Irish Sex Fairy: Ellora's Cave by Kelly Jamieson (the lemonade war series TXT) 📕

in the CD player and the fiddle and tin whistle notes wove through the multiple conversations, deep voices and lilting laughter.

Shane elected to stay in the kitchen where Maeve and Keara sat on stools at the island. Keara didn’t eat much but she did give his mom’s roast beef high praise.

“I don’t know how you do it, Fiona,” Maeve said. “Almost every weekend you have a house full of people.”

Shane’s mom smiled. She loved it, he knew. She flitted from one room to the other, making sure wine and whiskey glasses were full, whisking away dishes that were done.

“Ma,” Shane said when she returned with hands full. “Sit down and eat.”

He gave her his stool and took the dishes from her, then strode over to the dishwasher. When he’d loaded them into the machine, he stood up and his gaze knocked up against Keara’s. A strange expression tilted the corners of her mouth up and had her eyes hazy.

“Keara, it’s been so long since we’ve seen you,” Fiona said. “Tell us all about life in LA.”

Keara gave a faint smile and dropped her gaze to her plate. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Your job keeps you busy,” Fiona said, with a nod. “No husband? No children?”

“No.”

“Maeve told us about your bank being robbed,” Fiona said and Shane saw Keara stiffen. She sure didn’t like to be reminded of that. But she was fine. Yeah, right. He got himself a beer out of the fridge—one whiskey was enough for him—and popped the top, again leaning against the counter.

“Yes.” She didn’t look up. Didn’t say another word.

Guests wandered back into the kitchen and the noise level rose several decibels. Da roared with laughter in the family room and you couldn’t help but smile at the sound. Now finished eating, everyone mingled and chatted. Except Keara, who remained on her stool, arms on the island, glass of wine between her hands. Deep in conversation with another friend, Maeve had stepped away.

Shane slid over onto the stool vacated by Maeve beside Keara.

“It’s women’s work to do the dishes after dinner,” his dad grumbled as Ma handed him a dish towel, earning him another smack.

“He just says that to push her buttons,” Shane said to Keara in a low voice. “He doesn’t really believe it. He helps with the dishes all the time.”

She grinned. “I’m glad you told me that.” She tipped her head to one side. “He must get that from you.”

“Get what?” Shane frowned. “The chauvinism?”

“No! I mean the pushing-buttons thing. You seem to be very skilled at that, too.”

He stared at her. “What does that mean?”

“I mean, you keep pushing my buttons by bugging me about how I’ve been derelict in my duty to my aunt. You know I feel bad about that, but you keep pushing my buttons anyway.”

Shane leaned in closer. “Do you? Feel bad about it?”

“Yes.” Her eyes lowered. “I didn’t realize she was having…problems until I got here. I guess I thought she would just always stay the same. Crazy, energetic Maeve.”

He nodded and straightened slowly. A strand of hair hung in front of her eyes and he reached out, and with his index finger, pushed it back. Their eyes met and the boisterous crowd around them faded to a murmur.

“I guess we all wish our family won’t get old,” he finally said. “But it happens.”

“Your dad seems pretty good. He limps a little. I almost didn’t notice that he only used his right arm to eat.”

Shane nodded. “He’s amazing.”

Surrounded by laughter, talk, harp music and clinking glasses, they continued to gaze at each other, the air thickening. Shane wanted to lean over and kiss her.

Well. This wasn’t exactly a romantic location. In fact he couldn’t think of anywhere less romantic than a messy kitchen surrounded by people, including his parents and her aunt, laughing uproariously at something,

He took a big breath and sat back.

“This evening seems to have done you good,” he commented.

“What does that mean?”

Ah hell, now he was going to insult her again by telling her she looked crappy. The charm just kept oozing out of him around her. “Ever since you got here, to Kilkenny I mean, you’ve looked like someone who just got out of a war zone.”

She gave a choked little laugh as she lifted her wineglass to her lips. “Thank you very much.”

He tipped his head. “You’re gorgeous, Keara, and you know it. But you look so sad and you’re so jumpy. What’s going on?”

She paused, turned and lifted those emerald eyes to meet his gaze. “Nothing’s going on.”

“Bullshit.”

Amusement sparkled in her eyes.

“Maybe I can help.”

She lowered her chin. “Could we not talk about this?”

“Keara. What happened?”

She gave her head a tiny shake. “I’m okay.”

“Clearly, you’re not okay,” he argued, not sure why he was. “Have you seen a doctor?”

She slid off the stool to her feet and Shane reached out and grabbed her wrist. She flinched. Hell.

“Keara. Do you have post-traumatic stress disorder?”

She glared at him. “None of your business.”

“Keara. PTSD isn’t anything to be ashamed of. Lots of people have it.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

After a brief pause, he said, “I had it.”

Chapter Eight

Her mouth fell open, and the soft bottom lip invited him to kiss and nibble. He leaned toward her. Stopped.

“You had PTSD? When?”

“When I came back from Afghanistan.”

“Really.”

She sank back down onto the stool. Again they sat there just looking at each other, a connection drawing them together like an invisible cord. Keara broke the eye contact to gulp some wine.

“So maybe I can help,” he said softly.

“Maeve says I need sex.”

Shane choked. “Oh. Well. I guess that’s not surprising. Maeve thinks everyone needs sex.”

“True. She was citing the many health benefits of sex to me, including some hormones that will make me feel better. It’s good for stress, apparently. And sleep.”

“Ah.” He considered that. “There may be some truth to that.”

“I’m sure there is,” she agreed. “But…” Her voice trailed off and she rubbed her finger over the drops of moisture on the outside of the glass.

“You