Eyes pop out of sockets.
Pearls and rosary beads are clutched so tightly, knuckles turn white.
More mourners whip their heads up.
Gasps fill the air.
Sand stubbornly sticks to my butt as it bounces violently as I sprint for cover.
Our clothes are conveniently nestled right next to the priest, who sounds like he’s now in the midst of a heartfelt eulogy. Lovely.
The priest, in his booming, sermon-giving glory, remains blissfully unaware of the R-rated show behind him. “. . . and somay Eamon’s spirit join the endless dance of the ocean waves . . . His spirit will rise from the sea . . .”
As we get closer, I realize with dawning horror that my leprechaun bra is lying right near the mourners, like some sort of kinky offering.
If embarrassment could kill, I’d be giving Eamon company in the afterlife.
Connor swoops our stuff up without missing a stride as I lunge unsuccessfully for my bra top, which seems to have become entangled under some old guy’s foot. Great, just great. Now I’m playing tug-of-war with a geriatric over my own bra.
The priest turns, still cradling Eamon’s urn. His expression freezes, a perfect snapshot of “this was not in the job description.”
Every woman at the funeral, regardless of age, has her gaze fixed on Connor’s cock. Most of the men too.
The mourning woman lets out a confused shriek.
“Sorry!” I bleat weakly, deciding to cut my losses and abandon my wayward bra. Really, what can you say in a situation like this? “Please, carry on.”
Connor, the smug bastard, has the audacity to look composed, like he’s not standing there with his parts on display for the entire congregation to gawk at. “Our apologies, Father,” he says smoothly, his voice dripping with charm.
We sprint toward the cottage like our asses are on fire, desperate to put some much-needed distance between us and the astonished mourners.
“Sorry for your loss,” I yell weakly over my shoulder. These poor people just wanted to say goodbye to Eamon, not get mooned by two idiots.
It’ll probably become a legendary story told at family gatherings for generations to come. “Do you remember Eamon’s send-off? Yeah, the one with the streakers? What a way to go!”
Hopefully for some of the ladies, the sight of Connor’s swinging junk makes up for us crashing the funeral.
“Looks like Eamon got his dying wish after all!” one of the men calls out with a laugh.
We burst through the cottage doors in fits of mortified laughter. I collapse into the nearest chair, my legs giving out. Connor kneels down beside me, his big, strong hands rubbing warmth back into my frozen limbs.
“Jesus Christ,” he chuckles, a grin lighting up his face. “That did not go as planned.”
I drop my head with a groan as the giddiness subsides. “You think? We just crashed a funeral and ran across the beach in our birthday suits. We’re definitely going to hell for that one.”
Connor chuckles again, the sound rumbling from his chest as he scoops me up and carries me as if I weigh nothing at all.
Automatically I melt into him, tension dissipating, perfectly content in his arms.
“Thanks, Connor,” I find myself whispering, the words more heartfelt than I’d expected.
He raises an eyebrow. “For what? Almost getting you arrested for public indecency?”
“For reminding me how to have fun.”
I don’t want my fairy tale to end.
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