Stella Rosencourt is the premier event coordinator of Savannah’s elite. With her biggest event of the year ahead - the Mayor's St. Patrick's Day ball - she has little time for distractions. But the mysterious Padraig MacNamara and his lush Irish accent are definitely proving to be a distraction.
Padraig MacNamara is an inked enigma. A man of few words who crashes in the back room of the Jaded Lily tattoo parlor and associates with questionable people around town. Stella is convinced he has a vendetta against her but over what, she doesn’t know. Her instincts are warning her to stay away. Her curiosity is begging her to figure him out.
What happens when you’re wickedly attracted to the person you hate the most?
I stare at him as he closes his eyes and inhales deeply. His eyes open again. “You smell like honeysuckle.”
“I’m a little surprised that you know what that smells like.”
“It’s all around the city. How can I not know?”
“Good point.” I close my eyes and inhale. “You smell . . . Irish.”
“What the bloody hell does that mean?”
“I have no idea, but I like it.” I open my eyes to see Padraig’s face coming closer to mine. He tilts his head, and suddenly our lips are connected and his hand is cupping the back of my head. My entire body quivers. He’s taken me completely by surprise, and I enjoy it thoroughly. He didn’t ask permission or make subtle hints that he wanted to kiss me; he just did it. And I take every second of it. I grasp his shirt with both hands for balance and inhale more of his Irish scent. My head swirls, not even concerning myself with the fact that I’m being kissed by a stud on the side of a bustling Savannah street. I think I hear catcalls in the background. Padraig breaks our connection and sears me with his smoldering gaze. I want to ask him to come upstairs, but as excited as I am to think what could happen, I’m also too scared at the moment to find out if it’s a possibility. I run my hands up his chest, feeling the firmness underneath his shirt.
“Padraig,” I start. Padraig kisses me again, a quick kiss.
“Aoibhinn, my sweet honeysuckle.” He brushes my hair from my face. “I will see you again soon.”
I nod. “Okay.” Other than that, I’m speechless. One last quick kiss with his fingers in my hair and then he turns without saying another word, shoves his hands into his pockets, and walks away into the night.
Zeia Jameson's passion for writing compels her to get into the zone and type until her fingers go numb. When not submerged within her own stories, she enjoys curling up in her large cozy chair, snuggling underneath a blanket, and feeding her addictions of coffee and reading. She is fond of humor and laughter and believes these are the elements that keep the world sane and spinning.
Zeia lives in Georgia with her husband and daughter, where they spend most of their time together exploring recipes, bingeing on Netflix, and traveling as much as possible.
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