Free Wild Irish Christmas (Wild Irish, Book Eight) by Mari Carr Page B

she loved Conall, though he certainly turned the women’s heads. What’s the word you girls use for handsome men? Dreamy?”
    Riley laughed. “Um…yeah, not in this decade. I definitely don’t use the word dreamy to describe Aaron.”
    “Then what would you say?” Pat asked.
    “He’s hot. Totally doable.”
    Killian turned to look at his younger sister and shook his head. “Jesus. How are we related?”
    “Dreamy works for me, Pop,” Teagan said quickly.
    Patrick looked at his kids and silently marveled at how different they were. Somehow, miraculously, their unique qualities meshed perfectly, creating an amazing family.
    Ewan, always the steady one, hadn’t been distracted by the asides. “So Mom thought this Conall was dreamy?”
    “All the girls in Killarney thought Conall was handsome, but he only had eyes for Sunday. Not that I could blame him. Your mother was a beauty, with that long dark hair and those crystal-blue eyes. She caught every man’s attention.”
    “But you didn’t fall in love with her because of her looks, right?” Keira asked.
    “ Och , Lord no. While Sunday’s face was pleasing, it was her heart, so kind and compassionate, that I found attractive. That’s what captured me by my hand and—pardon the expression—balls and kept me holding on to her for dear life.”
    “So what was the story with this Conall guy?” Tris asked.
    “Well now, that is a tale.” Patrick leaned back and closed his eyes, letting his mind drift to a different place, a different time.
    “I was working on my family’s sheep farm during the day while tending bar at Scully’s Pub every night. I was a young buck of twenty when Sunday, who was just nineteen, moved to Killarney to live with her aunt. Scully hired her to sing in the pub and from the first moment I laid eyes on her, I was lost…”
    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
     
    “Put the horse back in the stall there, laddie. You’ve work to do,” Scully chastised in his deep, gravelly voice. Patrick scowled at the all-knowing look from his boss.
    “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Patrick mumbled.
    Scully chuckled. “You’ve been sporting a boner in those pants ever since our new singer took the stage. Never seen you so distracted in your work. This pub only makes money if the bartender is serving drinks. Tuck your cock away and start pouring.”
    Patrick flushed, forcing his gaze from the stage and going back to work. It was hard to argue with Scully when he was right. He’d seen the new girl in town a few times over the past couple of months. They’d just been passing glances, but he hadn’t been able to erase her lovely face from his mind. More than a few of his mates had made bawdy comments about her, all of them lusting after Old Lady MacKenna’s pretty niece.
    He managed to do his job the rest of the night, only sneaking four thousand and twelve glances at the beautiful woman on stage. Her voice enthralled him. She sang sweeter than Joni Mitchell and he was awed by her talent with the guitar. Her dark hair hung in long waves that cascaded over her delicate shoulders. More than once she captured his gaze, making him believe she was singing just to him.
    She’d won over the entire crowd by the time she wrapped up the evening with a rousing version of Whiskey in a Jar when Scully announced last call. As the regulars stumbled out, headed for home, she approached the bar.
    “I’m Sunday MacKenna.” She claimed a stool across from him.
    “Patrick Collins. How about a drink? You must be thirsty after all that singing.”
    “I’d love a red ale.”
    He poured the drink, grateful for his steady hands. He wasn’t sure why but his heart was suddenly racing, his palms sweaty. He’d never let a woman get under his skin like this—so fast, so completely. One evening listening to her pretty voice and he was ready to pledge himself to her forever. It was a foolish sentiment, and certainly a new one for him.
    “I’ve seen you around town,” she