I grinned. “You know, that probably won’t do anything except make me want to misbehave.”
He chuckled and held his hand out to me, and I felt weirdly shy as I put mine in his again.
When we were ready to leave, Rowen paid, and I didn’t even get a single peek at the bill. He rolled his eyes at me as I took money out of my wallet.
“Ye can leave it as part of the tip if ye want,” he said, so I did. I had a feeling the fifty I’d offered him probably hadn’t covered much of my meal anyway.
“What next?”
He smiled as we stood together, then walked around to my side of the table. He offered his elbow, and for a second, I felt weird about it, but I loved that he wanted to do things like this, so shrugging off the tiny bit of embarrassment that made my cheeks hot, I took his arm.
“Well, I need to pick up a wee package for Mr. Killough while we’re in the city. It’s a bit of jewelry for Conall that is supposed to be a surprise. Then, I thought we could walk around, since the weather is nice. See what we see?” He blinked at me.
As a New Yorker, born and bred, wandering around the city didn’t seem exciting, but I’d never really done much of the touristy shit, and maybe he wasn’t sick of it yet. I smiled at him. “Why not? I’ll take you over to Times Square.”
He hummed, and we had to break apart at the revolving doors, but before he could stick his elbow out again, I snagged his hand. He laced our fingers together, and we were off.
Chandra’s, the jewelry store we stopped at, was one of those boutiques with extravagant window displays that seemed more about being trendy than the stuff they sold, but I wasn’t surprised Sloan had decided to spoil Conall with something from that sort of place. Rowen was in and out in less than two minutes, and when I frowned at him, he patted his suit jacket.
“Just a wee thing.”
“What is it?”
He scowled at me. “I was given specific instructions not to tell any Mahers who can’t keep their mouths shut about the surprise.”
“Well, then you already messed up, because I know there is a surprise.” I waggled my eyebrows.
He groaned, knocking his shoulder against mine. “Be good.”
“Mm, no.” I laughed, and he rolled his eyes.
As we reached Times Square, I was a little proud at the way he stared around at all the billboards. Since the intersection was a tourist spot it was much more crowded than the other places we’d been walking, and we slowed a bit so he could get a good eyeful of all the gaudy advertisements.
“So, about the dog,” Rowen started.
Groaning, I dragged him off to the side, so we weren’t in the way, and I stared up into his face. “I don’t want one.”
He raised my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles, sending heat skittering through my stomach. “Please. It would be a lovely idea. Dogs are nice. We had two when I was growing up. They can be a bit o’ work, but I expect these ones will be well trained and friendly.” He kissed my hand again.
“Are you trying to butter me up?” I asked with a weak laugh. My gut churned.
“Perhaps, but I do want to hold yer hand and have me lips on ye,” he murmured with a soft smile. The sun glinted in his red hair and I reached up to run my fingers through it.
Sighing, I glanced down.
The tips of his toes tapped on the sidewalk in a cute way.
“I’m going to tell you a shitty story, and you’re gonna feel bad, which I’d rather skip, so why don’t we just say I’m not interested in having a dog?” I glanced up at him and pursed my lips, but he only frowned.
“Ye can’t scare me off with a bad story,” he murmured, then looped his other arm around my waist, and I didn’t hate it when he urged me closer. I wrapped my arms around him and loved the way his hard chest pressed against mine.
“Are you sure about that? It’s a doozy.” I forced a chuckle.
He nodded, and I sighed, glancing up at the ever-changing electronic billboards, getting lost in the dazzle of pixelated promises. He hugged me, and I leaned harder against him.
“When I was nine. No, eleven.” I stopped and frowned at the sky for a moment, then met his concerned gaze. “Yes, eleven. My dad personally pissed off a man named Gregor Varriano. He was an old-school Italian mobster, and he hated the Irish like most people hate cockroaches. It was okay, though, ’cause we hated him right back. Rumor had it that Padraig fucked his daughter, but now that I know what I know about him, I gotta wonder if it wasn’t his son.” I grinned.
Rowen groaned. “I expect this is about to get unpleasant.”
