Read Wild Irish Christmas (Wild Irish, Book Eight) for Free Online Page B

I heard, he and his third trophy wife were living in Manhattan.”
    Teagan rolled her eyes. “Nice, Pop. You got me.”
    They all laughed. The conversation continued into the wee hours until, eventually, everyone began to make their way to bed.
    Sean was the last to rise.
    “It was a good story, Pop.”
    Patrick nodded. “I think so too.”
    “I wish there’d been a happier ending. Mom should have been here tonight.”
    Patrick swallowed heavily against the lump in his throat. Cancer had claimed Sunday well before her time. For too many years he’d wished the same thing. Eventually, he’d learned to be grateful for the time they’d had together. “She was here, Sean. She’s always been here. She’s inside you and your brothers and sisters. She’s in at least fifty percent of those Christmas ornaments, in dozens of the pictures, and she’s in quite a bit of the furniture around here. We had a heck of a fight the day I dragged that ugly old recliner in here. I think of her every time I sit down. She created this home for all of us.”
    “It’s not the same thing. You know what I mean, Pop.”
    “You didn’t listen to the story. Your mother achieved every one of her goals—she got her home, her family, her life in America. She told me the night before she passed away she was a woman dying without a single regret. She said she’d lived a full life with love and laughter and she couldn’t ask for more. I suppose that’s the best any of us can wish for, son.”
    Sean put his hands in the pockets of his jeans then gave him a crooked grin. “You’re right. I hope I can say the same thing when I die.”
    “I hope we all can.”

Chapter Four
     
    Patrick listened to the hushed voices coming from the bedrooms. The girls were giggling in their room. Tris and Killian’s deep tones drifted down the stairs. Ewan and Sean were teasing each other, and for a moment, he thought he’d have to break up what sounded like a wrestling match.
    He closed his eyes and recalled the last part of the story. The one he hadn’t told his children.
    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
     
    Patrick wondered if he’d ever lived a more perfect moment as he and Sunday held hands, walking through the quiet streets of town toward her home. The neighbors who weren’t still celebrating the holidays at the dance were snuggled in warm beds in dark houses. It felt as if they were the only two people on the planet.
    They walked in silence as Patrick tried to wrap his head around what had just taken place. Sunday had turned Conall down for him . She’d told him she loved him.
    Sunday paused when they reached the door of her aunt’s home. “My aunt isn’t home.”
    Patrick was surprised by Sunday’s quiet admission. “She’s not?”
    Sunday shook her head almost shyly. “She’s spending the night at her brother’s house. She’s doing Christmas morning with my Uncle Ryan and his family. I’m going to join them for dinner tomorrow.”
    “Oh.”
    Sunday glanced over her shoulder at the empty house and bit her lip. “Do you want to come in?”
    Suddenly her reticence made sense. His heart raced. “I’d like to. Very much.”
    She smiled, opening the door. Patrick crossed the threshold, feeling almost dizzy as he considered what he hoped would happen tonight.
    Once they entered, he briefly glanced around her aunt’s parlor. Though he’d walked Sunday to the door nearly a hundred times the past few months, he’d never been inside.
    Sunday didn’t move and her anxiety was almost a tangible being in the darkened house. He stroked her face, savoring the soft skin of her cheek, hoping his touch would calm her. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.
    Sunday released a long breath. “I’ve never…” She didn’t finish her thought.
    He kissed her brow and wrapped her in his embrace. “Neither have I.”
    She put her arms around his waist, holding him tightly.
    “Sunday. I can leave if you aren’t ready for—”
    She pressed her lips to his before he