As she hits the crescendo, shockingly, I might add, startlingly bright blue eyes fly open.
Her body freezes in sheer horror. I can practically feel her adrenaline spike. The moment is so surreal, it’s almost comical. An uncontrollable urge to laugh pushes against my sternum from the inside out.
I can’t hold it.
Deep rumbling guffaws burst from my chest as she stands catatonic from surprise.
‘Sorry, I…’ It’s no good. Words won’t form. The deep belly-aching laughter continues. Like the last few days of tension have finally spotted their escape route and are flocking to it.
The woman hops off the couch unsteadily, one arm folding across her chest as if to hide her cleavage. She’s about sixty seconds too late. I already got two glorious eyefuls. What I wouldn’t do to get two glorious handfuls. How’s that for predictable?
White-knuckled fingers grip the wine bottle, wielding it like a weapon. She’s resourceful, I’ll give her that.
‘I must be really drunk right now because you are the fucking image of Nate Jackson.’ Her slurred words are a swift reminder that I am, in fact, Nate Jackson and I have a reputation to uphold. I cough back the laughter and straighten my face into its usual frown.
‘IamNate Jackson.’ I raise my hands like a white flag. The last thing I want to do is terrify the girl. Woman.
She might be short, but those curves are definitely all woman.
‘Yep. And I’m Mariah Carey.’ Her legs tremble as she backs away from the couch towards the burnt orange embers of a dying fire.
‘No, sweetheart. You’re definitely not.’ My lips lift into a smirk again. I should leave because this woman is destroying the grouchy reputation that’s plagued me since the last time I spent Christmas in Ireland.
‘What are you doing in my house?’ Steely eyes roam over me before glancing at the coffee table where a mobile phone sits.
‘This is Ard Na Mara?’ I double-check, even though I distinctly remember seeing the fancy plaque mounted outside.
‘Yes…’ Her voice falters.
‘My agent booked this house for me. Well, technically he booked it for Tom Hardy, but when he pulled out at the last minute… ’ I flick my hands in front of my torso, ‘yours truly got offered the role instead.’
Her pretty white throat bobs as she swallows hard. For a fleeting second, I wonder what it would feel like to run my tongue over that creamy white skin.
What would she smell like?
Taste like?
It’s been so fucking long since I got laid. Probably because Celeste was too busy laying with someone else. A fling could be just what the doctor ordered. Especially given I just decided to bang a brunette.
Would she let me?
The way her eyes are roving over me, like Christmas has come early, I wouldn’t rule it out.
‘Savannah did say there was someone meant to be here, but they cancelled.’ Those huge oceanic eyes continue to sweep over me. ‘You’re not a figment of my traumatised, drunk imagination, are you?’ She lowers the bottle to her waist. Her stance softens along with her widening pupils, which dart over every hard plane of my body.
‘You’re drunk? I hadn’t noticed,’ I tease.
Okay, who am I? And why does this woman bring out my playful side? The side I thought had left, along with Sally-Ann.
She tuts. ‘And I thought you were an action hero, not a comedian.’
‘I’m a man of many talents.’ At least I hope I am. We’ll soon find out.
Mesmerised eyes drink me in. She swallows hard again. ‘I’m not seeing things? You really are here…?’
‘I’m here.’ I take a tentative a step towards her.
She’s bewitchingly beautiful, in a girl next door sort of way. Girls next door are my kryptonite. I’d do well to remember it.
