are drawn to the only bottle of perfume. Got to remember the brand and the name.

  “Doyle,” her voice comes again. “You got anything to wear?”

  My clothes on the floor are filthy. They’re not coming to bed. My boxers are clean.

  “Are boxers okay?”

  Like they’re going to do much hiding what I’m thinking about. It’s going to be a long goddamned night, but I’ve got to be on my best behavior. I roll my shoulders and stretch a little in the tight space of the small bathroom.

  She doesn’t answer, so I finish drying off and use the toothbrush she left out for me. Stealing her brush, I coax my short hair into some semblance of itself. Come on, Doyle. This isn’t a beauty contest. It’s bedtime.

  In Molly O’Brien’s bed. Fuck. I can’t think that way, or I’m going to be fighting wood for the next eight hours.

  I pull on the dark green silk boxers I’m wearing and stride out in the bedroom. There’s no Molly. She probably rethought her offer, and is setting up the couch. Disappointment shoots through me, even though I know it’s for the best. I’m just about to step out of her room into the main area of her apartment when I freeze.

  “Hey, Sean, no worries. Thank you again for stopping by,” her voice is very loud and tight.

  “I was nearby. Mr. Ericson downstairs called to say you had maced somebody.” I don’t move a fucking muscle.

  “Got him good. Ran away crying for his momma.” Pretty damn close. I can’t help but smile. Yet I’m feeling fear, because if he finds me in her bathroom, he will straight up kill me. Not that I’d blame him.

  Not that I’d expect even my oldest friend to forgive me for this.

  It sounds like he’s leaving when he says, “Hey, Moll, you haven’t heard from Owen, have you?”

  “Owen? Not since the fight.”

  “It’s just…never mind.”

  “What’s wrong, Sean? Is Owen in trouble?”

  No, but I’m going to be if he finds me here. Jesus, what have I gotten myself into here?

  “No, no. Nothing like that. There’s a truck like his parked on the street, but I don’t know why he’d be here. Honestly, he’s probably spending the night with some gym rat around here. Sorry, Molly, I don’t mean to be gross.”

  Gym rat? Gross? What exactly does Sean think I do with my personal time? And what the fuck is he telling his sister?

  It’s taking every ounce of self-control I’ve got not to walk out of the bedroom to set things straight. Not that the current situation would exactly help my case.

  “He a real lady’s man?” She sounds casual, but there’s a weightiness that suggests she expects a reply. My stomach tightens, suddenly unsure what Sean’s going to say.

  I can practically hear his shrug. Not something he’s thought about, and it doesn’t even occur to him that she actually cares about the answer.

  “Well, I mean, he dates. Big guy, good-looking, successful. Always out there in one way or another, a fighter, a Doyle. But I might be talking out of turn because I just don’t think there’s anyone special.” Molly says something in reply, and then I hear his retreating footsteps.

  I hear him call, “Anyways, night, Moll.” The front door shuts.

  Seconds pass and I just stand there, practicing a balancing technique to get my footing before a fight. Often, it helps me clear my head.

  Is Molly going
to walk in here and punch me for going out with some imagined woman? Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I’d been out for anything more than a casual drink, and definitely not with any woman that affects me like she does.

  Damn it.

  Molly walks in then, peeling the wrap away and dropping it onto her dresser. She rakes her eyes up and down my body, taking in every muscle and looking with some curiosity at my boxers. There’s some part of me that assumes she’s checking me over for more injuries, but part of me – you know which part – really hopes it’s more than that. I expect a smartass crack, but instead she heads for the bed.

  “Come on, Owen. I know you heard that – sorry.”

  She fluffs her pillows and then peels down the sheets and covers on the other side. The idea of bossy, volatile, beautiful Molly tucking me in does something totally unexpected. My gut tightens. The idea of just being next to her is suddenly almost as appealing as the other stuff I’ve been imagining.

  A sense of warmth starts in my chest. Usually this sort of stuff hits me further south, but my fucking feelings seem like they want to come to the party tonight.

  Great. I’m in serious trouble here.

  “It’s bullshit.” Not bullshit exactly, but not the whole story.

  “Tell me,” she says, looking at me. Her wild dark red curls twist their way down silk pillows propped up behind her. The buttons at the neck of her little top are undone, and I can see the soft skin of her throat and a hint of cleavage. Long legs with trails of freckles stretch out beneath her.

  She looks completely fucking at ease, and I’m terrified to get into that bed.

  My cock starts to turn to steel, and I better get under the covers before she notices. Walking as gingerly as a six-foot-five fighter can with a raging hard-on, I slide in next to her. The sheets are soft, perfect really, and the mattress is like a cloud under my aching back. I’ve had my mattress since high school and pretty much planned to keep it forever. But this has me rethinking.

  “Jesus, Molly, this bed is a trap.”

  She looks at me curiously, and begins to laugh.