While the man strutted from the sea, proud as a cock,
His big mickey swinging free, like a proper bollock.
This is it. This is how I die. Not from a bullet by Deano or a freak hiking accident, but with me keeling over from pure, unadulterated mortification in a cozy Irish pub, surrounded by my boyfriend’s family and a bunch of strangers singing (the worst song in history, I might add) about my naked ass coming out of the sea.
Clodagh is losing it. She’s laughing so hard she’s practically in tears, her whole body shaking as she leans in to share the hilarity with Teagan. Connor’s mom is trying to hold it together, hand slapped over her mouth, but her eyes are watering.
I groan, facepalming as the bar erupts into raucous laughter and cheers. This is it, folks—my legacy. Forget about any career achievements or personal development.
No, I’ll forever be known as the crazy American who flashed a funeral and inspired a fucking folk song.
Connor winks at me. “Maybe we should play this song on our wedding day.”
“Ourwedding?” I repeat.
He chuckles. “Don’t worry, Lexi. I’m not proposing. Not yet, anyway.” He leans in close, his lips brushing my ear. “For the record, when I do propose, it won’t be in some packed bar with a tune about us in the buff blaring in the background.”
Holy shit. He’s thought about proposing.
In this moment, it may be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard in my life.
He pulls me into another kiss, one that’s thick with heat and lust and promises and the kind of love that I’m pretty sure comes with a lifetime warranty.
THE END
